Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  “I’m concerned he won't be the first,” I say to the one who knew me. “Surely, that man has information. He had a reason to do what he did.”

  I rub at my tingling forehead. Something in my heart is guiding me to this, something is insisting it’s the proper course. The memory of Margy’s dewdrop prickles my palm. The lure of magic entices me. This is right, I convince myself. In the name of the king, this is good.

  “Your duty is the same as mine,” I explain. It seems like I’m starting to sway them. “To protect the throne. To preserve peace in Cerion. All I ask is for a moment to look into his eyes,” my words send a thrill through me. A hunger to experience that rush of magic again. It frightens me a little, but the fear is blotted out by the excitement of what’s to come.

  “I wouldn’t dare to ask you to go against your oaths or break the law for me…” I trail off as Dumfrey screws his lips together thoughtfully.

  “Don’t see the harm in it, really,” one guard shrugs at the other.

  “You say you just want to look at him?” Dumfrey asks.

  “Into his eyes,” I nod. I don’t know whether a person would need to be awake for me to see into their thoughts. I don’t know if I need their consent, or if it’s something I can just take. The idea of finding out makes me even more excited to try.

  “If that’s all, I imagine it’s all right,” Dumfrey glances at the guards, who shrug and nod.

  “Wonderful. Thank you,” I smile at the three of them. “If it goes well, I might even be able to help you fill out the rest of that form.”

  They unlock the door with a series of keys and usher me down a long stone passage lined with at least a dozen more locked doors. What strikes me here is the silence. There are no cries of innocence, no catcalls or screams of frustration. There is no noise from the prisoners at all. They’re all fast asleep.

  They bring me to the end of the passage and pull open a heavy reinforced door. Inside, six prisoners sleep on simple cots arranged against the walls.

  I see him straight away: The archer from the alcove.

  “A fighter, that one,” one of the guards says to me as I walk toward him. “Took four palace guards to get him to Dumfrey. He’s heavier than he looks, too. Must be all muscle.”

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. I creep to the edge of the cot and peer down at the man. He’s young. Early twenties, maybe. His hair is stringy and caked with something that looks like tar. His face bears the scar of a burn which stretches from his ear to his chin.

  “Should we remain, Lady Knight?” The guards ask. I nod and crouch. Now that I’m here, I’m having doubts. I shouldn’t. It’s not right. But it is. If I can find out why, then we can keep it from happening again. We can keep the king safe. My hand shakes as I push the man’s eyelid open. His unremarkable brown eye stares blankly back at me.

  My heart races with the influx of magic. I don’t have to make any effort at all. It swells through me and bursts out in strands of soft, glittering gold, seeping into his open eye. The release of it is such a relief that I let it flow unchecked. I tumble toward him much more quickly than I expected to, into his dreaming mind.

  I’m greeted immediately by darkness and the whisper of a fervent oath.

  “I do so swear fealty to you, my prince. My word is my bond,” the archer says. In his mind, he is me, and I am him.

  “You understand what it means, Wrett,” Eron’s voice startles me so much that I almost pull myself back from the memory. The archer’s dark thoughts mix with mine. If I do this, I will earn his favor, he thinks. If I do this and the prince is the victor, I will rise from the filth of Redstone row and become someone worthy of respect.

  “I do, Your Highness,” I say.

  “Tell me, then,” Eron commands.

  “I will be the one to clear the throne for you,” I say. “I swear it. When you fall. When they think you lost forever. My arrow will end him.”

  “Join hands,” a third voice orders in the darkness. A woman. I fumble to reach for Eron. I feel his hand grip mine. It’s weaker than I expected. Softer. A third hand rests over ours. A slash of pain. Our blood mixes and the woman whispers a spell. Her words are foreign, but the meaning is clear. This oath is bound by blood. Even if I wanted to, I could not forsake the prince now. His death will be the king’s own sentence.

  It’s too dark to see either of them, but I have dealt with this Sorceress before. She’s a beauty, with curls of rich brown hair and eyes the color of amber ale. Sybel. One day, maybe, she will see me as more than a tool for her plots. One day, when the king is dead, I might be someone to her.

