Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1)

by Missy Sheldrake

  “Well, you can call me Flit.” She darts across the room and back again. “I flit here, I flit there. Do you have any sugar cubes or fruit juice?” She asks. I think of the little cubes in Margy’s fairy house and Sarabel’s handful in the garden. My thoughts meander through that afternoon that seems so long ago now. The sun was so beautiful that day, glittering through the summer leaves overhead. It was such a perfect afternoon. I sigh and smile, and rest my head back against my soft mattress remembering Margary’s sweet laughter. “Ahem!” Flit coughs and flies up to look into my face.

  “Sorry...” I think for a moment. “Was it my turn?” I had something important I wanted to ask, but the question escapes me now.

  “No, I asked you if you had some juice or sugar, but you didn’t answer me.”

  “Oh, right. I think I do. I’ll go check.” I get all the way to the kitchen before I blink back to my senses. I was trying to find out about my mother, but the conversation got unhinged. I don’t know who to be angrier with, Flit for leading it astray or myself for allowing her to. I grab a handful of sugar and take the stairs back up two at a time. Flit is waiting for me on the edge of her pitcher, where the cricket is singing softly again. “Here,” I say. “Please don’t do that again.” She looks up at me and studies my face for a moment, then breaks into laughter.

  “I’m just playing the game,” she grins, “Games are supposed to be fun, you know.” She takes a cube and crunches into it, chewing happily. “Your turn,” she says around a mouthful. I take a deep breath and tick down the mental list of what I need to know about. My mother, and my father, too, and then the diamond. I’m sure she can answer everything I need to know. Maybe even tell me about the curse.

  “Is my mother safe?” I ask.

  “I imagine so. Is your hair always just yellow, or does it change?” She licks her lips and takes another bite, humming happily to herself.

  “It’s always yellow...” I press my fingertips to my eyes and try to focus. She isn’t giving me very thorough answers, and it’s beginning to annoy me. “Flit, please. My mother is very dear to me. All that I know right now is that she’s missing and we don’t know why or how or whether she’s safe. I just need to know what’s going on. Please.”

  “Well, that isn’t really a proper question.” She shakes her head and licks her fingers.

  “Well, ‘I imagine so’ isn’t really a proper answer, is it?” I snap. “Tell me what’s going on!”

  “Really, it’s an easy game, and fun if you know how to ask your questions.” She dips into the pitcher and lies on her stomach on the bed of silk and lace with her chin in her hands. The cricket comes up to settle beside her and she pats him sweetly on the head. I think for a while. What she’s told me already is that my mother is in Kythshire, and she saw her yesterday, and that she imagines she’s safe. What I want to know is why she stayed, and didn’t come out with my father. And why my father came out so broken.

  “My mother and her friends were sent to return a lost treasure to your land. Do you know if she returned it?”

  “Yes, I know.” She grins. “Do you know why she was sent to return it?”

  “Well, the king sent her. It was to repay a debt, he said.” I chew my lip. She didn’t answer properly. I think carefully on how to form the question to get the answer that I want.

  “Was my mother successful in returning the lost treasure?” I ask.

  “Good job! See? You’re getting better. Yes, she returned it.” She holds up one of the sugar cubes, “Do you want one?”

  “No, thank you.” I wait a moment for her to ask her question and I realize she’s counting that as one. “Why didn’t she come back?”

  “She promised she’d help us. She’s very sweet, your mum.” I nod. That sounds right. “Did you mean it when you said you’d tell the stinky Mage everything I say?”

  “Everything,” I say, “You said before that you wish you hadn’t agreed to come. What was it you agreed to?”

  “I agreed to watch over you and let your mother know how you’re doing here at home in exchange for her staying to help us.” She stretches and yawns, “I’m bored of the game now. I’m going to sleep. Goodnight.” She scoots around so her feet are all I can see poking out of the edge of the pitcher. Before I can protest, she’s sound asleep. Her feet flicker for a moment and disappear. I lean close to listen and can hear her breathing very softly, masked by the cricket’s soft chirp. Feeling defeated, I slip out of my trousers and crawl into my own bed. Though my mind is racing with all of the questions I ought to have asked, sleep finds me quickly.

