Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  “A noble thought. I agree, Azaeli, Knight-Mentalist. And the victor of this battle shall claim the offerings. The one stolen by the Dawn, and the other two.” The corners of his lips turn up in a wicked, blue-skinned smile. He flicks his wrist and Uncle’s eyes clear of darkness. So do Mya and Da’s. I try not to think about Mum or Bryse or Donal. I try to trust what Flitt showed me before she left. I push the thought out of my mind as tears sting my eyes. I blink them away and take a breath and try to remember what happened when I first arrived here to make the battle go still.

  “Azaeli, beware,” the voice which echoes through my thoughts is melodic, yet commanding. The scene before me shifts and another scene transposes itself over it, like a sheer curtain over a window. The fairy queen, seated on her throne, smiles down at me. The light that shines from her makes me squint. “Beware,” she says, “be ready. I am here. I shall aid you. Do not be afraid of what is yet to come.”

  Her warning bolsters me. I feel her with me. The light of the fae surrounds me and encases me. I gaze across at the Mentalist, and with a slight nod of my head, the spell I didn’t even know I’d cast is lifted. The effect is immediate. Fae clash with imps. Sorcerers push their shadows at me. The guards, Mya, Da, and Uncle look confused for a moment, but quickly regain their senses and turn their attention to the battle. Every one of them seems enraged by the very idea that they had been used as tools for the Dusk, and together they unleash a mighty fury against the enemy. Half of the guards begin searching for the princess while the other half form a wide half-circle between the pyre and the oncoming attackers to protect His Majesty’s remains.

  The Sorcerers surge forward from the craggy hillside and let loose spells the likes of which I’ve never seen. Jets of purple haze that burns as it grazes my skin. Dark, seeping energy that makes my eyes and mouth prickle and itch. Mya sings and Uncle casts wards and the effects are diminished but not completely stopped. The fae order their golems to charge the source and together with them they surge forward bravely, but I notice their hair and skin going gray and their clothes withering. Some of them dive to the ground. They scoop up the chips of light which sprayed from my sword during my battle with Eron and nibble at them. The light chips rejuvenate them. The word of this healing spreads quickly, and for a moment it seems as though the Dawn might have the upper hand, but the Dusk imps catch on. They find the chips of darkness cast off by Eron’s sword and restore themselves as well.

  I gasp and cough within the poisonous purple and black fog. A shadow breaks through the barrier of fairies and soldiers and comes straight for me. Without thinking I pull Mercy free and slash at it, and it screams and fades. I realize my mistake too late. Something scuffles behind me and I turn and swing my sword hard. It meets with Eron’s upper arm but he barely reacts to what should have been a bone-breaking blow. His black eyes seem to smoke with utter malice, and he dives at me bare-handed. I’m caught off-guard by his sudden attack and try to regain my footing but to no avail. I lose my grip on my sword and Mercy clatters across the stone several paces away as I fall hard onto my back. Eron’s cold hands slip into my neck guard and close around my throat. He’s strong. Much stronger than the former Eron had ever been. I try hard to push him off of me. I try to force my knee between us or to roll to one side. I try kicking and punching and pushing with all of my strength, but between the lack of air from choking and the effects of the Sorcerers’ poisonous spells, I feel the hopelessness closing in. The pain of my stomach wound throbs. Pinpoints of darkness scatter across my vision. The bones of my neck crunch under Eron’s inhumanly strong grip. My throat closes painfully. I fight to breathe as he stares down at me, his eyes empty and lifeless, and raises his fist.

  Beyond him Mya’s voice carries over the battle, clearing my mind of thoughts of despair. Her song shifts my outlook. Past the dark silhouette of Eron’s head above me, through the narrow tunnel of my vision, I notice the sky growing brighter. The stars of night are fading. A soft glow on the horizon announces the pending arrival of the sun. The Dawn.

  “I already killed you once,” Da growls over the din of battle. “Get off my daughter!”

  His axe catches Eron in the side with a sickening thump and throws him through the air away from me. The force of Da’s attack rolls me to my side, and the relief that courses through me as I cough and gasp for air is quickly blotted out by the head-spinning pain in my neck at even that small amount of movement. I struggle to get to my knees and try to help, but my throbbing neck isn’t strong enough to hold my head up.