  My thoughts—his thoughts shift away from the darkness. Dreams, fleeting and confusing. Dreams that, under the spell of holding sleep, will be forgotten once he wakes.

  The laughter of children floats carelessly in the air as I drift through the streets of Cerion’s Redstone Row. My attention is brought to a brick one-story, where the windows have been shuttered tight despite the warmth of the midsummer breeze. I step to the threshold and push the door open. Inside is far too small a gathering place for the number of tired-looking men who sit squeezed around a small, worn table. A woman in a dingy summer dress wears her worry plain on her face. Her eyes are red and swollen from tears as she fills the men’s cups with cool water from a clay pitcher.

  She pauses beside one of them and rests her hand on his shoulder, but he barely acknowledges her. His eyes are far away; bleary and defeated.

  “You mean to tell us there’s nothing to be done, then,” the woman says. She takes a sip from her own cup, but it does little to wash away the hoarseness and exhaustion in her voice. “Our daughter is gone, Milvare, and there is nothing to be done? And what about Tru’s boy, and Polfe’s? Are they to be forgotten, too? Throwaways? Is this what Cerion has come to?”

  “His Majesty has other matters on his mind,” a tall man in Mage’s robes replies. “He hasn’t opened court for reception since the attack on High Court. He hides himself away with his advisers and refuses to hear the petty grievances of his people.”

  “Petty grievances!” the woman shrieks. “Our daughter has disappeared, Milvare!”

  “I don’t disagree with you, Kasha,” Milvare says as he raises a hand in surrender. “I am just telling you the truth of the matter.”

  They go on talking, shouting, and I feel myself tense. Not me. Wrett. His fists are clenched, his face is hot. His hand goes to his belt, where his quiver hangs. His fingers graze the fletching. The feel of the rough-cut feathers calms his fury.

  First Celli, then Mikken and Griff.

  How many more kids have to disappear before something’s done? How long will that bastard sit on his throne feeling sorry for himself? Not much longer. The prince is dead. It’s time. Time to fulfill the oath I made to my prince, just days ago. Time for the New Age to begin, and all by my hand.

  “All right, Lady Knight?” one of the guards asks gently. His hands are on mine. I look down at them to get my bearings. My fingers dig like claws into the archer, Wrett’s, forehead. His eye is rolled back so only the white is showing. I think of the oath, the blood bond, and hesitate.

  “No,” I whisper, “I’m not all right.” Roughly, I push Wrett’s eye open further. I reach into his thoughts again and sift through them for that one moment, that memory with the Prince. If I took it away, what then? The oath would stay, but he wouldn’t know what it was. What could happen? Could he go mad from it?

  He’d deserve no less, I think as I search. My spins with the flood of magic. The rush makes me soar. I see the memory. It lingers in his mind like a dangling string. I pull at it and drag it along with me. I watch it unravel as I tumble away from his mind one last time. Again, I feel the guard’s hand on mine and his warning tone. Beneath my fingertips, Wrett convulses and shudders on the cot. His mouth foams and gurgles as I pull the memory away and fling it into the darkness.

  “What was that?” the guard asks.

  “He was mad,” I whisper as I watch the
golden tendril fade into the shadows and disappear. “Irrational.” I work to calm my breath.

  “Could have told you that, my lady,” the guard grunts.

  I know it’s not his intention, but his comment makes me feel foolish. The sudden absence of magic leaves me feeling utterly devastated and spent far beyond my capacity. The whole situation was a horrible idea. I went too far. I should have stayed with the others up in the courtyard. I don’t know what I was thinking coming down here.

  I try to stand, but I’m too weak. My hands are shaking. I don’t even know what’s just happened. Did I actually alter that man’s memory? How could I do such a deplorable thing? What if they discover what I’ve done when they question him? What if they needed that information for his trial?

  “There you are!” Flitt’s squeaky voice makes me jump. “What are you doing down here? It smells horrible. Ohh, are these criminals? Are they going to get their heads chopped off, too? Like Prince—”

  “Flitt!” I bark, and the guards stare at me wide-eyed.

