Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  “Do not,” we say. “Do not act under the guise that you have any concern at all for the Dawn, Vorhadeniel. What you call stubbornness, we call vigilance. We know what it is you wish. This time is no different from any other, and we will not stand down.”

  “You have seen my might, Sister. You have been witness to it. This time, I have been patient. I have grown strong. My numbers far surpass your own. Stand aside, and give us what was rightfully claimed by my agents, or you shall see a war to begin the Dusk of all time,” the darkness laps toward us, threatening us. It takes the form of a great dragon, drawing all shadows to it, until its impressive wings stretch out from its back and it lifts from its feet.

  Around myself and the queen, the light draws closer, the same way the shadows did with the Void. As we grow, we take a different form than the dragon: that of a winged centaur. We raise our hand and Mercy’s light glows bright from it, driving the dark creature back.

  “We will never yield to you, Vorhadeniel,” we cry. Beneath our hooves, the rocky hillside crumbles as we drive the dragon back. “You cannot be trusted with the Great Source. You would claim it and waste it. You would destroy life and light and that which is pure and good. You would never accept the balance.”

  I slash Mercy down and strike the dragon’s snout, and it howls and opens its mouth and spews a stream of shadow and darkness at us like a jet of pitch. It strikes us in the chest and pushes us back, then it flees over the hillside toward the city.

  We give chase, pounding over the hillside, taking care not to trample the tiny people who dive away from our enormous hooves as we thunder after the dragon. It doesn’t take flight. Instead it crashes past the palace and levels the forest park outside of its walls.

  As we chase after the Void, I try hard not to be distracted by the state of the burning palace or the crushed and fallen trees where Rian and I once lay in secret in the grass, dreaming of our future together. Instead I focus on the beast that clambers away down the streets, paying no heed to the crowds of people fleeing. We pass the Elite complex and my breath catches in my throat. Half of its roofs are charred and melted. A thin line of smoke wafts up from my burnt bedroom, where an orange and red flag of Redemption flaps from my smashed and half-burnt window frame.

  “No,” I whisper, and my anguish takes the form of a gray stain that slashes across our pure white tabard.

  “Our champion is strong,” we shout ahead to the fleeing dragon. “She will not falter!” Our words strengthen me and push me faster. Our hooves pound the cobbles as we gain ground. The Void streaks past the Academy, which is still pristine despite the ruins surrounding it. The dragon leaps from the sea wall and soars out over the ocean and we keep chase. The light of our wings flashes in the corners of my eyes as they propel us forward. I let my anger and sorrow fuel me, but the Queen’s voice echoes in my mind.

  “Bar the shadow from your heart. Let go of what you have seen. Do not allow darkness to stake its claim within your pure soul, Azaeli. Fight it. If you cannot, we must release you.”

  It’s easier than I would have expected to follow the Queen’s instructions and push away the hurt caused by the things I have seen. The result is a hollow feeling which fills quickly with light, much the same way a hole dug at the seashore quickly fills with water. The euphoria is similar to what I feel when I use Mentalism, and that gives me an idea. As the dragon pumps its wings faster over the surface of the ocean, we imagine golden ropes to hold it. With the help of the Queen and the Light, we make them chains, broad and thick. They stream away from us as we gallop across the air, and they catch the dragon around its neck and legs. It plunges into the sea, screaming and thrashing, and our small triumph causes the light around us to beam brighter.

  “Kaso Viro,” we call, and the serpent is there in a flash, streaking yellow and turquoise through the water. He strikes at the Void once, twice, three times, weakening and paralyzing it. Our golden chains constrict it as it sinks beneath the water’s surface.

  “To all the ends of these lands,” we command, “we banish thee, darkness and shadow, Dusk and Void. We are the victors of this battle. Disperse, and wander in the night to dwell on the fatuity of your reckless and wanton depravity.”

  “Strike it down, Azaeli,” the Queen’s voice in my head commands, and we plunge fearlessly into the water with Mercy raised and ready to thrust.

