I venture a swing that feels as though it could slice away at the very shadows, and a streak of light follows in the wake of it. The entranced crowd breaks into thunderous applause and wild dancing.
“Whoa,” Flitt pushes to me, staring at my new sword, “how did you do that? I’ve seen a lot of things, but I’ve never seen anything like that!”
Grinning, I glance at Rian. His reaction is the complete opposite of the rest of them. His face is pale and flushed. He looks at me in a way he never has before. Not with admiration as always, or with pride and impressed, like the others. Beyond the blade of my raised golden sword, he regards me with uneasy awe, tinged with fear.
Chapter Twenty: Belonging
Celli
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here on the unforgiving stone floor, feeling like I’ll die. My thoughts are jumbled and scattered. My mind races sometimes, and other times it’s completely empty. Those times are the worst, when I remember the Sorcerer raising his hands toward me. The crackle of hot blue light. The pain. Pain so strong it swallows me up. Pain to the breaking point.
Once, Da and I sat under an awning at the sea market during a lightning storm. We saw a gull get struck in midair.
“Cooks you from the inside out, lightning does,” he had said to me. It certainly feels like it. I’ve gotten used to the stench of my burnt flesh. I don’t smell it anymore. But then thinking about it, about that gull lying on the cobbles smoking, puts me in a panic again.
I can’t move my left leg at all. My arms don’t hear my commands. I start to pant in fear. My breath comes in short gasps. When the attack is at its worst, I stop breathing altogether. My lips go numb first, and my vision closes in. I’m going to die here. I want to die. Just please, let me die. Let it be over.
Of course, my body wins out over my panicked mind. My lungs burn. I gasp for breath. I sob. My tears tickle the side of my nose as they roll down. I want to swipe them away, but my arms refuse to move. The panic starts again but I hold it back this time. I think over how everything went so terribly wrong.
I vaguely remember them taking Tib out and parading him away. Leaving me here, alone. Of course it was his fault. His stupid, selfish fault. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be part of it. I was going to make something of myself. I was going to impress Quenson.
Even now, thinking about Quenson quickens my heart. Does he know what the other one did to me? Why hasn’t he come for me yet? And Dub. As much as I hate him, where is he? How could they just leave me here?
The answer feels like a stone in my stomach. Stupid Celli. They have Tib. They don’t need you anymore. You’re worthless. Unimportant.
The pain of that thought is worse than the feeling of my cooked insides. I let out a sob that echoes through the cell.
“Unlock it at once,” a muffled voice blends with my cries. I work to quiet myself. At first I think it’s my scrambled brain making things up, but when the door creaks open, my breath catches.
His soft boots come into view first, gray and graceful. Perfect. The red lining of his black robes flicks in and out of view as he walks toward me. Quenson. I try desperately to look up into his beautiful face, but the pain in my neck is too much. I start to cry again. I need to see him. I ache for him. Don’t be a baby, I scold myself.
“My, my,” Quenson clicks his tongue, “Osven, it seems, was a little heavy-handed with you, my dear.”
His whisper of a spell strips the stone floor of filth and liquid. When it’s suitably dry and clean, Quenson kneels by my head. Relief washes over me. I can finally see his face. I’m filled with a sense of peace, like looking at him is essential to my survival. He called me my dear. He’s my air and my pulse. He’s all that matters. His lips curl into a smirk and I’m sure I’ll die happy in this moment, his smile the last thing I see.
“You amuse me so, girl,” he laughs softly. “It is not your time to die.” He produces a corked vial of shockingly pink liquid from his robes and pulls out the stopper. “Drink,” he says, and presses it to my lips.
The acrid potion tastes like blood and fire. It burns my tongue and throat and creeps into my stomach like molten lead, and it doesn’t stop there.
“Hold her,” Quenson’s voice is drowned out by the ringing in my ears. Someone holds me down. The touch of their hands sears my flesh. I writhe in pain as the potion works its way through me, down my arms into my fingertips, down my legs into my feet and toes until every fiber is swathed in burning pain. I feel myself convulsing. My legs kick out, my arms thrash. My mouth fills with foam. More men come. More pin me. Their hands are red-hot clamps of iron.
