Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  “Get up,” Sybel orders, and I push myself out of bed. She isn’t him, but he told me to listen to her, so I do. “Something’s happened,” she whispers to me. “Your master needs you.”

  My heart jumps to my throat. If he needs me, why didn’t he come for me himself?

  “Was he hurt? Who did it? I’ll kill them,” I snarl.

  “Foolish girl,” Sybel warns and mutters something impatient about having to be a nursemaid. “Why is your first thought that he must be hurt? You should have more faith in him, Celli.”

  “You’re right,” I say, ashamed. I hope she doesn’t tell him.

  “Quite,” Sybel scoffs. “Come.”

  Shame gives way to different emotions as Sybel leads me through the maze of passages. Excitement. Quenson needs me. He needs me. Something else. Anger. His, not mine. His anger. Our excitement. My skin tingles just thinking about it. Something’s happened. Something big. Something that changes the plan.

  The closer we get to him, the stronger our connection is. I wonder if he feels it, too. I wonder whether he longs for me the way I do him. It’s as though being too far away weakens me. Like I could never reach my full potential unless I’m beside him.

  She pushes a door open and I gasp to see him there, handsome as ever in robes of red so deep they’re nearly black. His hood is down, his dark hair swept back. Torchlight writhes across the raised swirls of the Mark on his high cheekbones. We go in, and Sybel locks the door behind us and whispers wards.

  “Ah, Celli,” he says. When he smiles, his appreciation of me strikes me like a spear to my heart. My legs give way, and I fall to my knees.

  “A little much, Quenson,” Sybel mutters under her breath. She slinks past me to him and traces a finger across his shoulder. “Don’t you think?”

  Don’t touch him. He’s mine, I want to scream. Mine. I won’t, though. He told me not to speak and so I hold my tongue. Instead I glare at her as ferociously as I can.

  “She delights me so,” he laughs softly. I feel a little better when he brushes her away. “Come, my dear,” he says to me. I push past the butterflies in my stomach and force myself back to my feet.

  He rests a cool, beautifully black-Marked hand on my shoulder. “Look around, Celli,” he whispers, and I tear my gaze from the elegant curving lines on his fingers to take in the rest of the room.

  It’s a medium-sized chamber with three large windows stained with strange designs. Nude women pouring different colored liquid from pitchers into pools. All around them are creatures I’ve never seen before. Scaly, winged ones that look like fairies, but black. Horses with cracked leathery skin instead of hair. Dragons. Hairy men with tails pointed like arrow tips and horns sprouting from their heads.

  Disturbed, I look around the rest of the room. It’s like Quenson’s, but bigger. There’s a neat, highly polished desk of dark wood, shelves lined with books and jars, and endless rows of potion bottles. Fine chairs. A fireplace. A long table carved with writing I can’t read. The room is rich and well-kept, except for a half-dozen wooden chests carved with elven writing that seem to have been pulled out from under the desk and away from the walls. Quenson guides me to them. Sybel hovers nearby.

  “Osven,” he explains to me in a hushed tone, “has met his well-deserved end. We of the Circle have an agreement. As he was working with me, what’s his becomes mine, as long as I stake my claim before anyone else.” His stunning robes pool around him as crouches beside a chest and traces his fingers across the carved wood.

  “I need you,” he says, his voice growing deeper, “to open these.” He hands me a roll of leather. Inside is a set of locksmith tools. When I take it from him, he moves away to stand across the room and watch.

  “Perhaps we should leave,” Sybel whispers to him.

  “Certainly not. The effects wouldn’t reach this far,” he murmurs.

  I don’t think about what they’re saying. It doesn’t concern me. His command takes hold of me and fills me with desperation. I need you, he’d said. I need you. I don’t think about why. Why doesn’t matter. My fingers are steady as I work the tools into the intricate lock. I focus on my task and the lock clicks open easily.

  “Well done,” he calls from across the room. “Now, open the lid.”

  I push it open to reveal thick folds of very fine silks and velvets. Robes and cloaks. Gloves. Across the room, the two Sorcerers sigh with relief. “Open the next,” he commands, and his rush of anticipation mingles with my own.

