Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  I look deeper. Past tonight, into an earlier moment. A Sorcerer on an ill-tempered rampage, pacing across the floor of a round room. Alcoves line the walls. Two of them hold bottles of glowing liquid. The assassin’s gaze lingers on them. They’re a surprise to him. A small triumph.

  “Quenson,” he says to the Sorcerer, “we can get him back. We’ll use the boy.”

  I’m so drawn into the scene that I’m unaware at first of the subtle shift around me. The light of my sword has dimmed further. Its glow is nearly snuffed out by shadows. I pull away from the one-eyed man and raise my weapon. A cloaked figure steps out of the shadows of the living room. He raises his hand toward me and whispers.

  At the end of his incantation I reach out with the threads of my thoughts and wind them around his wrists. With a nod of my head I give them a tug and his hand flings to the side. He looses his spell and it hits the assassin full on.

  Amid a string of curses, the Sorcerer summons his shadows. They creep through the room and stretch into the light like bent henchmen to stalk me. A dozen or more of them attack, and I raise my sword to face them.

  I swing at one close to me and a beam of light trails behind my blade, slicing the shadow into oblivion effortlessly. The room fills with earsplitting screams as the shadows are painfully slashed by the light of my sword. Again and again I fight away the approaching darkness. My arms never tire; my resolve never fades. They descend on me, clawing at my arms and face with slender, pointed fingers and gnashing fangs at me that seem to drip with shadowy poison.

  Beyond the crowd of darkness, I hear strange words strung together. They’re oddly familiar, though I can’t seem to place them. Sparrow. Perch.

  My arms are strong and capable, but my mind is slowing. I’m exhausted from using magic. The absence of it drains me from the inside. I move on reflexes, but there is no strategy to my attacks. My capacity to think has been spent.

  The shadows thin gradually. I swing a dozen times or more, and each time I do their screams shatter my eardrums. When the last one finally falls I find myself standing by myself in the dark, empty living room. The Sorcerer and the assassin have escaped somehow. I trudge to a nearby sofa and sink into it, exhausted. I lay my sword across my knees. My gaze rests on the shimmering blade with wonder. It’s like it knew. It knew exactly what needed to be done and it acted like an extension of me. Like my arm, or my finger.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, and right away I feel foolish. After all, it’s a weapon of my own making, not something to be spoken to. Still, Saesa’s sword has a name. Perhaps mine should, too. I pick it up again and think of the time I’ve had with it so far. How it eluded my father’s grasp and inspired fear and awe in the assassin. How it garnered his respect so I wasn’t forced to fight him. I close my eyes and let its peaceful light tingle on my fingertips.

  “Mercy,” I whisper, and the sword pulses softly in acceptance.

  Our strange conversation is interrupted by a sudden rumbling and quaking coming from a room deeper within the house. I get to my feet and creep toward it with the light of my sword guiding the way.

  I’m greeted in what I expect is the kitchen by a sharp cracking sound as the stone wall splits and crumbles apart. Just when I’m about to charge, Rian pokes his head through the opening.

  “You’re here,” he says with a sigh of relief. He clambers unsteadily through the wall and we crash into each other’s arms.

  “What happened?” he asks. “Are you all right? I tried to get back but I was blocked somehow. I couldn’t get to you.”

  I cling to him and nod into his chest. In the sudden, complete quiet, I tell him everything that happened.

  “The floor,” he says when I’m through, and takes my hand to guide me back. For a moment he looks confused as we stand together in the living room.

  “What is it?” I ask him.

  “When we arrived there was a man here. Maisie’s husband. He didn’t make it. Did you see him?”

  I think back and shake my head. When I arrived, there was definitely no one in this room aside from myself and the assassin.

  “He must have been drawn into the portal,” Rian says thoughtfully. He sinks to his knees and finds the carving on the floor.

  “This is how they get in and out,” he whispers. “Sigils.”

  “Sigils?” I ask. “Like teleportation?”