My screams echo through the cell, but they’re distant. Not really mine. I’m separate from the girl on the floor, pinned and burning. I’m outside. Quenson is even more handsome from this point of view. I drift toward him. I want to be him, not her. I ache to be close to him. He looks from the writhing girl to me. Something shifts, and I understand.
I’m his. Fully his, now. His blood in the potion links us. The pain is necessary. It strengthens the bond. He flicks his eyes toward the girl, whose convulsing is starting to calm. He commands me with a single look. Return.
I sink back into her without a second thought. The burning is welcome. It means we’ll be together. I slow my breath. I wear the pain. I drift to sleep.
I wake in luxury. Silks and satins. Clouds of pillows. Sweet incense. It feels like a dream. I don’t want to open my eyes.
“Dress,” Quenson’s command is velvety smooth and thrilling.
My eyes fly open. I slide from the bed in sheer excitement. My clothes are laid out for me, the ones that were gifted by Sybel. The ones Dub made me change out of. I put them on in a rush and spin to search the room for Quenson. He was here. I felt him. I heard him. But I’m alone.
“Come outside,” Quenson orders. It’s his voice, I’m sure. But I don’t hear it. Not outside or in my head. It’s more of a feeling. A compelling. Something I want to do, even though it wasn’t my own idea.
It puzzles me, but when I reach the door and pull it open, it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s there, waiting. Smiling again. Looking me over with appreciation. He’s everything. Everything.
I follow him not knowing or caring why or where. It doesn’t matter. We’re together. We pass others, other Sorcerers. Some of them greet him, some don’t. I want to punch those who ignore him. Kick them. Make them hurt. Make them see how amazing he is.
“All in good time, my dear,” he murmurs, and his words placate me.
He brings me to a room that’s small and cluttered. The walls are stacked with books and scrolls and shelves lined with bottles of herbs and solutions floating with bits of flesh or preserved animals. A small desk is stuffed to the side. Scraps of parchment are tacked to the wall above it, with scratchy reminders I can’t read scrawled all over them. Torn pages of books, showing drawings of men with their skin pulled back to show their muscles and bones.
He takes the chair there and gestures for me to sit in the only other one, a ruby velvet footrest. The door closes as I sit, and he whispers a spell over it. As always, his voice thrills me like I can feel his whisper on my bare skin.
“You have proven your loyalty,” he leans toward me in his chair and presses his fingertips together. “I will entertain your questions.”
I stare at him blankly. I should have questions. Lots of them. The truth is, none of them matter. I’m here with him. We’re together. As long as that’s so, I don’t care. My past life is a distant memory. Another girl. A child who died in that cell. My new life is here, with him.
“Can I stay with you?” I ask. “Always?”
His laugh is more of a scoff. A perfect, wonderful scoff that warms me. I lean forward, too. I need to be closer to him. His eyes glint with amusement and power.
“If you behave,” he says. “Have you no other questions? No pondering about this Order or this place?”
“Who were those who ignored you in the corri
dor?” I ask. I want their names. I want to be able to track them down later. Quenson grins again. I’m drunk with the beauty of his white teeth against the blue-black Mark.
“Sorcerers like me, my dear,” he starts to elaborate, but my scowl interrupts him. He raises a questioning brow.
“Not like you,” I say. “There’s no one like you.”
“Truly,” he laughs softly, “you delight me. Perhaps so. Not exactly like me. We all have our talents here, but work toward the same end, you see. Domination of the Sources. Still, though our goal is the same, we spend much time watching our own backs. As you would imagine, our ilk does not value loyalty highly, nor are we adept at maintaining our alliances. We work together because we must.”
“But,” he leans in even closer. I watch his lips as he speaks. I barely hear what he’s saying. “The fewer of us there are in the end, the more powerful the ones who remain. Do you see, my lovely? We make our alliances on false pretenses, each of us knowing the other will most likely try to kill us in the end. It is not, as you would imagine, a hospitable environment. Still, it is necessary. And so you see why your loyal companionship is such an amusement.”