  “My lady?” the quieter of the two guards asks.

  Across the room, the fairy, restored to her usual size--wings and all--bobs above the archer curiously.

  “Sorry,” I mutter to them. “Get away from him,” I push the command to her a little more harshly than I intended to. “I’m weak. Help me.”

  “Help you what?” she scowls.

  “I need a boost,” I push. “Just a small one.”

  “Nope, not if you’re going to order me. Everyone’s meeting with the king. You should be there instead of down here doing whatever you’re doing. Bye, Azi.”

  Her sudden disappearance leaves me feeling even emptier and angrier. I push past the guards without a word, through the passage, and out into Dumfrey’s small room.

  “His name’s Wrett,” I toss over my shoulder at the Mage as I stalk past. I’m so angry, I could spit. Angry with Eron, with Wrett, with myself for daring to do what I just did, and most of all with Flitt for making me feel horrible about asking for her help. I know my sour mood is a direct result of the magic I used, and that fact makes me hate myself even more.

  “Never again,” I say under my breath as I shade my eyes from the sudden harsh sunlight in the courtyard. “I’m through with Mentalism.”

  I knew this would happen. It’s why I’ve been so careful since I learned it. It’s why I’ve refused to use it. I knew the moment I allowed myself to, it would change me. Why couldn’t I be stronger, like Rian? Why couldn’t I fight the urge? I know exactly why. Because I’m a swordswoman, not a Mage. I had no business in that man’s head. It was reckless. Changing his memories was utterly unacceptable.

  “Rian,” I whisper to myself as I stand at the carved wooden doors that lead to the palace interior. More than anything, I wish he was here. I never would have been tempted if he had been by my side.

  The guards at the door recognize me. They salute with their spears and nod me inside. I want to tell them they’re fools for their courtesy. I’m completely undeserving of their respect. I think of how I treated Flitt. Images of Sorcerers in the keep at Kythshire burst into my memory. They’re quickly followed by memories of pale, drained fairies in cages. If that was what I thought to do with her…what must she think of me?

  Numbly, I follow a page through polished corridors and desperately fight back tears. I don’t care what anyone says. If this is a gift, I don’t want it.

  I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that I nearly collide with Uncle Gaethon, who is waiting for me outside of the closed dining hall doors. The sounds that come from within are merry: lighthearted laughter and jovial conversation.

  “Thank you, Nate,” Uncle says dismissively, and the Page bows and rushes away.

  Uncle takes my arm and ushers me further down the corridor to a quiet alcove where he knows he won’t be overheard. With a flick of his fingers, he summons a mirror and holds it to my face. I don’t need to look to know the gold Mark has grown. I turn my chin away.

  “Look at yourself,” he hisses.

  Reluctantly, I flick my eyes toward the mirror. Along with the gold, there’s something else. A single tendril, blue-black, peeks up from the edge of my collar.

  “How…?” I croak. I don’t know what else to say. I didn’t think it was possible to feel more miserable.

  “How what?” he spits the words at me. Suddenly I’m a child again, cowering from his wrath. I refuse to let him intimidate me, though, even after what I did. I made my own choices, and I know they were wrong.

  “How did you know to wait out here for me?” I ask with a more defiant tone than I intended.

  His eyes narrow angrily. I feel if he could breathe fire right now, he’d do it.

  “I have ways of knowing the goings-on within the palace,” he says. “Ways of seeing the influx of Arcane that passes through these walls. I am attuned to it.” He hovers over me, seething. “Do you know what I did last night after they brought you home to your bed? I spent an hour assuring His Majesty that you were under control. That you can be trusted with this power. And now, this. Do you have any idea how this looks, Azaeli?”

  “You’re the one who encouraged me not to keep it secret anymore. It’s a gift to Cerion. That’s what you told His Majesty. You told me it was all right, and it’s not. It’s not all right! Do you know what I saw? I saw awful things, Uncle. I looked into the mind of a would-be killer. Do you have any idea what I did? What it caused me to do?” I think of Flitt and choke back a sob. “I don’t want this.” I look up at him pleadingly. “You can take it, can’t you? Strip it,” I whisper.

