Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  Osven struggles against the bindings but he’s too weak, and with his hands and mouth tied up and his eyes blindfolded by the carpet-vines, he can’t cast a spell. I hope.

  “Bring me closer,” Aster begs from inside Rian’s pocket.

  Rian creeps near the Sorcerer and draws the wand. It’s almost impossible to tell that Osven’s in there now. The ropes are so thick he looks like a giant basket tipped over.

  Aster twitches in Rian’s hand as they get closer. Dark energy seeps out from between the spaces in the bindings. As it streams toward the wand, it shifts from shadow to light. Draining him. Stripping him.

  Rian’s hand shakes as he realizes what’s happening, but he allows it.

  “That’s enough, wand, don’t you think?” Shush whispers.

  “Just a little more,” Aster’s reply echoes eerily through the house.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Appealing to the King

  Azi

  At the palace, it’s all very strict. Rather than a cheerful Page to guide us to a room to wait, we’re flanked by palace guards who march us to an annex of the throne room. They stand at attention at four points around us, allowing us very little freedom while we wait for His Majesty.

  Mya and Uncle stand in front of me and occasionally exchange a nervous word or two. Saesa, Flitt, and I stand behind them. Saesa makes me proud. She remains respectful and patient while we’re made to wait. Flitt is exactly the opposite. She fidgets and bounces on her toes and looks around the richly decorated room impatiently.

  “Rather empty,” she declares, and her loud voice echoes through the vast hall. “And quiet.” Beside me, Saesa winces.

  “Shh,” I whisper. “It isn’t usually so empty, but it’s late, Flitt. Everyone’s gone to bed.”

  “I thought there’d at least be dancing like we have,” she announces, not bothering to lower her voice at all. “And music. You know. Mya, you should play something and I’ll dance. Oh,” she sighs with a scowl, “maybe I shouldn’t. I still haven’t sorted out my feet yet. Ow. How do you manage to stand for so very long? I feel like the flesh on my soles is going to hurt right off.”

  Mya, Uncle, and the front flank guards slowly turn to look at Flitt. Uncle seems amused, but Mya presses a finger to her lips.

  “We’ve been waiting an awfully long time, haven’t we?” Flitt huffs. “Is it normal to wait so very long in such a dreadfully boring room?” she tugs on one of the guards. “Are you sure you told His Majesty we were here?”

  When he doesn’t answer, she wrinkles her nose. “Rude,” she mutters under her breath. “Typical.”

  “Flitt,” I hiss between my teeth, mortified by her impatience, “he knows we’re here. They said they’d announce us, remember? Just try to keep quiet.”

  “What’s the point of having to be quiet?” she asks innocently. “It just seems to make the wait longer. I bet he’s making us wait on purpose.”

  Her eyes wander around the room and slowly her feet begin to wander, too. She drifts away only a little, and the palace guards put a gentle hand up to stop her.

  “Please remain with us,” one of them says.

  “Oh, so you do talk!” Flitt pats his arm condescendingly and then quickly pulls her hand away, sniffs her fingers, makes a face, and wipes them on my cloak.

  “Sorry,” I whisper to the scowling guard as I tuck Flitt behind me. “She’s not from here.”

  “Aye,” the guard grumbles and looks down his nose at the two of us. His eyes linger on my Mark and I slide my visor down self-consciously.

  “Indeed, it must all seem very strange to you. Come,” Uncle offers brightly. To my surprise, he smiles at her and offers her his arm. Flitt scowls and looks at me.

  “Link your hand through his elbow,” I push to her.

  “Do I have to? He’s worse than Stinky Rian,” she pushes back.

  “He’s trying to be nice to you,” I give Flitt an insistent look, and she rolls her eyes and reluctantly links her hand through Uncle’s offered arm. The guards allow him past after a short exchange, and he guides her across the vast room to stand before a portrait of His Majesty’s father. There, he goes into great detail, describing the importance of painters and their patrons throughout the history of Cerion.

  “He’s torturing me,” she pushes the thought to me without even looking over her shoulder. Uncle gestures across the canvas, explaining away. “You see him torturing me, right?”

