I watch in wonder at the marvel of allies of a century converging in one place, finally meeting without secrets or fear. It feels like a perfect, impossible dream.
With that thought, my heart sinks. I have had dreams like this before. Ones that felt as real as any other moment, like this one does. Terrifying dreams and wonderful dreams. The fairy music rises and echoes from the castle walls, and the dancing grows so infectious that even the king begins to tap his feet. My pulse quickens with the tempo of it. What if it is just a dream? I wonder, and I reach out carefully with my thoughts.
“Valenor?”
My mind is somewhat eased when he doesn’t reply. Had this been a dream, I’m sure he would have answered.
Saesa’s hand on my boot draws my attention. She moves closer to me and points into a shadowy alcove at the edge of the courtyard. A figure dressed in murky leathers stands in the cover of shadow. His bow is nocked with an arrow that drips inky black. I don’t need to check his aim to know it’s pointed directly at His Majesty.
I glance around in fear, but no guards seem to see him. Dancing fairies and silky banners swirl between us. My ears ring with the threat of sudden danger. There is no way, no time to warn the king. The archer’s fingers twitch on the string, prepared to let the poisoned arrow loose. I know what I must do. I summon my powers, let the magic fill me, imagine golden strings which weave around his arms. He lowers his bow. I make his arms heavier, and he tips to the ground with his arms splayed over his head.
“Fetch the guards,” I say calmly to Saesa without breaking my concentration on the golden threads. “Quietly.”
Her red head bobs away through the crowd, and moments later she appears with two guards at the alcove. I don’t look away until they drag him away, into the dungeons.
The threat weighs heavy on me as the spectacle of the procession finally begins to quiet. The carriage bearing Twig and Flitt and the second one, the hillock of earth, come to a halt at the steps. Twig is the first to stand, and Flitt hops to her feet beside him. I glance up at the crocus bud, but it remains closed. When the music finally fades away, Twig is the one to address the crowd. His strong, gentle voice carries with it the promise of friendship and light.
“Your Majesty, King Tirnon, Your Highness, Queen Naelle, Your Highness, Princess Margary,” he pauses at the last and gives Margary a reassuring nod. Margy beams up at him, her shining eyes filled with pride. “Royal subjects of Cerion, Riders of Ceras’lain, and commoners, the people of Kythshire greet you.”
This of course invites an eruption of cheers from fairies and humans alike. As exciting as it is, I’m still shaken by the archer. I find myself peering beyond the ceremony into all of the shadowy places within the courtyard, watching. Saesa returns to my side and I notice her doing the same. Thankfully, the threat has prompted a heavier presence of palace guards. They line the wall where they hadn’t been before. This comforts me enough to turn my attention back to Twig and the others.
Twig offers Flitt a hand down from the carriage. Even on the ground, he towers above most of those gathered. When they come to stand before the king, despite the fact that His Majesty is a half-dozen steps up, Twig meets him eye to eye. They all bow to each other, and when Twig straightens up he seems to realize his mistake. He’s made himself far too tall. To the collective gasps of the crowd he shrinks himself down, just a little bit.
“People of Kythshire,” His Majesty’s voice rings strong through the courtyard, “we are honored by your presence and delighted by the spectacle of your arrival. We offer a most heartfelt welcome to each of you.”
High above on the hillock of earth, the crocus bud giggles softly. The sweet, child-like sound echoes playfully through the courtyard. Everyone turns their attention toward the flower, and a hush falls over the crowd. The petals of the bud open one by one to reveal a dainty fairy inside. The flower becomes her skirt, and she stretches fragile arms toward the sky with a sweet, soft yawn.
Crocus, the leader of the Ring in Kythshire, has not bothered to grow herself larger. Instead she has chosen to remain her fairy size, a tiny, perfect figure high above everyone else. Barely covered by the rich green moss at her feet, I spy the shiny black stone known as Scree. I’m as surprised as everyone else is to see the two of them here.
“May I present Chantelle Rejune Cordelia Unphasei Seren,” Twig sweeps his hand toward her. “Crocus. And with her as always is Subter Crag Rever Enstil Evrest. Scree.”