I grin stupidly. He called me a companion. I amuse him.
“I must ask you to do something for me,” he reaches for my hand, and his touch jolts me with warmth.
“Anything,” I say.
An insistent pounding on the door interrupts us.
“What?” Quenson’s irritated shout makes me jump. His anger becomes my anger. He curses under his breath and waves a hand. The silence ward on the door fades. “What?” he yells louder this time.
“I got it,” Dub’s quiet reply is muffled by the thick wood.
“Open the door, Celli,” Quenson commands, and I’m on my feet and opening it before I can even think.
Dub glowers at me with his one good eye. His face is covered in scratches. He looks past me at Quenson and scowls, and that’s enough for me. I lunge at him, swinging my fists.
“How dare you?” I scream in rage. To come here, to scowl at my master? I swing hard and my fist cracks his jaw. Dub curses and grabs me by the throat. Behind us, Quenson laughs heartily.
“What in the black shadow?” Dub growls and shoves me back.
“Enough, Celli. Close the door,” Quenson says, and I do. Dub takes my seat. That’s fine with me. I stand next to Quenson. Close enough that my arm brushes his shoulder. That’s when I notice the squirming black sack in Dub’s grip. It’s covered in shed fur: black, white, orange. White claws poke out from the fibers as whatever’s inside struggles. Dub holds it away from himself, still scowling.
Without any command from Quenson, I think of what to do. I turn around and fetch a small iron cage that’s stuffed among some old scroll cases. I open the door and hold it out to Dub, and he shoves the sack inside. It squirms and fights and yowls as I close the door and hand it to Quenson.
“Now we’ll see what’s so special about you, won’t we?” Quenson murmurs. The creature inside frees itself from the sack with a great, yowling thrash.
“You got Zeze,” I whisper, and the cat in the cage turns to me and hisses.
Chapter Twenty-One: Sails and Pearls
Tib
“Will he live, Valenor?”
“If he allows their magic.”
“Sorcerers’ healers? He won’t. You know Tib.”
“Sometimes we must make difficult choices in order to survive, my dear Ki. You know this better than most.”
“Why won’t he wake? It’s been hours…”
“He is only now becoming aware.”
I am. Aware, I mean. Of soft sunlight on my face. Of a calloused hand in each of mine. Of the voices of people who care about me. I’ve been aware of them for a while, actually. I’ve just been afraid to open my eyes. Afraid if I do, I’ll lose the dream.
“Your sister is here, Tib. As am I,” Valenor says. “You are safe for the moment, but your time is waning. Will you join us?”
I squeeze one hand. Ki’s hand. Then I squeeze the other. She cries silently. She doesn’t speak. I don’t need her to, though. I know who she is.
“Saesa?” I whisper.
“Tib,” she gives a choked sob and presses my hand to her wet cheek.
“I don’t want to wake up,” I murmur.
“It is nigh impossible that you would wake against your will, my friend,” Valenor says mournfully, “under the circumstances.”
His words swim in my thoughts. The face of the jagged cliff side streaks through my mind. I remember the pain as each bone broke. That pain is gone now. I feel nothing. I understand. I’m in the Dreaming. I trust Valenor if he says I won’t wake up. I open my eyes. Slowly. Carefully.
The first thing I see are sails stretched tight by a rush of wind. I hear the creak of wood. Masts. The crow’s nest towers over me. Soft white clouds drift above. Sunlight gleams on Saesa’s orange curls. Her eyes are red and puffy. She leans over me. Gives a reassuring smile. A fan of shimmering black hair tickles my face as Ki does the same.
“Sister,” I grin, and she scoops me into her arms. Beside me, Saesa sniffles again. “Why are we on a ship?” I ponder.
“We should ask you the same, my friend,” Valenor’s voice drifts on the wind. “After all, this dream is of your making.”