  I suppress a chuckle and shake my head. With the two of them occupied across the room, my stomach starts to twist with nerves. Saesa’s quiet presence centers me. I settle into attention beside her and stare ahead, alert and still. It’s been such a long time since I’ve taken this stance, I’m surprised by how much it calms me. It’s almost meditative.

  I’m reminded of Cerion Day all those years ago, when I was a hopeful squire waiting for her trials to start. So much has happened since then. I don’t even feel like the same person anymore. Da saw it. I wonder if His Majesty will, too. Am I too different now from the Azaeli who used to come and amuse the princesses in the gardens? Will he think me too changed from the girl who dreamed of serving them one day the way my parents have served him?

  “His Majesty will see you now.”

  The announcement jolts me. My stomach knots up. Before us, the doors to the throne room swing open. Uncle leads Flitt to my side again, and the guards march us in.

  King Tirnon is on his feet as soon as we enter. He jogs down the steps of his throne and strides toward us. His fists are clenched at his sides, the veins at his temples pulse with anger. As he approaches, we all drop to one knee out of respect. Except for Flitt, of course. She stands oblivious at my side as the king weaves between the others to stop before me.

  “What is the meaning of this?” His Majesty bellows. My heart races at his fury. I pray he’ll spare me rather than placing me under arrest. The summons in my shaking hand crinkles loudly. I duck my head to hide the Mark behind my helm for fear that the sight of it will have me sent straight to sleep.

  “Get down,” I push to Flitt. To my surprise, she does.

  “Stand down,” he snaps at the guards in front. “And you. Go.” He jabs his finger toward the two behind us. “Completely unnecessary,” he growls. “Kristan, what is the meaning of this?”

  “Sire, it is just a precautionary—” the palace guard behind him starts to explain, but His Majesty holds his hand up to silence him.

  “Paranoia,” he says darkly. “I will not have my kingdom ruled in fear. Do you understand me, Kristan? These,” he gestures to the group of us, “are my most trusted. My Elite. They rank above even you in my eyes, General. I will not have them treated this way.”

  “Of course, sire. We only meant to—” he stops again, mid-sentence, as His Majesty slowly turns to face him.

  “I have been patient with your precautions and your overzealous protections until now,” he says in a tone so low I can barely hear him, “but I grow steadily wearier of your dissenting tone toward me. I am your king.”

  “Yes, sire,” Kristan bows.

  “Go.” His Majesty says.

  Kristan glances at us as though he might argue against it, but when his Majesty narrows his eyes at him, the general nods and marches off with our escort.

  When the door closes with a heavy thud behind them, His Majesty turns to us. His dismissal of the guards doesn’t seem to have lifted his mood much.

  “This way,” he commands, and ushers us into a smaller side room where a merry fire crackles in the hearth. The room is otherwise empty, save for a round table at the center. Two guards flank the door at attention. Flitt pauses between them and looks them over.

  “Are these people, or just suits?” she asks aloud and flicks at his burnished metal forearm with her finger making a plink, plink, plink sound. The guard remains absolutely still.

  “They’re real,” Saesa whispers and takes her by the shoulders as I follow Mya and Uncle to the hearth with His Majesty. “Sorry,” she mutters
to the guard.

  “But they’re so still,” Flitt says with awe as Saesa guides her away. “No chairs again?” she whines in my head. “My poor, gigantic feet.”

  Thankfully, His Majesty doesn’t even look at me as we approach him. Instead he broods into the fire. “I expected to see you much sooner, Azaeli,” he says with a tone I can only take for disappointment.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I try with difficulty to keep my voice steady as I bow to him. “Please forgive me. I wasn’t in Cerion when your summons arrived.”

  “Summons?”

  He scowls and flicks his fingers toward me, his eyes on the parchment in my hand. I hand it to him. When he looks it over, his frown deepens. “These are not—” he looks up and his gaze darts from my closed visor to Flitt’s colorful presence beside me. He takes her in a bit at a time: her strangely colored hair, her changing eyes, the crest of her cloak.