At his introductions, the carriage beneath Crocus rumbles slightly, just enough to hint at Scree’s presence.
King Tirnon offers a respectful nod of his head.
“Welcome, friends,” he says. He invites them inside to break their fast, and Crocus giggles once more.
“We very much appreciate your kind hospitality, Your Majesty,” Crocus smiles dreamily. “I am afraid our time here is too short for such libations.” She gestures to the east, where the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon. “You see, when the sun has risen completely we shall be gone, save for a chosen few. The Dawn is waning.”
“I see,” says the king. “Then please, tell me why you’ve honored us with this visit.”
“First, to bear a warning,” Crocus dips her head mournfully, and Scree rumbles beneath her as if to emphasize the point. “The Dusk, our enemy, is encroaching. You have seen evidence of this, Your Majesty, as have your people. Take heed. Be ever watchful of Shadow and Darkness. My stewards shall speak to you at length on this matter after we have gone.”
King Tirnon nods. “Very well,” he says.
“Second, to reveal a secret,” Crocus smiles sweetly. “But before we do, we shall praise you for your dedication to the promise your family made us generations ago, when Asio Plethore struck down Sorcerer King Diovicus, whose wicked and selfish actions nearly destroyed all of Kythshire. You remember the oath, Your Majesty. That no member of the Plethore line shall seek to wield the Arcane. No royal heir shall be schooled in the ways of the Mage.”
“I do,” he nods. “I have lived my life in chaste awareness of that oath, my dear Crocus, and have taught my children the same.”
Between the king and queen, Margy shifts nervously. She looks so small and helpless between them that I want to rush to her and protect her.
“Yet,” Crocus sighs, “sometimes it finds its way on its own, Sire. Sometimes, despite one’s fervent wish, despite one’s conviction and strength, despite one’s respect for the rules set in place, the Arcane chooses for itself. Sometimes, it finds the purest, most balanced heart, and seats itself firmly within such a welcoming home. A perfect host. A promise of things to come. A light that forever shines with truth, justice, compassion, and understanding.”
She offers a slow, deliberate nod of her head in the direction of the royal family, and Margy stands a little taller. On the horizon, the sun is half-obscured by the sea. The dawn is giving way to sunrise.
“We do not fault such occurrences, Your Majesty. Instead, we celebrate them. We nurture them. We infuse them with Light.”
“I do not understand,” the king says, his brow slightly furrowed. Crocus holds up a delicate, pale hand and smiles.
“Long has she lived with this secret, and long has it tormented her. When she reveals herself, I ask you, please do not feel scandalized or betrayed. Her secret was part of her trial, and she has earned our protections and our welcome with her earnest concern for our ways. And now I ask her to step forward and receive the Gift of Light, that she might let it guide her heart in moments to come, known and unknown.”
Crocus reaches to the crown of dew that rests on her hair and plucks a round, sparkling drop from it. She gives it a gentle kiss and pushes it off to drift over the crowd. As it makes its way toward the steps, other fairies send beams of their own light to join with it.
“Step forward,” Crocus whispers with gentle encouragement. The courtyard is so silent it feels like a spell has been cast over it. No one dares cough, we barely dare to breathe. I realize sud
denly that many of the commoners’ eyes are on me. Even the king and queen seem to be expecting the shining dewdrop to be intended for me, so when it drifts past me and continues on toward the steps, a hushed whisper rustles through the crowd.
Finally, it reaches Twig, who plucks it carefully from the air and kneels before the princess.
“Your Highness,” he says with reverence.
Princess Margary looks up at her father and then her mother, as though asking for their approval. Queen Naelle, looking shocked, shakes her head in confusion and looks at the king. On her other side, His Majesty simply stares in disbelief. He looks up at Crocus.
“My daughter?” he asks. She nods slowly.
After a moment, His Majesty looks down at Margary again. He offers a hint of a nod. Instead of accepting the gift, Margy throws her arms around her father and he drops to one knee to hold her.
“I so wanted to tell you, Paba,” her muffled cry is clearly audible in the stunned silence. “I wished dearly to show you.”
