Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  I make sure he sees me, just like Quenson said. Make sure he knows I’m the one who slipped past their wards. Blood of Cerion, Quenson said. They’d never see me coming. My master was right. My master knows all. His perfect plan had no chance of failing. He is a mastermind. He is everything. Brilliant. Infallible. Perfect.

  With the king’s ashes tight in my grip, I back to the wall beside the pyre. Someone murmurs at the benches.

  “Son of the Prince. Ash of the father. No. Get her! Stop her!” he shouts. Rian. That Mage from the boy’s house. The one who almost stopped us.

  Tib takes off toward me. Across the circle. Fast, but not fast enough.

  “It’s too late,” I laugh and spring up. Over the wall. Over the cliff. I start to plummet to the sea, but they catch my arms and legs. The Imps. The Dusk. Our allies. They grab me and yank me through space. Back to the keep. Back home, to Quenson. I fall at his feet. His perfect, handsome feet.

  My fist is clutched to my chest. I feel my heart beat through it. Pounding from the excitement of what just happened. From the thrill of being close to my master again. He takes my wrist and holds a jar beneath it. I open my hand and let the king’s ashes slip through my fingers into it.

  “Quickly,” the imps say, and then they’re gone.

  “Time,” Quenson says with a whisper of excitement that sends a shiver through me. “You have bought us time, my dear. Weeks, with this acquirement. Weeks that won’t be spent waiting. Come.”

  We weave through passages lit by torchlight. This time when others pass my master, they pause. They bow. They show the respect he deserves. They know he’s winning. They know they’d better stay in his good graces. They know they were fools before, to ever ignore him. To ever doubt him. Even though they respect him now, I still hate them. I’ll still jump at the chance to snuff their lives out. For him. For Quenson. My master. My love.

  “He saw you?” he asks me as we walk.

  “Yes, Master” I reply. “I made sure of it.”

  “Then it is only a matter of time before he comes to seek you out,” he says with a hint of triumph. “Subtlety, my dear, will tip the scales.”

  “The Mage, my lord,” I say quietly. “He knew. When I took the ashes, he knew why.”

  “Good,” says Quenson. “Then they shall be on alert. A challenge is always welcome, my dear. Otherwise, victory is dull. Don’t you agree?”

  He pushes the door open and Sybel looks up from her vigil at the dais where Eron lies. Beside her on the floor is the boy I stole, covered in a blanket. Nearly spent. Quenson raises the jar and Sybel’s eyes light up. She looks at my master with a hunger that makes my blood boil.

  “Ash of the father,” she whispers with passion.

  “Wait outside, Celli,” he says to me. Reluctantly, I obey.

  Chapter Forty-Three: Knowledge of the Wellspring

  Azi

  A fairy’s mind is a strange, beautiful place. Flitt’s had been filled with light, color, and song. Sapience’s is similar, though the light is all gold, and the song is a hundred voices in harmony. Light and dark, good and wicked, pain and pleasure. The Wellspring. Through it, I can reach everyone. I can see everyone. Every link to every Mage. Every trail of magical power. Every reverent thought, and every selfish black tendril.

  My understanding of how it works comes slowly, like the blossom of a morning glory unfurling in the first rays of the morning sun. I see everywhere the magic is. I know. The fae, of course, are the most present. Their use of the Wellspring is natural and lighthearted. Everything they do is allowed and needed. The coloring of spring buds, the shape of a snowflake, the pulse of sap through the trees, the red and gold design of an autumn leaf. Kythshire thrives on their magic. It needs it in order to go on. But the magic of their Wellspring stretches further. It reaches out in flowing jets carried through the Half-Realm. It streams across the leagues of mountains and fields to its many masters. Mages of Cerion’s Academy, who have linked their learning to it. Mages who were attuned the moment they received the Mentor’s print. The mark of a student, given by a mentor. The golden press of a thumbprint against a forehead, opening the link.

  So vast is the power lent by such a small pool, that I can barely grasp the depth of it. Dozens of Masters, Mentors, and pupils, all governed by the Academy. All touched by a mentor and entrusted with this power. This sharing of energy is governed by the fae. We were right to treat it so sacredly. Cerion has been respectful of the gifts bestowed upon us by the fairies of Kythshire. My heart swells with pride.