  “Be still,” Mya says as she drops to her knees beside me. Her hands are soft on my cheeks as they cradle my head. “Don’t move.” She begins singing a song of healing, and the magic of it soothes the burning in my eyes and mouth from the poison cloud that still hovers. It isn’t strong enough to mend the damage Eron caused, though. I try to swallow and end up coughing instead as the pain sears through my throat. I try to push through it, to focus away from the pain and concentrate instead on the welcome sensation of breath filling my lungs. As tainted as it is, it’s still a relief to breathe it in. Focusing on that, I watch Da stalk to Eron and strike him again. Eron fights fiercely, but Da is a seasoned fighter. I try to catch Eron with strings of Mentalism, but his mind is dead and empty and the strings don’t take. Da doesn’t need my help, anyway. Despite Eron’s inhuman strength, Da finally bests him by throwing him over the cliff wall.

  The loss of the prince causes an uproar of protests from the Dusk, who press their attack harder. Da comes to stand over us, his axe ready. Uncle holds his ground between us and our attackers and sends the blast of a fireball into the crowd of Dusk. Several imps and Sorcerers fall to the ground, screaming and burning. I try hard to lie still and allow Mya’s song to heal me, but it’s difficult. I yearn for Mercy and feel the sword heavy in my palm.

  “Azi,” Da warns. “Be patient or be lost.”

  “I can’t be patient,” I try to growl, but my throat is too sore and my voice cracks out at barely a whisper as tears slip from the corners of my eyes and roll into my ears. “I have to fight.” I push against Mya’s hold, but the pain is too much. In the distance, a Sorceress thrusts her hands forward, aiming her spell directly at us. I imagine the golden strings and they catch her hands and fling her away before she has a chance to cast.

  “Healer!” Mya’s shout rises over the battle and echoes across the hillside. Some of the fairies hear and come to hover close to me, but even with the sparks to rejuvenate them, their magic is too spent to do me much good.

  “Here,” comes a whisper out of nowhere. A flash of red fur streaks past my range of vision. Two hands graze my neck, and even as gentle as their touch is, it pains me until the prayer is whispered and the soft pink glow of healing floods my vision. The relief is immediate as healing magic weaves through my throat and neck, opening up my swollen airway and mending the crushed tissue and bone. When it fades, the face looking down at me shocks me.

  “Dacva? How?”

  “Elliot!” Mya cries. “You found him!”

  “Long story.” Dacva grins down at me. “Short version is, Redemption’s back. Tried to force me to join up again, but I refused. Thanks to Elliot, I was able to get away.”

  “Thanks to you, I was alive to do so,” Elliot says as he fires his bow into the fray with a quick, fluid motion. “Get down,” he shouts and shoves Mya out of the way just in time to avoid a bolt of lightning from the group of Sorcerers that once held her. In front of us, Uncle throws up a ward just in time to block the surge of spells that scatter apart in a wash of color, missing us completely. Thanks to Dacva’s healing, I jump to my feet to stand beside Uncle and face the attackers. A glance at Uncle shows him to be in bad shape. Blood drips from a gash at his cheek. His lips are pale, and I notice him clutching his side to cover a hole singed through his robes.

  “Uncle,” I whisper and step closer to him. When I do, a trio of arrows streaks past my ear. Mya screams and the sound of her voice seems to push them fast
er. Each arrow strikes a different Sorcerer with a force so hard that none of them have a chance. They fall over, defeated.

  “I missed you,” Mya’s voice is much smoother this time. I know it’s intended for Elliot, but the tone still sends a shiver of a thrill through me. Right away, I think of Rian waiting for me at the gate. I wonder what Flitt told him and why he hasn’t come to see what’s taking me so long.

  My thoughts are cut short as three more arrows whiz past in quick succession, urged on by Mya’s voice. Elliot is barely audible as he yawns back at her, “Missed you, too.”

  Dacva reaches past me and puts a hand on Uncle and the gash on his face closes. Uncle stands a little taller, squares his shoulders, and stretches his hands up to cast. His sights are set on the Mentalist. Their eyes are locked. I see the effort between them. Uncle, trying hard to fight the mind-control, and the Mentalist working harder to force his will. I see the magic between them like ropes of energy, and I slash at them with Mercy, severing them.