  The next four chests hold a variety of items. One of them is filled with silver and gold coin. One holds neat stacks of books and scrolls. Another, smaller one is filled with fine jewelry wrapped carefully in bundles of silk or leather. The fourth holds strange, finely carved stone statuettes.

  With each creak of a lid, I feel Quenson grow more disappointed and enraged. He needs something he thought would be here. I’m desperate to find it for him.

  Someone makes a noise in the corridor outside, and Sybel and Quenson snap their attention to the door.

  “Quickly,” Quenson hisses at me. “Quietly.”

  I barely notice the smoke-like, greenish threads that wind around my hands as my fingers work the next lock. They seep into my skin and make my hands burn, but I ignore the pain and twist the awl until I feel the familiar, satisfying click. I reach for the lid and push it open.

  Immediately, a force lifts me up and throws me hard across the room. Pain cracks across my back as I crash into the wall. Quenson and Sybel start to cast something. All I can think of is quiet. Master said we had to be quiet. I stumble to my feet and turn to look, ready to charge whatever it was that attacked me. Ready to silence it.

  Floating above the chest is a figure all in black. A shimmer of shadow radiates around him. An aura, evil and ruthless. An apparition. A ghost. Osven.

  “You dare,” he shrieks and raises a bony finger to point at my master. I don’t wait for his spell. I charge the chest and slam the lid down. My actions have no effect on Osven’s spirit, though, except to cause him to laugh mockingly.

  “Move away, Celli,” Quenson says, and I obey. I move to stand in front of him, to guard him.

  “I’m not at all surprised by your lack of decency to simply depart this plane, Osven,” my master says.

  “My work is incomplete,” Osven says.

  “Ah,” Quenson raises a slender, perfect finger. “Our work, which is now, upon your death, mine alone. But do not fret, my ally, for we have made arrangements which will allow you, rather, require you, to continue. Sybel?”

  The Sorceress scowls. I can tell whatever she’s about to do is something she’s reluctant about. She reaches into a pouch at her belt and produces a simple silver bangle. Around the outside, it’s inlaid with polished stone. Half of the stone looks like it could have been carved from the cliffs of Cerion, and the other half has a grain to it, like light-colored wood.

  “Cerion and Ceras’lain,” Sybel’s plump lips curve into a smile. “A simple native binding.”

  Quenson’s hand on my back gives me chills. He guides me closer to Osven. Sybel follows, her grin widening at the sight of the ghostly Sorcerer, who shrinks back at our approach.

  “Fools,” he says. “Do you think me simple? I have placed bindings and woven protections upon this chest, and you have opened it with your own hands. The wards are set. You can never own me. No Sorcerer can.”

  “Indeed,” Quenson’s tone is low and pleased. Like the purr of a cat who’s cornered a mouse. “No Sorcerer can. Celli, give me your hand.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Osven’s growl terrifies me, but Quenson’s hand around mine is a comfort. “Even you are not so low.”

  “Oh, I think it quite fitting,” Quenson says as he takes the bracelet from Sybel. “You will be thrall of my thrall.”

  “Be reasonable, Quenson,” Osven’s voice is weak, like a hint of a thought. “Have mercy.”

  “Mercy?” Quenson huffs. “Celli, do you think I ought to be merciful to him?�
��

  I don’t have to think. Whenever I close my eyes, I can still smell my own cooked insides and feel the agony of Osven’s lightning crackling though me. I don’t know what this is about, but I don’t care. If Quenson wants him to suffer, I do, too.

  “No, Master,” I reply.

  “Quite right,” Quenson says, and slips the bracelet onto my wrist. “A gift to you, my dear,” he whispers, and I close my eyes as the thrill courses through me. It starts at my wrist: A soft, tingling energy that snakes into my bones and up. It travels to my shoulders, into my chest, up into my head, across my left arm, down into my legs, to my toes. It changes my insides.

  Right away, I understand. He’s mine now. He belongs to me. Osven. I know him. Everything he knew, everything he was. This is Necromancy. Spirit binding. I kneel at the chest again and push it open. Inside is a miniature obelisk, no bigger than my arm. It’s carved from a stack of polished stones fused together. This was his soul stone, meant to hold and protect his spirit in the event of his death. No Sorcerer could have opened the chest. There were too many protections.