  “A little, but these are less complicated, and they’re only meant to travel to a fixed point that’s already been prepared.” He brushes his fingers over the carving. “You put a marker in here. That’s what holds the spell. It activates the runes.” He points to the black swirls of charcoal. “This one’s temporary.”

  “A marker?” I think back. “Like a coin?”

  “Sure. A coin would do nicely.” He taps the carving again. “If only we had one.”

  “Tib does,” I whisper, suddenly remembering. “He showed it to me before the attack on the High Court.”

  Rian raises a brow curiously. He flicks his wrist and the sofa and rug slide across the floor and skid to a stop to hide the markings.

  “That’ll have to do for now,” he says and takes my hand again. “We have to get back. Tib’s in bad shape, but he refuses healing until he’s sure Maisie and the boy are safe. Maisie’s getting healing. She’ll be fine, but Errie is another story. We can’t recover him. Not yet. Master Gaethon estimates there are at least a dozen master Sorcerers barricaded in that keep. Probably more. The Dusk is an ancient order, just like the Dawn is. We have to be cautious.”

  I nod. “Let’s go home. It’s probably not safe to talk about it here.”

  He folds his arms around me and I bury my face in his chest. I breathe in the warmth of his embrace and the smoky scent of incense on his robes as the ground falls away beneath us and we spin into the Half-Realm.

  When we arrive at the guild hall again, we’re greeted by a strange sight.

  At the center of the meeting room, seated on a tufted footrest, is a young woman dressed in a shimmering white cloak emblazoned with the crest of Kythshire. Her hood is pulled low to cover her face. The Elite stand in a semi-circle around her, their expressions a mix of curiosity, awe, and confusion.

  “She says she’s here for you, Azi,” Mya whispers. “She says you know her.”

  At Mya’s words, the figure stands gracefully. She reaches to her hood and carefully pushes it back. Multi-colored locks tumble over her shoulders and she reaches up to smooth her rainbow bangs with a slender, pale hand that shimmers in the firelight. Her pink lips curve into a smile as she turns to face me. At first I’m confused. I know those eyes, that hair, but it can’t be. As she turns her attention to me, I’m overcome by a powerful feeling of awe and honor. It’s as though I’m in the presence of something legendary. Something to be revered.

  Hesitantly, I move close to her as the others watch in fascination.

  “Whoa,” Rian breathes.

  “Flitt?” I whisper. It isn’t like the other times when she grew herself to my size to look me in the eye or give me a quick hug. This time is different. It’s difficult to describe. Somehow, she’s more solid, more present, more visible and important.

  I glance back at the others. Mum and Da. Mya, Elliot, Cort, Bryse. They’re all looking at her. Not only can they see her, but they all seem utterly enchanted by her. Even Uncle is agape.

  I shake my head slowly and walk around her, taking her in. As a fairy, Flitt has always been a little on the full side, probably due to all of the sugar cubes. Her round cheeks and soft shoulders gave her a child-like quality. As a human, she’s more slender and dainty. Her face is slightly narrower. It’s pleasing, but also strange to me. Something I can’t quite put my finger on proclaims her very un-human.

  “What did you do?” I whisper and bend to peek beneath her cloak. At first I thought it was meant to conceal them, but they would never fit under there. “Where are your wings?”

  “Oh, it’s only temporary, thank the Light,” she chuckles and looks over
her shoulder at me. “I know how you all are with appearances. Imagine if I went to meet the king looking the way I usually do. Could you imagine? Though it does feel strange. You really are all so very hulking. I don’t see why my feet must be as large as a mountain troll’s nose. No offense of course, Bryse,” she says and blinks up at Bryse with a sheepish grin.

  “What?” Bryse huffs. “I’m no mountain troll! And how do you know my name?” he scowls.

  “Oh, of course not! No, no. Mountain giant. Forgive me.” Flitt laughs nervously. “Not that there’s much difference,” she utters under her breath.

  “Stone giant,” Bryse grumbles.

  Flitt shrugs apologetically and reaches for the tip of a wing that isn’t there. Her hand then drops to her skirts. Her skirts. That’s something else that’s changed. The frayed ribbon scraps are gone, replaced by a gown of shimmering iridescent fabric that floats around her legs in a mesmerizing shift of color.