  “I should have expected you to go back on your word,” I sneer at the Mentalist. As I stride toward him and the battle rages around us, I feel the sky lightening. The promise of morning bolsters me. The wings at my back grow bright and strong again. I feel the confidence I had when I arrived amplified. The Mentalist sees this in me, and for the first time I sense the fear in him. All around him, the bodies of his fallen allies lay crumpled and defeated. Only a few Sorcerers remain standing, and they have retreated to the hills again along with the imps who seem to see the approaching Dawn as a threat.

  That’s what I think at first, until I spare a glance at the shadow-strewn hillside beyond the wall. There, a Sorcerer has his hands raised to cast. I’ve seen him before, in the assassin’s mind and in Tib’s. Quenson. His spell summons darkness in a great, swirling black mass that bleeds with malice and evil. The Void. It’s terrifying enough at first in its great formless mass, but then it starts to take a different shape: that of a serpent with sharp teeth which drip black like Eron’s sword. The black creature seeps over the crags, dwarfing the hillside itself as it grows and sprouts wings from its scaly back. As it slinks forward, it absorbs Quenson into it. The agents of Dusk huddling in the craggy shadows follow him. They step into the darkness willingly, allowing it to draw them in, becoming one with it. With every new addition, the creature grows larger and more powerful.

  “Return to me, Xantivus.” The command is not a voice. It’s everywhere. It resounds from every sliver of shadow and resonates like a dark and wicked thought through my mind.

  To my shock, the Mentalist turns his back to us. He walks calmly away across the stone walk and straight into the mouth of the Void beast.

  “Azaeli Hammerfel. Peons of Dawn,” the beast hisses, “you are defeated.” With every word, darkness drips from the creature’s fangs and pools like sizzling tar on the stone before it. Its voice pierces through my ears like daggers, sending me to my knees. Around me, the Elite and the remaining Guard do the same, clapping their hands over their ears. I cover mine, too, but it does little to stop the torture. The fairies shrink away. Their golems vanish. His voice is too powerful. Too filled with agony and despair. “Your city burns. Your palace is taken. The sun will not rise. The Dawn has lost. Give us the offerings. Brindelier is ours to claim.”

  “Stand now, my Champion,” the fairy queen’s voice drifts into my thoughts, soothing the pain, pushing away the fear. I see her clearly on her throne. She rises and glides down the stairs toward me with her wings slowly opening and closing. On the other side of the veil, the queen turns her back to me to face the Void. “Step into me, Azaeli,” she says. As the first beams of sunlight break across the horizon, I step forward and, like the Agents of Dusk with the Void, she and I become one with the light.

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Margy’s Choice

  Tib

  We crowd into the crow’s nest, as quiet as can be. Even though I want to whoop with excitement. Even though I could kiss Ruben and Raefe both for finishing it. For getting it going. I need to know how. I have so many questions. But, Margy. She’s awake now. Dispelled from the strange trance that held her up at the pyre. She’s angry, too. Pushing me. Crying. Fighting to get back to the Rites. I have trouble calming her. My elbow is still throbbing from Donal’s attack. I try to use that arm, but it’s too painful. I have to hold her with just one hand. For a princess, she’s pretty strong.

  “I can’t be here. I can’t leave him,” she whimpers hysterically. “I can’t dishonor him. Let me go!” She shoves me. Kicks. Claws herself away and climbs onto the rim of the basket.

  “I’m sorry, Princess,” Twig whispers. He opens his hand and a flower blooms from his palm. He blows the scent of it into Margy’s face. She stops fighting. Her eyelids grow heavy. She slips down against the low wall of the nest.

  “Did you just drug her?” I hiss at the fae.

  Twig knits his brow apologetically. “She was going to hurt herself. We have to get her down from here.”

  “Keep a lookout, Rube,” I say as Twig surveys the height of the nest and the narrow ratlines that lead up to it. Without a word, he pops up to human size, scoops Margy into his arms, and flies down to the deck.

  The ship sinks lower and creeps closer to the cliff. It’s almost like it has a mind of its own. Like it knows what to do, even though Cort is controlling it. I try to make sense of it as I pull a pink vial from my bandolier and drink it down. The bone knits back together and my arm tingles pleasantly. I breathe a sigh of relief as the pain goes away. It’s not completely healed, but good enough that I can at least use it again. Climbing down the ratlines is painful, but doable. I reach the deck a little after Margy and Twig, grateful to be on solid footing again.

