Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  Sapience raises his chin even further. His eyes drift lazily from me to Saesa, and back to Flitt. “Champion of Light, you say. Of course I know of whom you speak. Yes, I shall look. Tell her to move closer, and gaze into my eyes.”

  I look from Flitt to Sapience, confused as to why he seems to be talking to her and not me. “Of course. I’m happy to—”

  “Sh!” Flitt hisses into my ear. “Do what he says, and for goodness sake, don’t speak to him!”

  “She is quiet lovely,” Sapience utters as he moves even closer and his eyes lock to mine, “for a human.”

  His last words echo in my ears as he delves into my mind and I tumble, in turn, into his.

  Chapter Forty-One: The Rites

  Tib

  To the east of the castle, there’s a narrow path which squeezes between the palace wall and the sea wall. It’s always quiet there. Somber. Secluded. Abandoned. The path winds along the edge of the wall and passes under the arches of the aqueduct. Past it, there’s a carved stone bridge. The river beneath it rushes past and plunges off the cliffs into the sea far below.

  The king’s litter leads us, carried by a dozen unarmed soldiers dressed in white. A mound of flowers and rushes are piled so thickly over him I can’t even see the rich purple silk they wrapped him in this morning.

  Behind them, Margy and the queen walk arm in arm. Both of them are dressed in white, too. No fancy beading or lace decorates their robes. This isn’t the time to show off riches. Even their crowns are left behind. The ocean winds whip their loose hair around them as they walk.

  If it wasn’t for the wind, the heat of the late summer sun would be oppressive. As it is, I’m already sweating through the gauzy white fabric they made me wear. I’m an escort, they said, and everyone who walks at the head with the royal family must wear the same plain white robes they do.

  The pace is painfully slow. One step, pause. Another step, pause. I walk just behind the princess. Beside me, behind the queen, is Anod Bental, High Master and Advisor to His Majesty. Behind us are the queen’s ladies, then Princess Amei and her attendants. Behind them, His Majesty’s Elite. The line which follows them goes on and on.

  We cross the bridge and follow the dusty path upward over rough-cut stone. The Royal Army lines the ridge above. Watching. Guarding. A constant reminder of the danger threatening everyone the king left behind. Anger pushes against my grief. The queen lost her husband. The princess lost her father. The people lost their ruler. They shouldn’t have to be vigilant. They shouldn’t have to be afraid, but they are. The threat is real. They almost didn’t hold these Rites. This time is critical. Cerion is at its most vulnerable. If something happens to Margy or the queen, the only Plethores left will be Sarabel, married to a Sunteri prince, or Amei’s boy, the son of a traitor who won’t be fit to rule for fifteen years at least.

  At the guards’ feet, withering shrubs cling to cracks in the stone. Gripping the cliff side. Half-dead in their desperation to fight the sun and the wind and keep their place. Twig, who hasn’t left the princess’s side, sweeps a hand out toward a cluster of them. Their branches plump up. Broad, green leaves unfurl. Buds burst into color. Purple blossoms fall open and their perfume clings to the breeze. The green catches like fire across the rock face, from the king’s litter back to Margy. Tendrils of green and purple rush along the cracks and burst into thick green shrubs of their own. It spreads along past the princess, past us and to the crowd behind.

  The soldiers carrying the litter raise the king higher. Their pace picks up slightly. With every step they take, the bushes bloom beside them. Margy turns her face to Twig and smiles. The sun catches on the tears that roll down her cheeks.

  The path winds for hundreds of paces until it reaches a gateway of stone pillars surrounded by a low wall. Inside, a circular slab of stone has been adorned with garlands and banners. A gap in the wall opens up to the cliff below. Beside it, the pyre waits, piled with driftwood. They bring the litter in slowly. Set it on the pyre. The procession stops. The queen goes in after the king, held steady by Master Anod. She kneels beside the pyre and bows her head. The wind whips through and sends rushes and flowers tumbling away into the sea. After a long, silent vigil, she reaches into her white robes and tucks a folded note into the driftwood. Then she stands, kisses the silks over the king’s face, and nods to Master Anod. He offers his arm. She leans heavily on him and they step back from the pyre. They’re careful not to turn their back on the king as he leads her to stand at a seat carved into the stone. Neither of them sits. Instead, they watch the princess.