  It isn’t long before the dreams come again. I’m standing in a lush golden field of wheat which brushes gently at my legs and fingertips as it bends and flows in the cool, sweet breeze. Overhead, the midday sun shines brightly in a cool, impossibly blue sky. I have been here before, I know. But last time, I was lying in the grass and couldn’t see all around me. Now I can see that the wheat stretches far and wide. A thin strip of black on the horizon is the only thing that separates gold from blue. I watch the breeze blow the fronds in beautiful waves that remind me of a vast, golden ocean. Slowly I turn and take in my surroundings. Behind me, on the horizon opposite the black strip of mountain, a lush green forest towers over the field. I can make out many different types of trees: firs, elm, and willow. They are such a long way away but so immense in size that I imagine they must be centuries old. I turn back to the mountains again and see a storm brewing. A massive black cloud flashes violently over the mountain, and a gray smudge of rain falls between them.

  Behind me, the wheat comes to life. I hear the chatter of small creatures, and the song of birds and frogs and katydids and crickets in beautiful harmony. The music is beautiful and enticing. I am about to turn toward it when a flicker of ruby catches my eye in the direction of the storm. I look closer and I realize that the wheat in the distance ends, and the stretch between field and mountain is heaped with endless treasure. Gold and silver, emerald and ruby spill out onto the wheat in great piles. I feel myself pulled in two directions at once. The treasure entices me. It could buy all of a small kingdom such as Cerion, but it’s right in the path of the storm. It also doesn’t belong to me. I’m not a thief.

  The sounds of the forest call me, promising friendship and shelter. I turn away from the riches and start to make the long walk to the safety of the woods. I long to see how large the trees truly are. I wonder if my tree is still there, waiting for me. As I walk, the wheat grows taller and taller until it stretches high above my head. Far in the distance behind me, a rumble of thunder causes the earth beneath my feet to tremble. I quicken my pace. The wheat is as tall as treetops now, and I can see the first bit of leafy canopy stretching higher than two times the tallest tower in Cerion.

  The edge of the wheat is lined with the thickest, most plush carpet of green moss I have ever seen. When I reach it, I kneel and brush it with my fingers, marveling in its velvety softness. The thunder rumbles closer and I look over my shoulder. In the distance, the wheat is moving erratically. Something large is tunneling through it. I step backwards into the nook of an enormous elm root that’s thicker than my torso. It’s then that I realize I’m tiny. Fairy sized.

  The tunneling creature moves with terrifying speed, almost as though it is flashing forward in bursts. I crouch behind a knob of roots, shaking. I’m certain if it finds me, it will kill me. A troupe of fairies darts out of the forest. I try to call to them to warn them, but my voice fails me. The creature in the wheat bursts forth. It reminds me of a shadow, but it gives off a much more ominous energy. It is formless, a shimmer of gray streaked with black, and transparent. Within it, I’m disturbed to catch glimpses of tiny forms spinning and churning. A hand here, a leg there. A face. The creature twists like a cyclone and the fairies from the forest charge to drive it away. They zoom around it in the opposite direction of its spin, confusing it. A tendril of black snaps out and grabs one of them, pulling him in. I cry out in disbelief as he becomes
a part of it, swallowed up to join with the other pitiful figures in the churning black shadow.

  The ground beneath me trembles again, this time caused by heavy footsteps. A woman in gleaming plate armor steps out from the shelter of the trees. Her blond braid sways behind her as she draws her glowing blue sword and charges the shadowy spinning creature. “Mum!” I try to call out to her, but again my voice is mute. She doesn’t see me, she is focused on her foe. One swing is all she needs. She slices sideways through the shadow’s middle and it bursts apart with a deafening thunderous rumble.

  Lying in a heap where it once twisted and swirled are nearly a dozen tiny bodies. Their wings are limp, their clothes disheveled. Mum kneels and carefully scoops the battered and bloodied little creatures into her arms. When she turns to carry them into the woods, she looks at me. The face is familiar, but it’s wrong. It isn’t my mother’s; it’s as if I’m looking into a mirror. It’s me. She presses a finger to her lips and nods at me, and then she disappears between the tree trunks into the depths of the forest.