  The moment my blade meets its black mark in the depths of the water, a scream unlike any I’ve heard screeches through the water around me. Fury, defeat, anger, rage, defiance, disbelief, darkness, shadow, hatred, death. All of these sensations barrage me at once as the shadows give under Mercy’s attack and burst into thousands of shards of darkness. The dragon is defeated, the Void and its agents cast away with one mighty blow. The feeling of triumph overwhelms me as Kaso Viro pushes me to the surface and I gasp for breath. The light holds and protects me. It soothes and congratulates me. The elation of victory courses through me. The battle is won, for now. I close my eyes and drift to sleep, lulled by the ebb and flow of the ocean waves.

  I wake some time later in the grass, utterly alone. Warm beams of midday sunshine splash across my face through the cover of the forest canopy. I test my arms and legs. I call Mercy to me and feel its hilt heavy in my palm. When I sit up, I find myself face-to-face with the veil. Beyond it, the queen smiles warmly at me.

  “You fought well, my Champion of Light,” she says gently. “And I and the Dawn thank you. But do not be quick to celebrate. There is still much to be done. Though the Dusk is dispersed, it is not defeated. Even now, its agents are waking and working to find each other. As you have seen, it shall not ever be ended. Not completely.”

  “I understand,” I say, but my voice comes out only as a whisper. The grief of seeing and feeling her separate from myself overwhelms me. “Why did you split away from me?” I ask. “Why can’t we be together as we were?”

  “Though we are grateful for your aid,” she explains, “we each have our own role to play. Eljarenae cannot leave the Light, Dear Azaeli. She is bound to it, as Kaso Viro is bound to the waters and Valenor is bound to Dreaming and Vorhadeniel is bound to shadow and darkness.”

  “I’m confused,” I say, pushing myself to my feet. I reach out to her, and the soft, airy veil brushes my fingertips. “I thought you were Eljarenae.”

  “Eljarenae is the Muse of Light. She is an ally of the Dawn, as you and I are. She is a Muse of the Six, as Valenor and Kaso Viro are. Siblings of Vorahdeniel. Bound to their realms,” she explains. “She and I are as separate as you and I are. Only in times of dire defense can we meld together.”

  “But if you’re fae and she’s light, why did you need me at all? Together, you have so much power.”

  “We have no dominion on the human plane, Azaeli. Certainly we can visit. We can grace these places, but your connection to Cerion and your loyalty to that land is what gave us the power to walk among humans, just as the Dusk had its own allies to allow them to do the same.”

  “You said Muse of the Six. Does that mean there are two more?” I ask.

  “Yes. In due time, you shall learn of them. For now, you must carry out your vow to the Princess. Open the gates of Brindelier for the Dawn. Your task is nearly through.” She looks past me and smiles again, her eyes glinting with happiness. “Do not be disheartened. You are not alone.” She gestures behind me.

  “Azi!” Rian calls as he runs toward me through the golden grass. “Azi!”

  “Rian!” I take off toward him and we crash into each other’s arms. The strength of his body against mine and his rough beard on my cheek brings tears to my eyes. All of the loneliness I felt being separated from the Light disappears in his embrace. His breath is warm and welcome as he tips my face toward his and kisses me hungrily. After a long, lingering moment, he holds me away and looks into my eyes.

  “I was terrified,” he says. “I couldn’t find you anywhere. I thought…” his voice trails off and his fingertips crackle softly, tickling my cheeks.


  “I was…” I say breathlessly and curl my fingers into his auburn hair. “I can’t even explain it to you. Not now. Maybe she can,” I say and turn to look behind me, but the veil is gone.

  “You can show me,” he whispers and brushes his lips across my cheek, “later. First, Brindelier. They’re waiting.”

  He takes my hand and pulls me into the Half-Realm, and we tumble fast onto the grassy lawn of the gateway.

  “Well, well,” a squeaky voice rings out as soon as we stumble forward. “Took you long enough, Lady Too-Many-Titles!”

  “Azi!” Flitt yelps and darts to kiss my cheek. I stroke her tiny arm gently with my fingertip and she shivers and giggles and settles into place at my pauldron. The others waiting echo my name, and I’m surprised and relieved to hear Margy’s voice among them.

  “Princess,” I stride to her and dip to one knee, and she offers me her hand.

  “What happened?” she asks. “Is Cerion safe?”

