Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  The walls here aren’t metal like the last room. They’re stone, dark and polished. I close my eyes. I step forward through the cobwebs, into the shadows. Out of sight of the Sorcerer. He doesn’t notice at first. He waves his hand and the door opens. A pair of guards flanking the door turn to face him. One of them glances inside.

  “Sir?” she asks hesitantly. I glance behind me at Celli, who lies on the floor, breathing slowly.

  “What?” the elf barks.

  “The boy?” the guard points her gaunted finger into the cell.

  The elf spins around. His eyes search the room. I creep along the wall and glance at the door. I could slip out and explore. I could find out what’s going on here without having to risk making any pact.

  Then the Sorcerer’s fingers crackle again. His eyes glint wickedly. He points at Celli. She’s still weak.

  “Another spell would end this wretch, don’t you agree, Nullen? Perhaps a bolt of ice this time. Or fire.” His eyes dart around a little frantically, searching for me. “Tell me, girl. How would you like to die?”

  I sigh and close my eyes. Step through the cobwebs, out of the shadows. It failed, but at least I can do it. I could use it in a pinch.

  “Good lad,” the Sorcerer grins. “You will follow me,” he orders.

  The passages are black stone blocks. The mortar sparkles with gold and silver. The Sorcerer leads the way and his guards march behind me. We leave the dungeons and climb a spiral staircase to the upper levels. The main levels. Here, it’s not much different from below. No windows to the outside, just carved, polished stone and thick wooden doors. Some are flanked by guards. Others stand open.

  I close my eyes and use all of my senses as we walk. I sniff the air. Incense. Wood smoke. Decay. Strangely familiar smells. Like the apothecary booth. I listen. It’s quiet. Eerily quiet. I feel for the magic. The amount of it in this place is overwhelming. All different types. Elemental. Mentalist. Destructive. Necromancy.

  That one I feel the strongest. Necromancy. There’s a frenzy about it. An excitement. A challenge. It’s nearby, in one of these doors we’re passing. Something fresh. Something new. Something special.

  I think of Eron’s bagged head dripping crimson. I remember the fight between the Elite and the fallen prince. I have no idea why these images are dawning on me right now. I don’t realize what it means until the winged things appear all around us. Ahead, the Sorcerer stops abruptly. The creatures hover in front of him.

  “What do you mean, walking him this way?” the sharp-toothed one sends to the Sorcerer.

  “Always talking when you shouldn’t, stupid! He might hear, remember?” the round faced one hisses.

  My heart races. These are the same three who were at the High Court. The one with poison breath, the small one, and the round-faced one. They knew about me. They knew, but not everything. I pretend I can’t hear them. I try to hide that I’m listening.

  “They’re right, Osven. You shouldn’t have come this way with the boy,” the smallest one sends to the Sorcerer. Good. I know his name now. I peer around the Sorcerer at them. Try not to shiver at the sight of the wicked little things. Look away. Stay quiet. Nessa says you learn more sometimes if you don’t say anything at all. Silence draws truth.

  “Your graces,” the elf, Osven, bows his head with deep respect.

  “Foolish thoughtlessness,” the smallest says, and the Sorcerer winces.

  “A strip. A small one. Just for us,” the round-faced one pushes.

  “He saw nothing. We shall take another route to the cliffs,” Osven’s shoulders rise in a slow wince. I keep my head low, but raise my eyes to watch through black fringe of hair that covers them. The scene tells me a lot. The Sorcerer. He’s actually afraid of them. They’re in charge.

  “Too risky to keep you on this task,” the sharp-toothed one chides.

  “We have a rapport,” Osven argues. “To put another in charge of the boy now would be the true risk. Do not lose your faith in me, Your Graces. I shan’t fail you.”

  “Take a little,” the smallest says to the round faced one. “Remind him of the pain of failure.”

  The round-faced one licks his lips and cackles greedily. He stretches a leathery webbed hand out to Osven. Tendrils, black and blue like the Mark, swirl away from the Sorcerer into the wicked thing’s outstretched hand. Osven goes rigid. He gurgles and gasps in pain.

  “That’s enough,” the small one says. “Payment for your foolishness. Take another route. Do not fail us with this boy.”