  He didn’t think about me, though. Didn’t even give me second thought. Celli. The throwaway girl from Cerion. He thought me a mindless, worthless slave. He didn’t understand the bond Quenson and I have. He didn’t expect it. When Master suggested seeking Tib out in his home, Osven rushed to do it without thinking. He wanted to be the one to finally get Tib. He wanted to steal the credit for it from my master.

  I feel his rage, but it’s distant. Far away. Outside of me. Not like how I feel Quenson’s emotions. We’re closer, me and Quenson. Almost one. Osven would never understand that, and that’s why they were able to trick him. Now he belongs to me, and I belong to Quenson, so, by rights, he belongs to Quenson.

  I open my eyes and look into the face of my brilliant master. No one else could have planned something so perfect. Now, we have him. Now Osven belongs to us.

  “This reward for your service, my dear, is just the beginning,” he places his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes. My mind is a swirl of memories. Osven’s memories and my own. But when I look into Quenson’s eyes, my focus changes. He guides me away from those thoughts with a single, steady gaze.

  “Your retrieval of the son has impressed me. Your skills are fair enough, but I wish to help you grow. I have decided to train you in the Arcane. You shall learn the ways of Necromancy, so that you may tap into the power Osven holds. But first,” he leans in close until I can feel his cool breath, “you will bring me Tib. Do not fail me in this, Celli. It is essential to our plan that we have him. Dub is waiting for you at the dais. Go now.”

  ***

  I never thought much about the realm of death. Not even after we lost Hew. Mum said it was the place spirits go. There are some dabblers in Cerion if you look hard enough, who say they can talk to the dead. Some of the kids used to tell stories about people, wicked people, Necromancers, who could pull you out of the spirit realm and control you even after you were dead. I never really believed in any of that. Now, here I am, slunk in the shadows with Osven hovering nearby. Next to me, Dub is silent. Brooding.

  The shack is small. One room, dirt floor. A hatch in the center of the room. We locked the door behind us. We’re in the open, other than the darkness. No wards, no magic. I don’t even bother with my cloak. He’ll feel it and know we’re here. Dub’s so angry I can almost hear his teeth grinding. He doesn’t like this place. He’s got something personal against it. I don’t care, as long as he’s quiet and does his job.

  Now, there’s nothing to do but wait.

  “What’s down there?” I whisper, pointing at the hatch.

  “A pit,” Dub says. “He’s working on something down there. Rumors all over the city about it.”

  “What is it?” I ask him. “Maybe we can use it.”

  “Not in our orders,” Dub grunts. “We can look into it later. Now shut up and wait. He’s bound to come in sooner or later.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” I hiss at him. “I’m in charge now, remember?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five: The Plan

  Tib

  The vials. Two more to get inside Brindelier, or five more if we want to beat The Dusk. The machine. I need one more propeller, and then just a ship. The sons. I sigh as I pace across the polished stone. Kaso Viro seems to think Errie is lost for good. That they used him already. I shiver and clench my fists. I can’t accept that. I won’t.

  I glance at the heavy window drapes. The sun is coming up. It squeezes its way through the blue-green fabric and splashes the color onto the sandy stone. Outside, waves crash against the tower. I like the sound. It’d be soothing, I think, if I wasn’t so distracted. I cross to Rian’s bed. He’s completely burrowed into his blankets. Let him sleep, Shush had said before he went off to Kythshire. He’ll need to be well-rested.

  I pace faster, tugging my fingers through the knots in my hair. We can get Kythshire’s easily. Azi and Rian and the fae won’t have a problem with that. That leaves four: Ceras’lain, Elespen, Hywilkin, and Northern Haigh. Valenor had explained to me that the last three are Dusk Wellsprings. Dangerous. Guarded, even more than the Dawn. I think of the guardians at Kythshire and Sunteri and scowl. If the Dusk’s guardians are more difficult than that, we’re in trouble.

  Or not, I think to myself. A plan starts to form in my mind. Loren said they have two. The Dusk. They have two, and they have Errie. My heart starts to race. If I could get back to the stronghold, I’m sure I could find their offerings. Maybe I could find Errie, too. I glance at Rian again. Still sleeping. I wish I had a way to get there without him. I pause in my pacing and focus. I take a step into the shadows.