  I wake with a lingering feeling of wonder and optimism. It feels like a festival day, like I know I have something exciting to look forward to. Warm morning sun splashes over my bed and a cool, autumn-like breeze drifts in from the window to brush my cheeks. I smile and stretch and snuggle deeper into my blankets to savor the warmth and comfort of my bed. The gentle, rhythmic swish of a file on metal outside my window soothes me. It is such a lovely familiar sound: the sound of burrs being filed away, of a blade being made new. I can almost see the thin, freshly polished sword edge in my mind’s eye as I listen to my father work. Then I realize it’s wrong. My father...

  I stumble out of bed and pull on my filthy, rumpled trousers from the day before. I run barefooted to his room. His bed is unmade and abandoned. So is the chair. Why is no one here to watch him? I curse under my breath as I realize that that task was supposed to be mine. I was so distracted by Flit last night that I left him unattended. My feet barely touch the stairs as I speed through the house and skid to a stop at the back door. There he stands in the bright morning sun, working at repairing a sword held by a clamp at his bench. He slides the file along the blade with a perfect stroke and leans down to assess it, one eye closed.

  “Good morning, my dear,” he says in a singsong voice. I stand, mouth agape, watching him.

  “Good...” I blink and shake my head. I’m dreaming. I must still be dreaming. If Da was really awake, he wouldn’t be casually sharpening swords. He’d be packing his horse. Readying to go and find my mother. But the pebbles pressing into the soft soles of my bare feet feel real enough, and the wood of the door frame is as rough as it ever has been when I graze my fingers over it. I clear my throat. “Feeling all right?” I manage in my confusion. He turns to me and winks.

  “Never better.” He slides the file over the blade once more and takes a strip of oiled leather to start the polish. One hand loosens the clamp and the other closes over the sword’s hilt. Then it happens. He falls to his knees, his free hand flying up to his ear as the other grips the hilt tighter. His eyes roll back into his head and he starts to scream. I’m at his side instantly, desperate to pry his fingers free from the hilt, but his grip is too strong. He’s lying on the ground now, his body shaking and convulsing.

  “Let go, Da!” I cry, grabbing the sword by its ornate guard with both hands. I clamp my feet around his wrist and pull, and my hands slip to the newly sharpened blade which slices into my skin so cleanly that I barely feel it. The sword finally comes free and I fling it away. My father groans and turns to his side. I clench my bleeding hands into fists to slow the flow of blood and kneel beside him.

  “Breathe, just breathe,” I whisper into his ear, rubbing his shoulder with my bloody fist, leaving a smear of red against the soft blue. He rolls onto his back, panting, and I help him to sit up. “Just rest for a moment,” I say as he hunches forward, his pale brow beaded with sweat. My thoughts are clouded with rage. Da is cursed, too. I want to find out who did this to us and make them hurt. I want them to feel just as helpless. Whoever it is, I want to make them beg. The dark thoughts jar me. I know it isn’t right to think this way.

  It’s bad enough that I’m cursed, but I can take up a new skill if I need to. I’m young. But my father has worked at this his whole life. His livelihood is at stake. He’s renowned all over the city for his artistry at forging weapons. Everyone knows the pride he takes in his work and the love he puts into even the smallest job. People come from other kingdoms to seek him out. If anyone finds out he’s been cursed, he’ll be ruined.

  “Hello?” Mouli’s voice calls as I hear our front door open and close. She bustles about the kitchen and I pat Da on the back with the flat of my fist.

  “Da, can you stand?” I think about the aftereffects of the curse on me. He’ll be dizzy and tired, but he should be able to get up. He nods weakly and I help him to a stool. I have just enough time to kick the sword under the bench and shove my bloody hands into my pockets before Mouli appears in the doorway.

  “Benen! You’re up and about? How wonderful.” My father grunts and gives a halfhearted wave. He looks a little green and I’m sure he’s trying hard to hold the contents of his stomach.

  “I thought he could use a bit of sun,” the lie is bitter on my tongue. What am I becoming?