  “Not what?” Flitt asks, blinking innocently as the firelight sparkles across her pale skin.

  “It isn’t the message I requested to be sent. Those aren’t my words.” His Majesty shakes his head slowly and hands the note back without even looking at me. He’s mesmerized by the sight of Flitt. He steps closer to her as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “Who is this enchanting creature?” he whispers.

  As he approaches her, Flitt’s light grows brighter and brighter. She opens her hands at her sides and a score of luminous orbs drift from them and add their own light to the small room until all of the shadows are washed away. She raises a shoulder to her cheek and grins at His Majesty with adorably flirtatious giggle.

  “My name is Flitter,” she says once the peaceful glow has settled. A bright yellow orb drifts between her and the king. “Felicity Lumine Instacia Tenacity Teeming Elite Reformer. I’m supposed to be just a traveler, but things change, you know. They made me a messenger, too. Not one like those you’ve been dreaming about. Those are different. I’m an actual, in-person messenger.”

  “How do you know my dreams?” Tirnon whispers in awe.

  “They were sent to you on purpose,” Flitt replies matter-of-factly. “So you’d be expecting me.”

  We all stand in complete silence, watching the exchange between the two of them. I remember when Flitt and I first met in person, how disorienting it had been. I, too, had had several dreams before she showed herself to me. Dreams of dancing with fairies at the Ring and fighting shadow cyclones in a golden field. Dreams of lying in that same field and becoming one with the landscape. Dreams of a fairy, giving me the gift of Flitt’s diamond tether which allowed her to travel to me.

  “I thought I was going mad,” His Majesty says, shaking his head, “dreaming of fairies in such a time.”

  “You never spoke of it, Your Majesty,” Uncle ventures.

  “Would you have, Gaethon?” His Majesty asks. “Considering?” His eyes never leave Flitt, as though daring to look away might cause her disappear.

  “Most likely not,” Uncle agrees quietly. “Considering.”

  “So, they’re coming?” King Tirnon asks. “It’s true? In my lifetime? I never would have expected it.”

  His voice is tinged with excitement and pride. “All these years we’ve protected our alliance. Decades. A century and more, and always I have wondered whether you even existed to begin with. Whether any of it was truly real, or just fairy tales.”

  “Of course it’s real,” Flitt says with a huff. “What a silly thing to think. Absolutely typical that you’d doubt it, though.”

  “But why have you remained so hidden all of this time?” His Majesty asks.

  “Azi,” Flitt says with a roll of her eyes, “I think we’re going to have to teach His Majesty the proper way to play.”

  “Play?” Mya asks curiously.

  “A question game. It’s the custom,” I explain. “Or is it a rule?”

  Flitt shrugs and wriggles her pink eyebrows beneath her colorful bangs at the king. I go on.

  “How it’s played is,” I explain, “you ask a question, Your Majesty, then Flitt will answer, and then she can ask hers, and you answer. It goes on that way until someone breaks the chain.”

  “Right,” Flitt nods. “You can go first, since you’re the king.”

  “Ah, thank you,” His Majesty says, still quite in a daze. “Thank you, my dear. My first question is this: What manner of visit do they intend? Is it merely a friendly introduction? Or should we perhaps be prepared to make diplomatic negotiations?”

  Flitt groans and rolls her eyes. Beside her, Saesa takes a step away from her and closer to me, as if to disassociate herself from Flitt.

  “That was three questions, Your Highness,” Flitt huffs.

  “Of course,” he nods. “Then I’ll start with the basics. The royal staff will need to know how many to accommodate for. How many should we expect to be staying, and for how long?”

  “Oh, not very long, and how many doesn’t really matter,” Flitt smiles. “My turn. Why aren’t there any chairs in here?” She shifts her weight from one foot to another with a wince. “I’m not used to standing on my feet for so long, you see.”

  “This is a planning room,” His Majesty replies. “My men and I think better on our feet. It allows us to circle around the table. Gaethon, if you would?”