  “The Sorcerer’s Stronghold,” I whisper, screwing my eyes tightly shut.

  “What are you trying to do?” Shush’s whisper brushes my cheek like a soft breeze. Even so, it makes me jump. “Ha!” he exclaims with a gust. “Sorry to startle you, Tib.”

  “Nothing, never mind,” I say with a shrug and step out of hiding.

  “Oh, I’m glad it was nothing. I thought you might be doing something careless like trying to go to the Dusk all alone. And with the Sunteri offering right in your pocket, too. You’re smarter than that, though,” he whispers.

  “Sure, I’m smarter than that,” I mumble and look away. He’s right. It would have been pretty dumb of me to bring the bottle right to them. I didn’t even think of that. I shake my head and rub my neck. “Can we wake him now, please?”

  “I think he’s rested enough,” Shush nods.

  As soon as he’s awake, I fill Rian in on my dream and the offering. Mevyn didn’t want to see him, but apparently Rian remembers enough of what happened in Sunteri to know why it was so easy for me.

  Our farewell to Kaso Viro is quicker than I expected. He doesn’t even offer us breakfast. Just tells us to call on him if we need anything. Tells Rian to keep Aster, just in case. Rian doesn’t look overly thrilled about that, but he thanks Kaso Viro anyway. Loren offers us a quick goodbye and goes back to his dusting. I hope becoming a Mage is worth all that boring work to him.

  “Home to plan, and to Mouli’s breakfast,” Rian grins as he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Ready?”

  I nod, and he closes his eyes and whisks us away.

  We arrive in a house. Rian’s, I think. Right away, I notice the difference. Cerion’s brighter than it had been when we left it, and it’s not just because it’s daylight. There’s some new magic here. Quiet, steady. Peaceful. Beautiful. It reminds me of Margy, somehow. Rian notices it, too. He goes to the window and pushes the shutters open. The summer sun beams in, nearly blinding us.

  “Tib,” he says, and beckons me. “Do you feel that?” he asks as I cross to the window.

  Shush bobs between us and turns his face to the sun. I look away from him, out toward the palace. I do feel it. Hope. Protection. It stretches out from the palace strangely. A feeling. Like bunches of pinpoints of light all over the city. Some places, there’s l
ots of it. Some places, there’s hardly any. I wonder why.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I do.”

  “It’s so perfect. So beautiful. What does it mean?” Rian whispers.

  Our growling stomachs interrupt his musing.

  “Right,” he says. “Breakfast and planning. Come on, you’ll be my guest.”

  He leads me through into the meeting hall and skids to a stop. The guild hall is quiet. Eerily quiet. Empty. No food on the table. The fire in the hearth is just embers. Rian doesn't say anything. He just stands there, dumbfounded. Like the empty table is some devastating revelation.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Mouli?” he croaks and sniffs the air.

  I do, too. Nothing. No sweet rolls, no sausages. No fresh bread.

  “No breakfast today?” I ask.

  “Never,” Rian says, going pale. “It’d never happen. Mouli!” he shouts, this time a little more urgently. He runs toward the kitchen and Shush and I exchange concerned glances and follow. Suddenly I think of Nessa, trapped in the closet, paralyzed.

  “Mouli!” Rian calls again as he pushes open the door. The kitchen is empty. He looks over the block top, where empty trays are neatly stacked. Everything’s put away.

  “Definitely no breakfast,” I say to Shush. “Maybe she took a day off.”

  “She wouldn’t,” Rian croaks. “She doesn’t.”

  He creeps toward the open half-door that leads out into the street and peers outside. “Mouli?” he calls weakly.

  “Rian!” the old woman’s voice exclaims from a distance away. “What are you doing here? You should be at the palace with everyone else! Oh, dear! You haven’t come for breakfast, have you? I knew I should have made something. I told you, Luca!”

  She rushes into the kitchen and immediately starts pulling things out of cupboards and making up a platter. Rian’s stomach growls again. He opens his mouth, closes it, and yanks Mouli into a tight hug.

  “Thank the stars,” he whispers. “I was so scared.”