  From the ship’s helm, Cort gives me a wave. Behind him, golems that look like they’re made of pure sky work the propellers and cranks. They remind me of the inside of Valenor’s cloak: midnight blue and stars, but when they turn a certain way, blue sky. It’s confusing to look at and try to make sense of. The sight of them makes me more aware. Valenor. He’s all around us. Cloaking us. Protecting us. His magic encircles the entire ship. Gives it a consciousness, almost. I catch a glimpse of his face just beyond the starboard wall and I want to run to him, to ask him how it all happened, but Raefe rushes to me, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Amazing idea, Tib. I can’t believe it,” he says with a grin, squeezing my shoulder. “A flying ship!” With a nervous glance up to the cliffs he asks, “Is Saesa…?”

  “Saesa?” I scowl and glance at Twig, who’s still holding Margy. I hadn’t even thought of where Saesa could be. It’s strange that Azi would show up without her squire.

  “At the gate,” Twig murmurs as he wafts another flower scent to Margy’s nose. “She’s with Rian, Shush, and Flitt. They’re waiting for us. They need the Princess.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask.

  “We have ways of knowing what’s happening to each other,” Twig explains, “especially when we’re so close in proximity. Especially in times like this.”

  Margy’s eyelids flutter open, and Twig smoothes her curls and whispers, “Ah, princess. I’m sorry.” He brushes a kiss across her forehead. She smiles contentedly. My stomach twists in anger. I’m not sure why. Probably because he drugged her, and now she’s gazing at him like he’s the best thing in the world. He reaches to help her to stand, but I push between them and do it myself. Tears streak her cheeks and she wipes them away with the sleeve of her white robe.

  “How could you take me away?” she narrows her eyes at me furiously. Her voice shakes with rage and betrayal. She pulls herself free from my arms and stalks away from us. “The vigil—”

  “It’s over, Princess,” Twig says softly. He makes himself small again and drifts closer to her, opening his arms in a gesture of peace. She presses her lips in a tight, thin line. Her nostrils flare as she spins to face me.

  “It’s not over. It’s defiled. Disrespected. Ru-ruined,” she hiccups the last and ta
kes a shuddering breath. Twig lands on her shoulder and strokes her hair. He whispers something to her, and again my heart thuds angrily in my chest. Margy shakes her head violently and Twig darts away from her whip-like hair. “Take me back to my father!” she screams at the two of us, her voice raised above the wind, her fists clenched at her sides.

  “Shhh,” Valenor’s warning settles over us, but I can’t help it.

  “Ruined?” I shout. “You think your father’s vigil is ruined now?” She cowers back against the bulwark as I stalk closer in my fury. “How about when his daughter is skewered by his own guards? What about then? You’re not going back up there, Margy. Those Sorcerers, you’re a threat to them. They turned your own guards against you. They want you dead, don’t you see that?”

  “Tib,” Raefe takes my injured arm and pulls me away from her. The calmness of his voice only makes me angrier. “She’s the princess. Show some respect.”

  “She’s my friend, first,” I tug away from him, growling at the pain that shoots through my elbow. I wasted that potion. You’re supposed to rest, to let it work, and I didn’t. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Margy ducks her head. Twig floats in the space between us, like he’s defending her. I don’t know from what. I don’t want to hurt her. I’m trying to protect her. Trying to make her see. “What then, Margy? What happens after they kill you?” She winces at my question. “Who’s left to rule your beloved Cerion, when you’re d—?”

  “Uh, Tib?” Ruben interrupts from above. He points up to the pyre, where three figures are being dangled over the cliff’s edge by dark tendrils.

  “Cast the nets!” Cort shouts.

  “No time!” Twig cries. He flings his hands out, palms up, and tangle of vines shoots from his fingertips. They weave together to make a net of their own just in time to catch Lisabella, who’s the first to be dropped. Azi’s scream echoes from the top of the cliff. Soon after, the other two fall into the vine net. Twig, looking pale and tired, lowers the three of them to the deck. He bows his head like he’s concentrating, and the vines spring back to him.