  But then, as always, there is the darkness. Members of the Academy and others who no longer associate themselves with Cerion. They have little respect or consideration for the Source. They desire only power, and concern themselves with their own gain and nothing else. The gold in their minds and in their hearts twists and taints. It turns black and blue like bruises of the mind and of the spirit. It prints on their skin to Mark them as wicked, selfish, and dangerous. A way for them to be identified to the Good. To the valorous, who would put a stop to them. These Mages— no, Sorcerers— are abominations. They twist the natural to their bidding. They waste and pillage and taint the magic until it’s something different. They squander the gift of the fae until it becomes unrecognizable and fiendish.

  Though I can follow the jets to dozens of Mages and Sorcerers alike, there is an end to my sight. Only those whose schooling started in Cerion, by the golden touch of Kythshire’s Wellspring, can be tracked. I understand there other sources out there. Other Wellsprings, though it’s difficult to see or track them. They are only very weakly linked. One has no way of knowing how the other is fairing without years of training, concentration, and attunement. A trail flows to some central point, but it’s blocked. It ends, and for me there is no way to get to it.

  My skin prickles at the realization that things were not always this way. Before Brindelier was closed, they were all tightly linked. Magic flowed freely from one place to another. There was no danger of one spring running dry, as almost happened in Sunteri two years ago. Restoring Brindelier will open the flow again, and will ensure that all wellsprings everywhere will thrive. This isn’t just about Dawn versus Dusk. This is about preserving the Source of all magic, everywhere. If the Dusk, if the Sorcerers, were to gain Brindelier, it would devastate all Wellsprings, everywhere. The lure would be too strong. They would never restrain themselves. I understand now, why Sapience has allowed me to see this. It’s not just about my promise to Margy. It’s about the preservation of the Wellsprings across the Known Lands.

  While I’m coming to this realization I can feel him in my mind, a distance away. Sapience. He is watching everything. Pulling apart my deepest, most secret memories. Learning all about me. It doesn’t feel at all like an imposition. This knowledge is his right, and it’s my duty to allow him to see it. He looks into my lineage, far into my family’s past. He shows me things about my mother and grandmother, and hers before her. Things I never knew. They lived here, the women of my past. On Kythshire’s soil. Like so many others of my kind did before the Sorcerer King, they lived in harmony with the fairies here. This land was for human and fae alike. I feel it more than I see it: A connection to these lands. A calling home. I knew it on some level the first time I came to Kythshire to fight the shadow cyclones. I think, looking back, that Mum has known it all along. This is our homeland. Eron knew it, too. That was why he was so focused on gaining my allegiance before it was certain how loyal I’d be to my guild and to Cerion. He wanted to use me to get to Kythshire. He wanted the blood of my fairy homeland that flowed through me. My birthright.

  “But why?” I ask into the memories. “Why focus on that now? Eron is gone.”

  I know the answer, though. He isn’t gone, really. He’s about to be returned. Our rivalry, our battle, is not yet over. His hatred for me runs thick in his blood, just as my desire for peace and light runs through mine. Eron is cursed as I am blessed, and now that they’ve mixed that with the darkest kind of magic, he
will stop at nothing to claim the throne he believes is his. With an army of Sorcerers behind him, there will be no mercy. Cerion is threatened. Kythshire is threatened. We need a champion as righteous as he is wicked, as caring as he is cruel, as light as he is dark. Without that, there is no hope.

  “Step into the pool,” Sapience’s answer is a thousand voices speaking as one.

  “What?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Step into the pool,” the voices urge again. It’s Flitt’s though, Flitt’s single, tiny voice in my ear from her place at my shoulder that truly convinces me.

  I see everything. The memories, the Wellsprings, the Mages and Sorcerers. Cerion, Kythshire, fairies and humans. Moss-covered pebbles and the tip of my stone-like boot as it touches the golden surface. The liquid is warm and soothing as it flows to my toes. I enter the depths of the pool and it swirls around me, welcoming me. There’s no way to describe how wonderful it feels. No words would do it justice, except one. Love. As the golden waters swirl around me, I feel as though I’m cradled in complete peace. Everything is still, warm, and safe. My skin tingles with euphoria as if every part of me is being kissed and held and adored. I think of Rian and his love, and my insides fill up with the same golden, perfect light that surrounds me from outside.