  “Perhaps introductions are in order?” Mya’s voice cracks at the suggestion as she eyes the crest of Kythshire. Everyone else nods, wide-eyed. Even Da stands speechless.

  “Not really,” Flitt says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I already know everyone.”

  “Perhaps, then,” Uncle clears his throat and looks at me, “for our benefit?”

  “This is Flitt,” I say a little uneasily. “She’s…”

  I glance at her for guidance. I have no idea what’s going on or how much I’m supposed to say.

  “Help?” I push to her.

  Flitt rolls her eyes impatiently.

  “Honestly, so typical. Always needing to over-explain everything.”

  She does a little hop like she’s about to lift off, and then seems to remember that she can’t do that, so she just bounces a bit. “I’m Flitt. I’m from Kythshire. Azi’s known me for a while. Lisabella, too. And I’ve been around all of you, so no need to tell me who you are. I was sent ahead to let His Majesty know there’s going to be a procession in the morning. Lots more are coming. Mostly my kind, but elves from Ceras’lain, too. At dawn.” She gives me a meaningful look.

  Everyone continues to stare in disbelief. I can understand why. Though Cerion has long opened its gates to people of all nations, this is unheard of. Only the Academy’s occasional secretive contact keeps the fairies from fading into legend. Even then, many have lost faith that they exist. So, to have a woman show up at the hall proclaiming herself a representative of Kythshire is quite a lot to wrap one’s head around. It’s undeniable, though. The magic that twinkles from every pore of her skin is proof enough. Flitt, who is obviously tiring of being stared at, crosses her arms impatiently.

  “I heard Tib got hurt,” she says. “Is he around? I told Ki I’d check on him for her. Then I’m to go to the palace. You know, to let them know we’re coming, so they can make all those important preparations that you people seem to feel are so necessary.”

  Rian is the first to speak. His voice seems to jolt everyone out of their dazes.

  “He’s in the guest house,” he says. “Azi, could you show her? I need a word with Master Gaethon.”

  His voice is shaken, and it’s not from Flitt’s transformation or her presence in the hall. I don’t need to read his thoughts to know his mind is on the boy he failed to rescue.

  “Of course,” I say quietly. Flitt rests a hand on my shoulder, right on the spot where she usually perches.

  “See if he’ll give you the coin,” Rian pushes to me.

  As I lead Flitt out of the hall, I look back over my shoulder at Da, who stands shaking his head in disbelief.

  I don’t need to look at his mind, either. I’m just as shocked and amazed. I don’t think any of us would have imagined our lifetime would be the one in which fairies would return publicly to Cerion. It feels unreal. Like a dream.

  “Ugh,” Flitt says as she stumbles in the hallway over her own feet. She leans heavily on my shoulder. “Really. I just don’t see the point of it. Being this humongous. Walking everywhere. And I honestly didn’t think it was possible for this place to smell even worse.”

  She wrinkles her big human nose and pinches it closed with a scowl. “How do you live like dis?” she asks with a high-pitched nasal whine.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Failure and Regret

  Tib

  Pink light splashes the wall. Across the room, Maisie moans. I try to sit up and look, but Saesa pushes me down gently. I hold in a groan as my head pounds. Don’t want to draw attention to my own pain. Even with the potion Mya gave me to take the edge off, it hurts. I feel strange, too. Like I’m floating. Without thinking, I reach for the bandage over my eye. I test it gently with my fingertips.

  “Don’t touch,” Saesa whispers and pulls my hand away. She’s being annoying. Really annoying. She has been ever since Rian brought me back. Raefe even had to go get the healer because she wouldn’t leave my side. I kept telling her don’t worry about me. Worry about Maisie. Worry about Errie, who we failed. The thought of him in that place makes me seethe. I want to jump up out of this bed and run to free him. To get back to that keep and finish every last one of them.

  “He’s almost done,” Saesa murmurs in my ear as she watches the healer work. “You’d better rethink things, Tib. What good will you be getting Errie back with one eye? If he can fix it, you should let him.”