The king whispers something to her that I can’t hear, and she nods and hugs him tighter. I glance at the sun, which is nearly fully risen. Only a flat sliver of it remains beneath the horizon.
Back on the steps, His Majesty stands and squeezes his daughter’s shoulder. Margy raises her hands. The crystals on her dress twinkle pink and gold in the brilliant sunrise with every movement. She looks at the dewdrop in Twig’s outstretched hand.
“If it pleases you, Crocus of Kythshire,” she says sweetly, “I wish to share this gift with my countrymen, should they accept it.”
“It is yours to do with as you choose, Princess,” Crocus replies. “We must say farewell now, until another Dawn, but we ask you to welcome the Elves to guide you. They have long fostered their own alliance with our kind.”
She turns toward the courtyard gate and nods, and six elves file in to a chorus of gasps from the human crowd. They stand tall, shoulders above even the tallest man in the gathering. All dressed in white armor and white cloaks, they march in unison to the front and bow to the king. Their white hair slides across their intricate leaf-etched armor as they do. If I hadn’t just witnessed a procession of fairies through Cerion, I’d say it was the most perfect display I’ve seen in this courtyard.
I recognize two of the group from our previous journeys to Ceras’lain: Julini and Shoel. The others are unknown to me. As they straighten from their bow and His Majesty offers them a hearty welcome, the gathered fairies begin to call out.
“Farewell! Farewell!” most of the entourage cheers and waves as the last sliver of sun is exposed. In a single burst of yellow-gold sunbeams, the majority of the figures fade away. Just like that, Crocus’ mound and Flitt’s carriage and unicorns vanish, and the dancers and performers disappear as though they never were. All that remains are Flitt and Twig flanked by the elves and Crocus’s dewdrop, which Margy guides to hover over the crowd.
“Share this with me, if you care to,” she says to the gathered crowd, and the dewdrop bursts into hundreds of specks of light which fall like a summer sun shower over the commoners.
I reach out for one and it drifts to me and settles in my palm. As soon as it touches me, I’m filled with a sense of peace and ease. All around me others do the same, until the golden drops have dissipated and we’re all left standing in bliss, watching the Princess and the others at the steps.
“My people,” King Tirnon’s voice is slightly shaken as he addresses the crowd. “This news comes as just as much of a surprise to me as it does to you. I would take this day to speak with my daughter and our newly made acquaintances from Kythshire,” he nods at Flitt and Twig. “As well as our allies from Ceras’lain. I ask your patience, please. As honesty fosters peace, I shall offer you a truthful address again before the setting of the sun tonight. Until then, be well.”
He raises a hand and waves to the crowd, and they erupt into a chant that brings tears to my eyes.
“Long live the king,” they cry, “long live Princess Margary!”
Their cheers stir a new fire in me; a need to make sure my king and his family remains safe. I catch myself grinding my teeth, seething at the thought of the archer in the shadows.
“Saesa,” I say, leaning down so only she can hear me. “Take Pearl back home, and come find me in the dungeons.”
“Lady Knight?” she asks wide-eyed as she takes my horse’s reins and helps me dismount.
“I’m going to get some answers,” I reply, surprised by the threat in my tone.
Chapter Thirty-Two: Allies in Dreaming
Tib
Sleep and dreaming. Rest. At first, I fight it. My thoughts are too scrambled. Too filled with new information. New, urgent things. Worries of home. Even with all of that, I guess I’m still tired, because I fall asleep quickly.
Valenor is waiting for me. I see him clearly, floating in the blue sky above. Drifting with the clouds. Nearby, sails snap and billow and catch the wind. Calming wind. Cool, refreshing wind. My palms press into rough wood worn smooth. A ship deck. My heart races.
“We’re here again, are we?” I call up to him. “My ship. My invention.”
“As ever, this is a dream of your making, Tibreseli. And as ever, I am delighted you would invite me to it,” he says. “You have gained knowledge since last we met.”