  “Wonderful. I’ll set the breakfast out, oh and Azi, this came for you this morning from the palace.” She holds up an envelope with a tassel and a purple seal. I groan inwardly, but I force a smile.

  “Thanks, Mouli. I’ll read it at the table.” She ducks back inside and I lean close to Da’s ear to whisper. “Da, don’t say anything to Mouli. We’ll talk about it after breakfast, okay?” He nods weakly and I help him up from the stool with my hands still balled into fists. I have to do something about them. After I help Da to the table, I jog to the stairs. “I just have to run upstairs for a moment,” I try to sound casual, grateful that Mouli’s too distracted by the morning meal to notice the blood. The last thing I need right now is her fussing over me.

  “Mm,” Mouli slices up a melon. “Best change those filthy clothes while you’re at it.” She clucks her tongue with disapproval.

  In my room I dunk my hands into my washbowl and work the red-brown crust from my fingers. When I’m able to open them, I clean my palms, careful not to reopen the wounds. Thankfully, the cuts across each palm are clean and not too deep. They don’t need stitching, and they should heal well if I get them bandaged. If I have time later, I’ll go to the conclave. In the meantime, I wrap them with a stash of gauze I keep in my dresser and change into a simple frock to appease Mouli.

  The silver pitcher glints in the corner of my vision as I’m lacing the ties at the side of the bodice, and I hear the tiniest sneeze. I take a moment to listen to my father and Mouli talking downstairs. Mouli is telling him about a new stall at the market. It seems a safe enough conversation to buy me a little time. I step to the windowsill and peer inside the pitcher.

  “Flit?” I whisper. There’s a rustling of fabric scraps and then her face appears, blinking up at me.

  “It stinks like blood and metal,” She pinches her nose. “Did you kill someone?”

  “No!” I whisper adamantly.

  “Oh, good,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “What is it, why did you wake me up?”

  “I just wanted to see if you were still here.”

  “Typical,” she says, and burrows back into the silk and lace. I peek inside and see the glint of the diamond flash back at me from beneath her makeshift pillow. The cricket has gone. I have so many questions for her, but I don’t think I’m ready for another game just yet. I glance at Rian’s hatch and decide to let him sleep. Right now, my concern is for my father.

  Chapter Nine: Madness

  Mouli gives me an appraising look as I return to the kitchen and sit beside my father. Her eyes linger on my bandaged hands but she simply shakes her head and lays a bowl of boiled eggs down beside me. She’s
used to me being bandaged and bruised. Next to me Da is frowning, and I can tell his thoughts are racing behind his eyes. We let Mouli go on and on about the latest gossip in town while we fill our plates. It takes me a moment as I chew my breakfast to realize she’s talking about a ball. My eyes slide to the official-looking envelope tucked beside my plate. I take it and break the seal, which I recognize to be Sarabel’s: a rose crossed over a fleur-de-lis.

  A ROYAL INVITATION

  Sq. Azaeli Hammerfel

  is Requested to Attend the Ball

  In Celebration of the Sixteenth Birthday

  Of Her Majesty Princess Sarabel

  Beginning Sunset on the Twenty-First of Autumnsdawn

  Year 37 of the Age of Peace

  Present This Invitation for Entry into the Palace

  Please Respond Yes or No as Soon as Possible

  I sit reading the invitation over and over for so long that my father and Mouli both come to look over my shoulder. It seems preposterous to me, getting an invitation to go to a ball in the midst of everything else that’s happening. How can anyone celebrate at a time like this? Then I remember that these crises are my own. Everyone else is going on with their everyday lives. Most people don’t even realize that my mother is missing, and my father and I are cursed. All they know is that our guild is on the King’s Quest. I set the paper down beside my plate.

  “Well, I’m glad to have an excuse to decline,” I say quietly. It’s true. Even if nothing else was going on, I don’t care much for dressing in fine gowns and dancing at court.

  “Nonsense!” Mouli bats my shoulder with a towel, “That, my dear, is just the medicine you need. Something to lift you up and brush you off. You’ve had a bad time of it these couple of weeks. We all need to forget our troubles once in a while.”

  “Forget my troubles?” Is she honestly suggesting I just set aside the fact that I might never see my mother again? That my family might be ruined?