  Margy waits for me to come to her side. When I step forward, she links her hand through my elbow. She hides her trembling by gripping my white sleeve in her fist. Together, we make the slow walk to the king. Even though I just want to hold her and comfort her, I stand two paces behind her as she goes to her father’s side. Like I’m supposed to. Like I was instructed by the experts on royal etiquette. My stomach is tied up and twisted. For Margy’s sake, I don’t want to make a mistake. This is important to her. She loved her father so much.

  She and I kneel at the same time, and beside me Twig sinks to the stone and kneels, too.

  The princess’s reflection is twice as long as the queen’s was, and her part in the vigil is different. She nestles her own note into the driftwood and then stands. She reaches to the silk coverings and gently pulls them aside to reveal the king’s gray face. According to the Royal Historians, this represents honesty. A sovereign must be open to his or her people. The face of the departed king must only be revealed by the heir to the throne. I understand, but all I see is Margy, my friend, looking into the face of her dead father for the last time. She’s brave, though. Her hand barely shakes as she presses her fingertips to her lips and then grazes them across his cheek and into his beard.

  The moment the princess turns away, she’s the only one in the kingdom with her back to the king. Everyone, everywhere, sinks to their knees and bows to Margy. It’s a mark of their agreement that she is the rightful successor. She takes a step toward me, and while everyone is still kneeling I lead her to the seat closest to the pyre. The queen is the first to stand, and the rest follow. The princess hugs her mother and takes her place. My place is between her and queen. A chair of my own is set back some from theirs. Chairs don’t matter, though. None of us sits, anyway. The next part is the longest. The princess and the queen must receive everyone who comes to the pyre to pay their respects.

  Princess Amei comes next. She follows the same steps we did. Kneels, tucks in her note, stands, comes to the Princess. They hug, and Amei looks just as sad as the rest of the family. She nods to her ladies behind her, and one of them offers a cushion for Margy’s chair. Another one offers an ornate scarf from Stepstone. I can feel the magic sewn into each thread. Music. Strength. They move on and take their places.

  This is the custom in Cerion. Not just for kings, but for anyone who dies. I’ve seen it before. Long lines of people wait silently. Patiently. Respectfully. There are no speeches. No words, except what’s written on the notes each person brings. Everyone also brings a gift of comfort for the vigil. Blankets. Pillows. Food. Drink. Symbolic gifts. The strangest part of the custom, to me, is what happens next. The items are not just for the family of the dead. They become everyone’s. Mya demonstrates it well. When she comes to hug Margy, she takes the scarf offered by Princess Amei’s lady and drapes it over her arm. In its place, she offers her own lute. She kisses the neck of it, rests it against the arm of the queen’s chair, and moves on.

  Beside me, Margy sniffles softly. The rest of the Elite follow. They bring all sorts of things. Lisabella offers her formal, embroidered guild cloak. Benen spends almost as long as Margy did at the king’s side until Lisabella urges him on. He doesn’t tuck a note into the pyre. Instead he weeps as he leans the axe he used in the High Court against the driftwood. Elliot brings a strange-looking tree branch which he sets a safe distance from the unlit pyre. Gaethon and Rian weave a spell and
create a canopy over the chairs. Bryse and Cort offer a respectable pile of gold. Brother Donal performs a whispered prayer of healing to the princess and the queen.

  The king’s advisors come next. They bring all sorts of things that seem to mean a lot to the queen. She and Margy inch closer together and hold hands. I edge away behind them and try to stay out of the way as the great circle slowly fills with people. They sit on benches facing the pyre and the sea. This is the Day of Silence. They’ll keep vigil here until the fire is lit at midnight.

  The entire time, I’m distracted by the safety of the princess. The space is well-fortified. It’s the highest point of the cliffs past the city. Guards stand shoulder-to-shoulder around the outside of the low wall. Wards and shields and protections blanket the circle thickly. Some of them are ancient, while others are recently placed by the group of Mages just now taking their seats on the benches. Still, I feel on edge. Watchful. So many people coming in, getting so close to Margy. From up here I can see the line of them that stretches back over the waterfall and disappears past the palace, into the city. Hundreds of people, and each of them will get closer to the princess today than most of them ever will again in their lifetime. Many of them carry her light with them. I can see and feel it plainly. Her loving subjects. Mostly. There are definite pockets of shadow in the line.