  “I’ll show you,” I whisper, eager to share what I know with all of them. They gather around me as I cup my hands in front of me. Even the knight and his fairy companion lean over to get a view. I gaze into my palms and concentrate on the battle between Dusk and Dawn and my part in it, and the scenes play out across the gold-flecked palms of my gloves. Some things are difficult to show. They don’t come through from my thoughts very clearly. My run through Cerion lingers too long on the burning palace and the Redemption flag in my window, and Rian grips my shoulder reassuringly. When the battle is through, Margy looks away to the West, toward Cerion.

  “We can rebuild, Princess,” Rian says. “And quickly, with the aid of magic. Don’t be discouraged. It can be restored in a matter of days, with the right provisions. It will be expensive, but it can be done.”

  “It did seem that our side had the upper hand,” I offer reassuringly. “Especially since that dragon took much of the Dusk’s forces away.”

  Margy nods slowly. With a glance at Tib, she takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and turns to the Knight. “I’m ready. We have all that is required, now.”

  Rian hands the coin to the Knight, who accepts it with a nod and tucks it into a dusty pouch at his belt. He then turns to the princess and salutes.

  “I suppose there’s nothing more to say than this,” the knight says with a bob of his head. “Welcome to Brindelier, Princess Margary Plethore,” he steps quickly aside, and the gates swing open.

  “Welcome to you as well, Twiggish of Kythshire,” Stryker peeps from his hood.

  “Lady Knight,” the knight nods at me as I escort Margary through the gates.

  “Flitter, welcome!” Stryker says.

  “Mentor Rian,” the Knight says.

  “And welcome, Shushing,” says Stryker.

  We pass through the gate to face another, larger gate of gilt filigree. Beyond it, the city of Brindelier shines with brilliant splashes of color that seem to adorn every surface. I gaze into the city, dazzled by the artistry of the carved stone walls and statues depicting everything from fish to birds and dancers to soldiers.

  “Ho, wait a moment there, you two,” the knight says, and I turn to see him straighten dubiously as he looks Tib and Saesa over. “You are unpaired.”

  “Oh, what now?” Rian murmurs under his breath.

  “Unpaired?” Tib scowls. “What do you mean?”

  “Saesa is my squire,” I explain, reaching for her.

  “That is acceptable,” says the Knight, and Saesa slips past him to stand by me. He turns to Tib. “And you? Where is your Faedin?”

  “My what?” Tib scowls.

  “Your link. Your Ili’luvrie.”

  “I don’t have one,” Tib crosses his arms defiantly.

  “He’s lying!” Stryker gasps. “Why would he lie about his Faedin, Gus? Deception! Danger!”

  The Knight places a hand on his sword hilt for the first time since our arrival. “Why, indeed?” he asks with a warning tone.

  “Wait,” Rian says, stepping between the knight and Tib. “It’s not a deception. Tib isn’t lying. It’s just a misunderstanding. Tib’s Faedin is Mevyn of Sunteri. The Keeper of the Wellspring. His denial of their pairing is not a deception, but a protection.”

  Gus looks Tib over cautiously. “Is that so? Tib, is it?”

  Tib glares at the knight, his arms still crossed, his fists clenched hard around the handles of the knives tucked in his bandoliers. His lips press into a thin line. He glances at Rian and huffs a single breath through flared nostrils. “Yeah,” he finally admits through clenched teeth.

  Still hidden in Gus’s helm, Stryker sniffs loudly at Tib. “That’s right,” he declares.

  “Enter, then, Tib. You are most welcome here,” the knight says, and to my surprise, he bows to Tib in a gesture that is more reverent even than his treatment of the Princess herself.

  The inner gate opens, and as we step through it I hear Stryker mutter to Gus, “What a motley bunch.”

  “Aye,” says the knight as the gate creaks shut. “I wish them all the best.”

  “They’ll need it!” Stryker’s laughter is shut out as soon as the gate closes, leaving us in complete silence to stand in awe before the great city.

  “Will you look at that?” Rian whispers. He takes my hand and gapes at the city streets that stretch out before us. Everything is brilliantly clean and shining. Even the roads are a smooth, solid stone like the polished floors of the palace in Cerion. Graceful statues of dancing children painted with bright colors line the entry to the city, and banners of every color flap in the soft breeze. The air is temperate, not too cold or hot, even when we step past the main archway into the sunny square beyond.