  “Hm?” Uncle, who has been staring with a mix of thinly-veiled amusement and fascination at Flitt this whole time, snaps his attention to the king. “Oh, indeed, Sire,” he says.

  With a sweep of Uncle’s hand, the tabletop shifts. The illusion of a city emerges from it, growing and shaping itself into a perfect model of Cerion cast in moonlight. Everything is represented, from the crumbling blocks of Redstone Row and the golden dome of the Academy to the pristine white towers of the Royal Palace.

  Flitt walks around it, gazing at the little buildings with mild interest.

  “It isn’t very useful,” she says after a moment, and Uncle looks very put-down. Flitt notices.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I just think it would be better if it wasn’t so empty, that’s all.”

  “Empty?” Uncle frowns. “This model is the collaborative work of no less than four Master Mages, my dear. It shows the ever-changing city just as it is in this precise moment. See? This ship is docked now, whereas earlier it was just arriving.”

  He points to the docks beside the empty market, where the cliffs plunge to the sea.

  “But a city is made up of people,” Flitt says as she leans over the model. “That’s what makes it a city.”

  She holds her hand out over the palace and casually wiggles her fingers, and tiny points of light drift from them to settle into place throughout the palace. The lights split from each other and scatter across the table model to settle in houses and on streets. Some of the lights stay still, while others drift lazily from one place to the next.

  “There,” she smiles. “That’s my present to you, Your Majesty. In return, I would really very much like a chair.”

  “Of course, a chair.” King Tirnon murmurs. He shakes his head in fascination at the sight of all of the now-populated model. “Would you be so kind, Haris?” he says over his shoulder, and one of the guards steps out.

  “It’s your turn, Your Majesty,” Flitt says sweetly. Tirnon tears his attention away from the model.

  “Ah, yes. What is the manner of this visit? I’m afraid I must know so that I can be certain to summon the proper subjects to greet and entertain.”

  “It isn’t really my place to tell you that,” Flitt glances at the door, hopeful for the guard to return with a seat for her. “But I will say that it should be a pleasant time, and that we of Kythshire are ready to make a stronger alliance. You’ve proved over decades that you respect us and our Source, so we feel it’s time to strengthen our bond.”

  She looks over her shoulder at me and giggles. I know she means that much more literally than His Majesty can imagine. The guard returns with a comfortable-looking chair and Flitt scoots back in it gratefully, leaving
her feet to dangle just above the floor.

  “Ahh,” she says with eyes half-closed. “All right. Thank you, armor suit, sir.” The guard inside the suit nods. “My next question,” Flitt turns her attention back to the king, “is this. Do you know it was The Dusk who was responsible for the attack at your High Court?”

  “We have been searching for any clue that would lead us to the attacker, and as of yet have found nothing. I have been at my wit’s end trying to seek answers, to take action. In the meantime, my kingdom doubts me. They accuse me of tyranny in one moment, and of leniency in the next. The Dusk, you say.” His Majesty strides to the chair and stoops to Flitt’s level.

  “You must understand,” he says as he searches her eyes, “I am convinced the loss of my son was due to the workings of evil the likes of which Cerion has not seen since the age of Diovicus. I beg you, my dear. If you have knowledge that would aid us in seeking out this threat and putting an end to it, tell me. Too long have there been secrets between our people. It is time to join together, to combine our knowledge and fight this darkness. Flitter, please. Tell me what you know.”

  Flitt leans closer to him, her ever-changing eyes wide and pensive. She and the king stare at each other for a long, thoughtful moment. The others lean in, expecting whatever she’s about to say to be profound and meaningful. To my embarrassment but not at all to my surprise, she finally whispers quite seriously, “That’s not a proper question, Your Majesty. I win!”

  “Flitt!” I gasp.

  His Majesty lets out a bellowing laugh. “You are perhaps the most enchanting creature I’ve met in all my years. Is she not enchanting?”

  “If you say so,” Flitt grumbles. “But I’m not a creature. Anyway, Azi’d be better suited to tell you what she knows,” Flitt says with a shrug and a bob of her head in my direction. “Since she can show you rather than tell you. Isn’t that right, Azi?”