  The risk is inherent. That’s what the Historians said. Vulnerability is part of the ceremony. Twenty-six days of it. At the end, she’ll have proved she’s worthy of the throne. Not just by her own strength, but by the dedication and generosity of the people in the line. Not just people who will be her subjects and allies. People who will oppose her. It’s a proving ground for the kingdom. Cerion will stand together through the rites. If they make it through, they’ll be stronger for it. Love and respect between subjects and royals will be tested, and will carry them through.

  It makes sense, I guess. Considering how the king died, though, I think it’s stupid to parade Margy around and put her on display. But I’m just a kid, and not even from Cerion. So I don’t bother to argue. It’s not like I’m going to change centuries of tradition with my one opinion. Instead, I keep my guard up. I watch every single person who steps through the pillars. Every one of them who kneels before the princess or offers her their hand for comfort. Nobles, Mages, and commoners alike.

  The sun sinks low, and the line keeps coming. Nessa and the kids come through. It’s strange to see her out of the house. She looks very out of place as she leaves a book for Margy. Uncomfortable. Her hands shake as she reaches for Raefe and he offers her his arm. The rest of the kids leave something of their own. Ruben looks at me like he really wants to tell me something, but he keeps the Silence and stays quiet. He rests a spyglass at the princess’s feet. Lilen, surprisingly, leaves my bandolier with all its knives and vials. They all leave the vigil after that except for Lilen, who sits on alone on a bench to watch the line. Margy slides my bandolier along the stone with her foot until it’s out of reach of the line and easy enough for me to grab. Having it there makes me feel a lot better.

  It doesn’t last long, though. The closer we get to Dusk, the more on edge I am. The more concerned I am for Margy. There’s no rest for the princess. She’s been on her feet since this morning. Even when the advisors gesture for her to sit, she refuses. I know why. She told me this morning before it started, that she intends to greet the last mourner just the same way she greeted the first one. On her feet. In honor of her father, who did the same when his father died. In honor of all of the kings and queens before her.

  The line starts to dwindle past sunset. The darker it gets, the fewer mourners arrive. Eventually there are gaps in the groups long enough that she lets herself rest. Her stone-carved chair is so covered with pillows and cushions and draperies that she doesn’t even bother trying to find it. She just sinks onto the pile of them and closes her eyes. The stars twinkle overhead. The moon reflects on the black ocean below. The elves swoop overhead on their cygnets at regular spans, as they have been all day.

  At midnight, the Day of Silence is over. The torchbearers come and pass the flames to the queen and Margy and Amei. They light the pyre together. The escorts give them time, and then we go to collect them. Anod reaches for a lidded basket that Mouli left for her offering. I know what’s inside. My stomach growls. We kneel side-by side and nibble the sweet rolls together. From time to time, someone comes from the benches to take a loaf of bread or a morsel left by another mourner and bring it back to share. Even though the Day of Silence is over now, nobody says anything. We’re too exhausted. Too moved. Too sad. Margy leans against my shoulder and holds her half-eaten roll in her lap. The tears in her eyes reflect the firelight. Beside her, the queen watches the smoke billow into the sky.

  Five days of honor come next, during which it’s Margy’s duty to stoke the fire. After that, it’ll be left to smolder until the sea wind carries the last of the smoke away and all that’s left is ash. Then the main part of the vigil will be over. People will start to go back to their lives. Back to normal. Visits, even from the Elite, will be sporadic. The queen herself will return to the palace to act as Regent until Margy takes the throne. Margy will stay for the entire Successor’s Vigil. A few Mages and two score guards will, too, to keep watch.

  With the pyre lit, many of the visitors leave. The benches at the far end of the circle almost clear out. Even half of the Elite go home. Margy and the queen lie back against the pillows and close their eyes to rest.