  The greedy round one turns to look at me. I look away trying to seem oblivious to what’s just happened. I don’t know how convincing I am.

  He drifts closer. Looks me over. He smells like blood and tar, like earth and rot. He’s close enough to touch me. He tries to look into my eyes, to breach my thoughts, but he can’t. His eyes narrow.

  I think he might say something, do something, but he doesn’t. Instead the three of them vanish as quickly as they appeared. Osven turns to face me. He grabs me by the arm and roughly guides me off down a different corridor. Away from the scent of death and the powers of Necromancy. Away from thoughts of the executed prince, and what they’re likely doing with his stolen remains.

  Fairies, but not like any I’ve seen. I’m sure that’s what they are. Fairies. I think of Mevyn. He was good, mostly, and still he took what he needed from me. He made me do things for him. These are obviously wicked. Cruel. Evil. The Dusk.

  Why, though? What do they want from me? And why did they take Celli and the others and lock them up?

  Osven’s stride grows more confident with each step. He’s back in control. Ready to be as ruthless as he needs to be. We stop in front of an open tunnel. The air from inside licks toward us, damp and musty. Osven turns to our guard escorts.

  “You will remain here. If I do not return by sunset, come looking.” He waves a hand over the entrance. Whispers an incantation. The air from inside is closed off. The ward is set between the Sorcerer and me and the guards.

  “Nullen,” he drawls, jerking his head toward the inside of the passage.

  I raise my chin. In casting the ward between us, I know what he’s after. He wants to see me in action. Watch me go through. I oblige him. I step across it like it’s not even there. He regards me with a smirk of triumph.

  “That,” he explains, flicking a bony black-Marked finger toward the space between us and the guards, “is a Master Ward. Used in Cerion by the highest ranking Mage guards of the king himself. I believe there, they would rank it forty-fifth circle. Yet you pass through it as though it is nothing at all. But how? What is the extent of your power? And how did you come by such a gift?”

  He leans closer as he murmurs, his eyes wild with the need for answers. His breath is foul, like rotten teeth. I stand tall, even though he towers over me. I try to look braver than I feel. Defiant. I’m not telling him a thing. Not a word. I clear thoughts of Mevyn and Valenor from my mind as a precaution. Just in case.

  He examines me like a scroll. As if my face is the page of a book that can just be read. I think about how much I hate him. I imagine wringing his skinny Marked neck. I wonder if he can read that.

  On the other side of the wards, the guards watch the two of us. They couldn’t stop me if I tried it. They couldn’t do anything. I glance at them. Osven chuckles wickedly.

  “Try it,” he says. “And the girl dies.” At first I think he means Celli, but then his grin twists cruelly. “What was her name? Saesa?”

  I try to stay stoic but I’m sure I fail. I’m sure my concern for Saesa is plain on my face.

  “Yes. The squire,” his tone is low and hateful. “I know of her. We know much about you here, Tibreseli Nullen. Curious that no one has come to your aid yet, is it not? That Sunteri fae of yours, or Valenor? Or your sister, hm? They all have the means. They must be aware that you are being held here. Why have they not come? We should very much like to meet them. Any or all of them.”

  I try hard to hide m
y shock at his words. He’s right. Almost all of them are able to slip through the Half-Realm. Valenor, Mevyn, even Ki, my sister, though she’d need the permission of Iren, her guardian. Everyone except Saesa. I’d just have to reach out to them, probably. I won’t, though. I won’t put them in danger.

  “Curious,” he says with that smirk that never seems to go away. “No matter. This way.”

  The passage is narrow, damp, and slick. The farther down we go, the clearer the air gets. It isn’t long before I smell the sea. It reminds me of Cerion. Of Saesa and Margary. Of my invention, left to gather dust at the bottom of a pit. I wonder how long it will take for them to notice that I’m gone. Through all of it, the Sorcerer’s words nag at me. He’s right. Mevyn and Ki might not know I’m in trouble at all, but Valenor never seems far away. As much as I refuse to call him, to endanger him, he must know I’m in trouble. Why hasn’t he tried to help me yet?