As I sit up, Valenor floats down to the deck of the ship and sits cross-legged in front of me. His eyes dance with amusement and kindness. After all I’ve been through, I’m surprised to feel comforted by his amusement rather than annoyed. He doesn’t say anything else. Just sits there, looking me over. Waiting for me to be ready to talk.
My thoughts are jumbled, though, and I’m distracted. Something about him is different. Or maybe he’s the same. I can’t place it. His dark skin, his white beard, the curly gray hair that brushes his shoulders.
“You look like him,” I say thoughtfully.
“Him?” Valenor quirks a brow.
“Kaso Viro,” I reply. “You look just like him.”
“Ah. Such is often the way with brothers, my friend,” Valenor winks.
“He’s your brother?” I scowl and think back. The harder I do, the more I see it. There’s no way they couldn’t be. “But how? I mean, why? If you’re brothers, why didn’t he help you when Jacek took over here? Why didn’t he stop him, or come rescue you in the caves?”
“He is bound to his realm, as I am bound to mine,” Valenor explains. “He cannot leave the sea. But this is a concept better left until later to discuss, friend. There are more urgent matters at hand.”
“Right…” I scratch my head and stand up to look over the side of the ship. It’s not like the last time, when we were simply floating along aimlessly. This time, the ship is moving much more swiftly. In my heart, I feel a sense of urgency. “Where are we going?” I ask.
“Once again,” Valenor smiles, “I have no way of knowing where your dreams might take you.”
I look up at the sky and off into the distance. With the position of the sun, it’s easy to see we’re going south. South of Cerion is Elespen, and then farther on is Sunteri. I remember what Kaso Viro said about the Keepers of the Wellsprings.
“Mevyn,” I whisper. “We’re going to Sunteri.”
“Ah, yes. That would fit well.”
“But, last time in the dreaming, I was able to talk to him through you.”
“Indeed.”
“Can I again?” I ask.
“I imagine,” Valenor replies thoughtfully. “Though if you seek him for the reason I expect, a simple conversation will not do, will it?”
“No,” I scowl and rush up to the ship’s wheel. Valenor follows.
“Shall I make him aware of your imminent arrival?” he asks.
“You can do that?” I ask.
“Of course,” Valenor peers out over the dreaming. The wind rustles his hair and bright cloak. “He and I are ever linked, from the moment we became one in the caverns of the North. Though we have since gone our own
way, we shall always have this connection. A thread that binds us through leagues and through realms. A bonding, just as the one he shares with you, Tibreseli.”
“He’s still linked with me?” I ask.
“Oh, indeed. If you wished to speak with him yourself, you have but to call on him. But doing so would invite him into your mind once more, and if I remember correctly, that is an imposition Mevyn swore he’d never make again.”
“Right,” to my surprise, I smile a little. Somehow, knowing there’s still a link between me and Mevyn is more comforting than disturbing. As much as I used to hate him, I realize I have missed him these past years. I sort of wish he would be around sometimes. I scoff and push the feelings away. I’m just getting sentimental because so much is happening right now.
Still, it makes sense. I never could bring myself to get rid of the boots he gave me. His tether. In fact, I’m wearing them now. I always do, even in the summer. They feel lucky to me. Like even though he’s gone, he’s still watching. I didn’t realize until now how much I really believed that.
“So, my friend,” Valenor drifts to the port side. Below, the land stretches out in great patches of jungle green. Elespen. “Tell me. What have you learned since last we met?”
“Your brother,” I start, feeling strange. I never thought of Valenor as a man with relations. He’s always just been Valenor. Dreamwalker. “Your brother told Rian and me all about the Six. The offerings.”
“Did he, now?” Valenor scowls. “Things must be getting quite urgent.”
“He told us about the Keepers of the Wellsprings,” I say. A shiver goes down my spine at the mention of it. Like I shouldn’t say it. Like it’s forbidden. “And then he said I should speak to you to learn more.”
“That was wise of him. Do not fret,” Valenor says. “It is safe to speak of such things here, for we are in your mind, Tib, and none can breach that. In fact, your mind in the dreaming, I might imagine, is the safest place one could find oneself.”
Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) Page 33