I peer over my sister’s shoulder. Through the black locks of her hair that whip in the breeze, I look into the distance, expecting to see the familiar line of sea meeting sky. I don’t, though. There’s no sea. Just sky. I jump to my feet and nearly knock Ki over as I sprint to the port side. I lean over, way over.
The ship’s belly rounds out below me. Beyond that, a bladder of air. Just like in my drawings. Just like in my designs, wings of varying shapes and sizes stretch out, bracketed to the bulwarks. They reach forward and back like a great, graceful bird, pushing us forward with ease. I whoop and run to the bow, where I lean so far over that Ki has to catch my ankles to keep me from teetering over, into the sky.
The ground below is patches of dark and light green. Golden fields. Gray stone mountains. We’re so high up that it doesn’t even feel like we’re moving. A flock of geese fall in beside us. They keep time with the strokes of the ship’s great wings, honking their greetings.
“It’s unbelievable!” I shout into the wind. I race aft, to the quarterdeck, to the captain’s wheel. I stare at it for a moment in disbelief. I put my hand on it. Give it just a small turn. The ship responds smoothly, listing to port. “It’s impossible!” I laugh and spin on my heels and climb up to look over the aft, where four enormous blades spin lazily. Benen’s blades.
“They work!” I whoop. “It works!” I spin back to face the others. Valenor’s cloak flaps into view first, and the rest of him follows. He stands between Saesa and Ki. My chest feels like it could burst with joy.
“You did it, didn’t you? You finished it.” I jog down the steps and hug all three of them at once. “I’m not even mad that you did it without me. It’s amazing! How did you know what to do? Did you use magic? Was it difficult to get the ship floating?”
When no one replies, I pull away from them and catch them giving each other worried glances.
“What?” I ask, confused but still beaming with triumph. My invention works. I can fly anywhere now. The port at Cerion will never be the same. Ships. Floating ships!
“It’s a dream, Tib,” Saesa says gently. “It’s your dream. It’s not real. You haven’t finished it yet.”
I look at Ki. She nods apologetically. My heart plummets. The ship fades from beneath us. I’m falling again. The cliffs rise up beside me. The jagged rocks rush past, sharp and cruel. Saesa tumbles past. Ki grabs my wrist. Reaches for Saesa, too. Valenor’s cloak stretches out and gathers us up. The blur of the rocks slows. We settle into darkness. It’s night. The sea is calm. Its black waters swirl, licking at my body. I’m alone. Broken. Lying on a rock.
A figure drifts close to me. Tall and slender, dark and wicked, he flicks his hand
out in haste. I feel the spell settle over me. Levitation. It does nothing. I can’t be touched by spells.
“Ki,” I scream. “Saesa!”
I can’t move. Broken back, broken legs, broken hip, broken arms. I shouldn’t have survived. I should be dead. My mouth is filled with blood but I can’t swallow. Can’t even choke.
“Valenor!” Wait. How can I scream for them if I can’t even swallow? Is this real? Is it a dream? A memory?
Osven sneers at my broken body with disgust. He hovers a hand over me. Detection spell. I’m alive. He lands beside me. He’s outwardly annoyed. He looks far above at the fortress. Maybe thinking about asking for help. In the end, he decides not to. He picks me up. My body is limp. I dribble blood down the front his perfect gray robe.
A different place, now. A room. A stone slab like an altar in the center. I’m lying on it, neatly arranged. My hands are clasped over my chest like a corpse at a viewing. It’s strange. I’m lying there, but I’m standing watching, too. Somewhere nearby, Saesa sniffles.
A woman in brown robes stands beside me. Her fingertips glow pink. Healing magic flows from them, bathing me in its glow. Her hand begins to shake. She’s been here for hours. She takes her hand away. Presses her palms to the stone and leans, exhausted.
“Next!” Osven bellows. The healer steps back, only to be replaced by another.
“You,” Osven growls at the spent woman and grabs her arm as she rushes past. “You have failed. Explain.”
“He resists it,” the woman offers wearily. “I might as well have been healing the stone itself. It would have done as much good.”
Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) Page 21