  The passage twists and turns for hundreds of paces, until finally a dim light brushes the stony walls ahead. As we near the light, I can hear the rhythm of waves crashing on stone. The sound calms me. I close my eyes and I could be sitting at port, watching the lifts go up and down.

  When we finally get to the end, I can tell right away we’re nowhere near Cerion.

  Mist from the rough sea drenches us almost immediately. The waves that crash below are unforgiving. They smash the black rocks with relentless anger. The sky is cast with strange greenish clouds. On the horizon, a dark funnel plunges from them into the sea.

  Osven grabs my arm and pulls me to the edge of the cliff. His gray robes whip and snap around us violently.

  “What do you see?” he growls into my ear over the roar of the storm and jabs a finger to the sky.

  I look up into the clouds as a spike of lightning cracks into the sea. At first I only see the storm. Then, as the clouds swirl above, a dark form emerges. A stone in the sky, black as the ones being pounded by the sea below. It’s like the ground itself broke off in an enormous chunk and floated away. Looking at it leaves me with a slight feeling of unease. The idea of it is disturbing. Creepy.

  Looking closer, I see a dark line like a jagged streak of ink across a page that stretches from the floating stone into the sea. A staircase, maybe.

  I glance at Osven, who is staring intensely through narrowed eyes into the storm, searching for what he obviously can’t see. He looks down at me and I understand right away. The floating stone is concealed with magic. The eerie feeling I get from it is just a hint of the real power it holds. Wards and enchantments so strong that it’s invisible even to this braggart Sorcerer.

  He looks down at me and I gaze into the sky, pointedly away from the floating stone. If this is what he needs from me, I refuse to give him any hint of it.

  “What do you see?” he asks me again. His grip on my arm is strong. If I say the wrong thing I could anger him. Even without magic, he could throw me over. Into the angry sea. I take advantage of his desperation. If I can figure out where I am, maybe I could plan an escape. I turn slowly to look behind me. Up the black cliff face.

  Perched high above us on the edge of the cliff is a fortress. Tattered banners flap angrily in the storm, scrabbling like red and orange wraiths against the slate sky. Its ramparts are half-crumbled but still a strong enough defense. Several of the windows glow with firelight, their colorful glass a bright contrast beside the pitted gray stone. I wonder how many Sorcerers are in there, bent over scrolls, reading tomes, preparing rituals. How many of those dark fae?

  “My patience with you is threadbare,” Osven hisses into my ear and shoves me toward the cliff’s edge so my toes hang over and only my heels are keeping me from falling to my death.

  “I see a storm,” I say, peering up at the floating stone and then away. “A funnel cloud. Waves crashing on black stone. Green sky.”

  “Tell the truth,” his shrieking voice stabs my ear.

  “I am,” I lie.

  “If you see nothing but that, you are useless to us,” he presses me closer. One of my heels slips from the edge. “Do you understand? Look again. What do you see?”

  My heart races. If I told the truth, he would know about the stone in the sky. What harm could that do? What is that stone, anyway? Is it Margy’s Brindelier? Is it the city on the coin? I squint up at it again as I try to scramble back from the ledge. It seems too small to hold a city. A house, maybe. A street, but not a whole city. There are no spires rising into the clouds. All I can make out is the thin black line that goes to the sea, and something like an archway at the top of it.

  What harm could it do? It doesn’t matter. If he can’t see it, he isn’t meant to. I don’t bargain with Sorcerers.

  “I see a storm. Clouds of green. An angry sea,” I repeat.

  “You,” he spits into my ear, “are a filthy liar.”

  Before I can react, before I can think to fight, he shoves me from the edge. I scramble to keep from falling while Osven’s wicked laughter pierces through the storm. It’s no use. I claw at the stone. Rip my nails bloody as it streaks past. Tumble toward the sea like one of Margy’s dolls. My elbow splinters painfully on the stone. My body thuds against the rock again and again. My hip smashes against the craggy cliff. The pain is unbearable. My head cracks. Before I reach the thundering sea, I black out.