  On the opposite side of the square from the gate, buildings of painted stone tower over a babbling fountain. The shape of them is strange, narrow on the bottom and wide at the top, and each one is uniquely decorated with carvings of flowers and fauna and depictions of people performing various tasks. Margy crosses the square, wide-eyed, and we follow in a close-knit group, scanning the area for any possible threat. The thought is practical, but it seems ridiculous. The city is eerily silent. No carts roll through the streets, no merchants call from their stands, no horses stomp their hooves, impatient for grain. If it wasn’t so well kept-up, if things weren’t so polished and cleaned, it might seem abandoned.

  Margy pauses at the wide window of what seems to be a tailor. The clothes on display within are bright hues of blue, green, purple, and teal. Exquisite embroidered gowns sparkle blindingly, almost as though they’ve been enchanted with light. Beyond the shop mannequins, the figure of a woman lies stretched out on an ornate, heavily-pillowed chaise. Her hair is perfectly set in curls piled on top of her head. The ruffles of her gown drip from the edge of the chaise in a glittering cascade of teal and blue like a waterfall. Her painted red lips are parted slightly, and her thick lashes graze her pink cheeks as she sleeps. In her hand is an embroidery hoop stitched with bright red thread against a golden silk. It’s tipped perfectly so that we can read the fine script that says, very plainly, “Welcome.”

  “She looks like a doll,” Margy whispers. “A real, lady-sized doll.”

  She tears herself away from that window to the next, and the scene inside is just as enchanting. This window is highly decorated with cheerful ribbons that sway in the breeze as we approach. In the window, several groupings of wares are on display. There are finely crafted amulets, strangely shaped hats, boots with odd silver trinkets dangling from them, glass bottles of every shape and color, books with strange writing and bold, rich illustrations on the covers, wrist cuffs of gold and silver, fine daggers inlaid with rare gemstones, and so many more items that we all peer into the window, captivated by the scene.

  “Uh,” Tib tugs my cloak after a long while. “It’s just a shop. Can we go?”

  “Wait,” Margy whispers and points to the window. Past the display, in the shop itself, a wizened old Mage with a long beard sits propped against the counter.
His head rests on the counter top beside an enormous tome, and every once in a while, the pages are rustled by his breath. Along the counter’s edge, silvery letters float aimlessly, spelling out a single word: Welcome. Two young apprentices lie curled up on the floor on fluffy cushions. Each has a fairy tucked in the crook of his arm. All that is visible is the glint of their wings as the apprentices’ chests rise and fall. A long scroll is stretched out between them, and a single word is illuminated on the parchment, arranged so it faces us.

  “Welcome,” Margy reads. “See it?”

  “It’s like they’ve been waiting for us,” Saesa says with wonder.

  “It’s almost as if,” Rian says as he moves to the next shop window, “they knew they were going to be enchanted. They understood well in advance. Look how everything is decorated as if for a festival.”

  “To celebrating waking up,” Flitt says as she presses her nose to the window and licks her pink lips. “Ohh, look at the sweets! Cubes and cakes, Azi! And look at those! Oh! They look like tiny rain drops!”

  We gaze together into the window at the little cakes artfully arranged to form the word, “Welcome.” Again we linger, taking in the array of colors and whispering about the slumbering shop keepers dressed in cheerful striped gowns and aprons and oddly shaped hats. Tib slinks away from us to the next shop while we ogle the tasty looking treats, our mouths watering. When we finally tear ourselves away and come to his side, Margy laughs.

  “We’re enthralled by sweets and magic, and this is where Tib finds his fancy,” she giggles.

  The display in this shop is cluttered with all sorts of metals and ropes. Wooden crates filled with gears and pikes and screws and nails are stacked to the ceiling precariously beside the window, as though they’re about to tip. Tucked in the corner, looking rather grumpy, a red-nosed, round-faced merchant in a greasy leather apron sits with his arms crossed, snoring loudly. As we watch, his face starts to twitch. The long hairs of his mustache wind up around his nose. The shopkeeper sneezes so loudly that the crates in the window teeter dangerously. Giggles echo from the silence.