  I swear, sometimes Saesa acts more like a mother than a friend. She’s right, though. If I’m going to fight against the Dusk, then I’ll need both eyes wide open. I make my mind up to agree with her. I’ll let him heal me.

  Across the room, Maisie gasps and screams and cries out, “Errie!”

  I want to go to her and swear I’ll get him back, but my head is too heavy. Saesa’s hand on my shoulder is like a pile of bricks. The healer murmurs something. A rest spell. Like Lisabella’s peace pulse, but stronger. Maisie quiets.

  “She lost a lot of blood,” he says to Saesa. “She’ll rest for the night and feel much better in the morning.”

  No she won’t, I think to myself as he comes to my side. Not without her son. Even with my good eye closed I feel him near. He’s a powerful healer. One of the best at the Conclave, I bet. They know the Elite there. They respect them. I wonder if he’d be so willing to help me, knowing I’m the reason Maisie’s heart is broken. Knowing I let an innocent boy get taken. Maybe I won’t let him heal me after all. I deserve the pain.

  “Tibreseli Nullen,” he sighs and his hand rests on my chest. I open my good eye and look him over. “Turn your head this way.” My jaw clenches and I scowl. “Come, now. You are not the first to try to martyr himself for his mistakes, my child. By the Lady, I urge you to use reason.”

  He leans over me like he’s looking into me. I can feel the insistence in him. I remember the pure white conclave. The statue of the weeping mother. The words the old man said: Key to the Skies. Do not tarry in your work.

  My heart quickens. My contraption. If I can get it working, we can fly there. To the keep. I imagine the look on Dub’s face when he sees me. How shocked he’ll be when I glare at him with both eyes as I throw my knives right into his filthy heart. The thought fills me with urgency.

  “Hurry,” I say, pulling at the bandages. “Please. I have things to do.” Saesa takes my hands away and holds them. The healer unwraps the bandage and lets his magic flow into my wound and I allow it.

  It’s a strange sensation. Not at all like the healing I got in the Sorcerers’ keep. This time it’s much more pleasant. I focus on it. I feel the bone and muscle pulse and knit back together. My eye mends itself slowly, filling up round and cool to fit perfectly in the socket. I blink and roll it from side to side, testing it as the pink light fills the darkness.

  “Will the color come back?” Saesa asks as she leans over me, watching.

  “Curious,” the healer peers at me.

  “It’s a nice gray-blue,” Saesa offers.

  “Look around, Tibreseli,” the healer says. “How does it seem?”

  I sco
ot up in the bed with ease. My healed right eye seems quicker than my left one. It flicks around eagerly. I glance to the far wall next to the door. Outside, there’s a hallway. In the hallway, I can see beyond the wall, the shape of two figures coming closer. Women. I see their outlines like they’re painted on the wall. One in armor, one in a gown. That one stumbles a little and bumps the frame of the passage.

  “Oof! Wall,” she says. Her voice is familiar. Like Flitt’s, but not as squeaky. “Really! Why does it need to be so closed up and twisty in here? If you’re going to insist on being so big, you should make everything more open so you can get around without—ouch!”

  The woman trips on the runner rug just outside the door. I see her outline stumble into the armored woman.

  “I can see,” I whisper to the healer. “How can I see them? Two women?”

  “Sometimes,” he answers as he turns toward the door. “The Lady of Peace bestows gifts through healing as a way of rewarding us, or preparing us.”

  “What?” Saesa whispers. “You can see them? It sounds like...”

  “It is,” I say quietly. Flitt. I always know when she’s around. She’s got that bright magic that tries to creep in and make you feel better. Happier. Lighter. This time, it’s a little different. It has some influence to it. Like it’s trying to make her instant friends with everyone.

  “Oh, hello,” Flitt’s strangely deeper voice comes out of the woman in the doorway.

  Beside her, Azi looks at the group of us with relief.

  “Victer!” she strides across and offers the healer a hug. “Thank you so much.”

  “Of course,” the healer hugs her back. “This one was stubborn, but we convinced him in the end, hm?”