  I tip my head back and feel the warmth of the pool as it caresses every follicle. I let the liquid seep over my face until only the tip of my nose is above it and then, as it, too, sinks into the gold, I hold my breath and surrender myself to the generosity of the Wellspring.

  Chapter Forty-Four: Consequences

  Tib

  Something catches me by my boot. Fast. enormous. Its strong grip clamps below my knee and pulls me back over the wall. Away from the sea. Away from my chase.

  “Fool kid!” Bryse growls as he tips me right-side-up and sets me on my feet. “What’re you thinking, jumping off the wall like that?”

  “It was her,” I pull away from his grip on my shoulder and rush back to look, but she’s gone. There’s nothing there. Just the ocean and the wind blowing ash into it. “Celli. She’s in league with them. The Dusk. The Sorcerers.”

  “Tib,” Margy’s voice is cautious from across the circle. It’s the first time she’s spoken since the Day of Silence. My name is her first word in her time of mourning. Something about that bolsters me. Calms me. I return to her side, and Rian and Master Gaethon gather close to us.

  “Your Highness,” Gaethon says with some authority, “I must advise you, with all due respect to the king, to move from this place into the shelter of the palace.”

  Margy shakes her head.

  “I will not dishonor my father or my people by leaving the Rites, Master Gaethon,” she says firmly.

  “Princess, please. You must understand—”

  “I fully understand the risk, Master Mage,” she raises her chin, “but I will remain. I won’t require it of anyone else, though.” She turns to the rest of the mourners gathered. “If any of you should choose to leave, I won’t hold it against you. Go, and be safe.”

  About half of them look a little hesitant, but go their way. I’m not at all surprised to notice that everyone who does go doesn’t carry the princess’s gift of light.

  “Your Highness, we did not wish to frighten you before, but now I fear I must tell you. Your brother’s body, it was stolen—”

  “I know,” Margy replies calmly, but Gaethon doesn’t seem to hear her.

  “Since then, it has come to light that his remains are in the possession of Sorcerers—”

  “I know,” Margy says again, and still he doesn’t hear.

  “We fear their intentions are most foul, most reprehensible, Your Highness. We fear—”

  “Master Gaethon,” Margy declares much more firmly, and Gaethon finally seems to hear her. “I know.”

  “You…but, how could you? Your father swore us to secrecy. He said we shouldn’t speak a word of it. Not to you or your mother. Not until we could be sure.”

  “Dreams,” Margy says simply. “Nightmares. Portents. Friends.”

  She gestures to Twig and raises a finger, and he perches on it and offers Gaethon an apologetic shrug. Margy looks up. Into the city. “He’s coming,” she says. “They’re all coming.”

  “When?” Gaethon whispers.

  Margy doesn’t reply. Instead, she raises her other hand and points toward the path. In the city beyond far to the south near the gates, pillars of smoke billow into the sky.

  “They’re trying to lure me away,” she says, pursing her lips. “They’re ruining Paba’s memory.”

  I look around the circle. There are several mourners still here. A dozen commoners and five Mages including Rian and Gaethon. There’s also Bryse, Lisabella, Benen, Mya, Brother Donal, and two generals of the Royal Guard. Some are watching the conversation; others glance nervously toward the city. One of the generals exchanges a glance with Margy, nods, and runs off down the path. The other one, Kristan, I think, commands the guardsmen lining the wall to be ready. They seem to stand taller in the sea of Twig’s plumped-up bushes and flowers. Rian and Gaethon move to the gateway and prepare themselves to stop anyone who might try to breach the pyre.

  “Be brave,” I whisper to the princess and rest a hand on her shoulder.

  “Your bandolier,” she says, and points to the place where I left it in the pile of pillows and silks. I shrug into it and fasten the clasp over my white robes. I feel strange without my leather vest and bracers. Unprotected. Margy gives me a nod of reassurance and looks back toward the smoke. Then, to my shock, she settles back onto the pillows and closes her eyes.

  “Watch over me,” she murmurs, and her breath slows.

  “No,” I say through my teeth, “you can’t, Margy.”

  “Keep me safe,” she whispers almost silently.