  Something in my anguished tone finally strikes him. I see it plainly on his face. He recognizes what’s happening to me. His brow smoothes, his eyes grow mournful. Slowly, he shakes his head and presses his fingertips to his temple.

  “It isn’t that sort of magic, my niece,” he says with a sigh. “It cannot be stripped. Not by any Mage of Cerion, at least. Indeed, no. And,” he rests a hand on my shoulder, “it is useful. Honestly, it is.”

  “Useful?” I shake my head and don’t bother to wipe away the tears that roll down my cheeks and into my collar. “It’s not. I don’t want it,” I say again. “I can’t refuse the temptation. It’s too difficult.”

  Uncle presses a hand to his forehead and closes his eyes. He takes a long, calming breath.

  “I forget,” he whispers, “you are my niece, and I have watched you grow. I know you well, and so I forget.”

  “Forget what?” I ask, and step closer to him, sniffling. The hollow feeling in my chest is deepening. It aches with such an emptiness that I don’t know how much longer I can bear it.

  “It takes years, Azaeli. Years of training for a Mage to become attuned to the balance of give and take. Years of conditioning. It is much like swordplay,” he explains. “Were you to begin now, an untrained woman with a two-handed broadsword like the one you carry, could you bear the weight of it? Could you swing it with as much skill as you do? Of course not. You would lose control. You might injure yourself with the blade, or strain muscles which have not been trained and strengthened for that purpose. Magic is much the same, Azaeli, and yours was thrust upon you. To make matters worse, you chose to bottle it up within yourself. To keep it secret and hidden.”

  I shake my head and swallow my tears. “I was weak,” I say. “I did something awful.”

  “You were untrained,” he offers gently. “And I apologize for not intervening sooner. I should have anticipated this. In time, you will learn to wield it just as expertly as you do your sword. And as long as I breathe on this plane, I shall do my best to guide you. But I cannot, nor would I, take it from you.”

  The laughter from inside grows louder. Mya is singing some lighthearted song, and through the door the elves’ voices mix with her song. I glance that way and Uncle sighs.

  “I cannot permit you to go in, looking as you do,” he says. “It would cause an uproar, especially with the elves.”

  This causes the
tears to start flowing again, but I don’t argue. He’s right. I simply nod in agreement.

  “I have to go find Flitt anyway,” I say hoarsely. “I owe her an apology.”

  “She is within,” Uncle says with a sigh. “Though she seems quite upset.”

  “I need to speak with her,” I say, swallowing my tears. “Is there any way, Uncle? It’s important.”

  “A way to remove the Mark?” he scowls with deep disapproval.

  “No, no,” I say. “I understand that I’m meant to bear it for now, until it fades on its own. But could you talk to her for me?”

  He shakes his head slightly.

  “She is only just warming up to me, my dear. I do not wish to jeopardize that.”

  “I understand,” I whisper.

  “Go and redeem yourself,” Uncle takes my shoulders and kisses me on the forehead. “A small, heartfelt deed should cause the Mark to fade. I must go back in. Be vigilant, Azaeli. I would wager that, at least for now, you won’t allow yourself to be enticed again.”

  “No, sir,” I whisper and lower my head.

  Uncle excuses himself and slips back inside, where Margy’s voice sounds like perfect bells against the low strum of the lute. As soon as he’s gone, I bury my face in my hands and try hard to compose myself.

  “I’ll go in,” Saesa’s voice echoes down the corridor, startling me.

  “Saesa! How long have you been there?” I straighten, wipe my face and try to catch my breath. A squire needs her Knight to be strong. I try hard to keep that facade for her sake.

  “I only just came in when I couldn’t find you in the dungeons,” she replies. “You told me to find you there, Lady Knight.”

  “Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “How much of that did you hear?”

  “Enough, My Lady,” Saesa replies. Her eyes trace the Mark on my cheek. “If you’d like,” she says softly, “I’ll talk to her for you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Unspeakable Magic

  Celli

  Quenson. My heart beats his name. Quenson. My lord. My master. My everything.