  It stays like this for a couple of days. Mourners come, many from faraway places. Elespen and Stepstone and the far north. The queen goes home in the evenings to rest, but the princess stays watchful and reverent. She stays gracious and true to her father and her people. There is a quiet rhythm to the vigil. Guards change out every few hours. Mages from the Academy come and go, setting and resetting wards. People bring gifts and take gifts. We eat the food that’s offered to us.

  On the third night, I can’t sleep. I watch the fire. It reminds me of the towers. Of Sunteri. Of my life before I came here, and my time since I arrived in Cerion. Something shifts in the wards. Subtle. Silent. Careful. Like the pulling of a thread, unraveling the weave. I keep myself from jumping up to investigate. Instead, I rest back against the cushions and close my eyes like I’m sleeping, too. Try to focus on where and who. It doesn’t take much. There’s more than one. Three. Dusk imps. Hidden in the darkness. Pulling strings. Unraveling protections. My healed eye searches behind my eyelid. One near the pillared gate. One hidden on the cliff side just below the pyre. The third—

  My pulse quickens. Slowly, secretly, I reach for my bandolier. Rest my right hand over it. With my left I poke at Twig, who’s nestled in a crumpled veil beside the princess. He wakes up. I know he feels it, too. There’s no way he couldn’t.

  “Shush,” Twig pushes. “Rian. A breach. They’re here.”

  His silent announcement makes the unraveling pause. Rian taps Gaethon. The two stand up. Gaethon gestures to the other Mages. They stand, too. I don’t have time to watch and see what they’re going to do, or even to fasten my bandolier on. I draw two knives. Turn to the third imp. The one just beyond the wards, right behind the wall. The one with his sights on Margy. She wakes up just in time to see me slip away, out of sight. I pause at the wards. Check them. If I walk through, I won’t break them. They won’t fail. Good. I do. I step through, a knife in each hand.

  The imp hovers just above the wall. Right beside the wards. His greedy eyes search the space where I just came through. He can’t see me, though. I’m hidden.

  “Can’t see you, no,” he hisses, “but can feel you, Tibreseli Nullen. The one who stole from us. Who tricked us. You thought we were after the princess? No. Our quarrel is with you.”

  I don’t answer. I keep still. Silent. Raise my knives. I’m close enough, now. Close enough to slash at him. To end him.

  “Yes, I feel your thirst for blood. Your desire to end me. I feel it, boy. But, you will not. Look to the s
outh. Turn your attentions there. You will feel it. You will see it. The Dusk, poised. Ready. Cerion will burn. Innocents will die. Unless…”

  My fingers grip the handles of my knives until my knuckles go white. I bite my tongue. Wait for him to finish.

  “Give us back what was stolen, Tibreseli. What we rightfully earned. Your thievery was underhanded. Your actions will mar your journey. Your future will be cursed.”

  I feel a strange sensation, like the wind over dust. Like light stretching out over the land at dawn. A star breaking through thick clouds. The flap of a cloak. Protection. Valenor. The imp cowers.

  I turn to the south and close my eyes. He’s right. I feel them. Slinking in hidden places. Gathering in shadows. The Dusk and the enemies of Cerion, waiting. Dark places beside the points of light. Ready to strike. I’m not sure what’s happening. Am I awake? Am I dreaming? I look back into the circle. Rian and the other Mages are on their feet. Mending the weaknesses in the wards. Being watchful. Margy is standing. Her hands are folded in front of her. Her head is bowed.

  A figure enters the pillars. Cloaked. Hooded.

  “You have less time than you think,” the imp hisses behind me as I watch the figure kneel at the pyre. Fingers graze the stone before it. Rake through the ash. The assembly watches with mild interest. No Sorcerer could enter this sacred, protected place. At night, no outsider is permitted. Only a native of Cerion can come through the wards unaffected. There’s no danger, no threat from this figure. The historians had explained that some would take some small collection of ashes. This is normal. It’s expected. I tell myself all of these things, but I don’t believe any of it. I would know her anywhere.

  With my healed eye, I look through the cover of the hood. I’m greeted with a conniving, wicked smile.

  Chapter Forty-Two: Sped Summoning

  Celli