  Chapter Nineteen: Champions of Light

  Azi

  “The Dusk and the Dawn,” the queen says much later, after hours more of kissing, celebrating, dancing, and general merriment. For a while, Rian and I allowed ourselves to get lost in the revelry. He becomes the carefree boy I grew up with once more, happily slighting nearly every pretty fairy in the great hall as she vied for his attentions, only having eyes for me.

  The two of us are still aglow with love even after the rest of the fairies have retired and left us and our companions alone with the queen and Zilliandin. I recognize the trusted advisor from Flitt’s earlier memory. He has not once left the queen’s side.

  “Ever have the two factions met with conflict, as you might imagine,” her Majesty explains quietly. Rian tucks me into his arms as we settle before her throne on cushions, content and exhausted as children in a nursery listening to a bedtime fairytale. Beside us on her own cushion, Flitt yawns and leans into Shush, whose eyes are half-closed and just as sleepy as hers.

  “As long as the stars have been blotted out by morning sun, as long as the moon has shone in the dark sky of night, as long as light has cast a shadow, each of us has fought for the upper hand.” While she talks, the waning sun beams across her throne, casting crimson light over the pure white of her gown. “It is the natural order of things, and one that we have come to accept. As long as there is light, there will be shadow.

  “It is a boon to us that the Dawn holds the upper hand in this arrangement. Though there is balance, it nearly always tips in our favor. But from time to time the Dusk breaks through and darkness overcomes the light. Right now, we are on the precipice of such a time. A great treasure hangs in the balance. For over a century, it has been protected and hidden away. For hundreds of years, none knew of it.

  “With the fall of the Wellspring of Sunteri came knowledge of places long undiscovered. Cities and villages. Flats of stone impossible to find. You have heard tell of one of these places. The Kingdom of Brindelier.”

  Flitt and I exchange a glance as the queen goes silent. Her Majesty lets the pause in her speech hang heavy between us. Even Zilliandin, who has been stoic and quiet all of this time, perks up. His eyes go wide and he gives an excited little squeak.

  “Oh! Please excuse me, Majesty,” the elder fairy’s cheeks go rosy red.

  “Indeed, Zilliandin,” her Majesty smiles. “You are right to be so delighted. It is a surprise, is it not, that I could speak the name before these two humans? The Muses’ songs took an interesting turn.”

  “And to think, I’m the one who found her! Can you believe it? But you must have known, Memi, when you sent me to Kythshire.” Flitt bubbles.
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  “I’m not sure understand,” Rian says slowly.

  “I think I do,” I venture. I tell Rian about Margy’s storybook, and how she said she couldn’t find the pages with the story about Brindelier until they revealed themselves to her.

  “Yes!” Flitt chirps excitedly. “And she and Memi—I mean the queen— wouldn’t have been able to tell you about Brindelier if you weren’t worthy to be told. And not many are. You two are special, Azi and Rian. You two were meant for—”

  “Now,” the queen interrupts, raising a slender white hand in elegant protest. Everyone hushes. “No need to say too much, my little Sunbeam. Even here, the shadows listen as they are wont to do. But you are both correct. That I could say the name is proof enough that we may have found our Champions of Light.”

  “Champions of Light.” Rian murmurs. His tone says he knows exactly what she’s talking about. I look up at him, and he nods to the queen to indicate I should listen to her.

  “Brindelier,” the queen’s lilting voice carries a melody that invokes a festival. “The lost city is a place of fellowship that has been hidden for ages past. It was closed away during the time of the Sorcerer King, but now it calls to the Dawn and the Dusk alike with promises of its power. It sings to us in sunshine and moonlight, asking us to see it, compelling us to open its gates once more.

  “Ever have the Dark and the Light agreed to leave it lost and not seek it out, for Brindelier holds a great Source. The waters of its Wellspring are gold and red, blue and silver, green and copper. This Great Source feeds all others. To own it would be to own all of the magic of our lands.”

  She smiles a little sadly.

  “Alas, such power cannot be entrusted to just any leader. Such power is a great responsibility. One must possess the qualities of restraint, of generosity, of understanding of the Balance. One side cannot be deprived over the other, and one side must not hold control over the other. And so it remains barred. The city lies in enchanted sleep, its twin heirs ever waiting for one worthy to rule with utter clarity and symmetry.