  I see them streak away. The cat, with Twig clinging to her black and orange fur.

  “No,” I growl, but it’s too late. Zeze slips between Rian and Gaethon. Out of the wards. Down the path. Over the wall and gone, into the chaos of the city. I watch until I can’t see her anymore. My teeth are clenched so hard they might crack. I pace around her sleeping form. Mya is the only one who seems to notice the odd sight of the princess, sound asleep in the face of such a threat. It only takes her a moment. Her face drains of color. She rushes to us and takes me by the shoulders.

  “Is she?” she hisses a whisper. I nod.

  “Zeze,” I say. “I couldn’t stop her.”

  “Who else knows?” she asks. Her green eyes flash with concern. Behind them, I can tell her thoughts are racing.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “Azi. I think I showed her. And she showed Rian some things.”

  “It’s reckless,” she sinks to her knees beside the princess and gazes out into the city. She reaches out to touch the princess but hesitates.

  “What if we wake her?” I ask.

  “You can’t. She can only wake up on her own, when Zeze comes back.”

  “We can’t force her?”

  “Oh, no, that would be catastrophic,” she whispers. “It would split her in two, in a way. It could kill her if she’s not prepared for it.”

  “What if someone out there…” I start, and swallow. “What if Zeze—?”

  “If Zeze is killed, Margy won’t survive,” she says. “They’re one and the same.” Her voice is so shaken it jars me. Mya is always confident, even in the face of danger. Her voice is her weapon. If she can barely speak, she must really be scared. “I can’t believe no one knew about this. You should have told someone. We have to get her to come back.”

  “How, though?” I feel the blood drain from my face. My fingers are tingling. My ears are ringing. I should have told someone. She’s right. Someone who could have protected her. Or talked her out of traveling as Zeze. If something happens to her, it’ll be my fault. If Zeze is killed, or captured—

  “I have an idea,” Mya interrupts my thoughts, but then she doesn’t say anything else. Or do anything.
She just closes her eyes and starts humming some strange song. Even though she’s right next to me, the sound of fighting in the city below drowns her out. It’s moving closer. Louder. Not a fight or a skirmish. This is a war.

  The elves swoop past us on their cygnets. Their bows are readied as they stand in their saddles and order the great birds to charge. I want to run to the wall and look into the city. I want to see if it’s as bad as it seems. I can’t, though. I swore to keep Margy safe. So I sit, helpless. Watching. Waiting. Mya goes quiet. Her head is bowed. Her lips move, but no sound comes out.

  A commotion at the gate grabs my attention. Elliot. He announces himself, then rushes to Mya. To the princess. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. He drops into the pillows and closes his eyes. The fox bursts from his chest and tears away. Back down the path. Back into the fight.

  “He’ll find her,” Mya whispers. “Their kind can always find each other.”

  She still looks worried. Actually she looks more worried, now that her husband is at risk, too. She smoothes his shaggy red hair away from his face and sits waiting. Patiently.

  I can’t be patient. I can’t just sit and have faith. I pace around them both. I watch and listen. I scan and reach out and try to feel. The wards around us are strong. The protections are thick. Outside of them more imps hover, watching. Waiting. Looking for weaknesses. I concentrate toward the city with my healed eye, but it’s impossible to make anything out. It’s all light and dark, and flames and smoke. Flashes of magic burst and clash. Rian looks to Shush, who nods. In a blink, he vanishes. I have no idea why. What I do know is that now, there are no fairies up here with us. I wonder if that makes any difference. I wonder how long it’ll take for the fight to get to us, and what kind of shape Cerion will be in at that point. They’ve been peaceful for so many years. Do they even know how to fight a war?

  The line of Royal Guard encircling the pyre tells me yes, they do. So does the sight of Bryse, Lisabella, and Benen, who move to stand shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield at the gateway as Rian and Gaethon back off. Their wards are as strong as they’re going to be. They’re saving the rest of their energy for what’s to come. The pathway leading here is winding and narrow. The procession could only go two at a time, except for the litter-bearers. That means only two at a time will be able to get to us without risking a fall down the cliff side or having to climb steep, rocky terrain. I wonder whether the place was planned that way. How many ascending kings and queens have been challenged on this slab by armies of their enemies?