Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1)

by Missy Sheldrake

  “He still sleeps, your Majesty.” I leave it there. This isn’t the time or place to go into further detail. When he offers me his apologies and his hopes that my father is well soon, I know in my heart that he’s being genuine. He then turns to Rian, who he offers a smile with a hint of apology. He must know that Rian’s been silenced, and he is respectful enough not to speak to him. Had he done so, Rian would have been obligated to reply. I notice as we turn to leave how very tired the king looks. It isn’t overly obvious, but I’ve seen it before in my own father: the hunch of his shoulders, the circles under his eyes from too much worrying.

  Rian and I follow the crowd into the ballroom and I stare in awe. As if the grounds and the reception hall hadn’t been extravagant enough, the ballroom has been washed and draped in white. Thousands of crystals dangle from the ceiling by silken ribbons. They turn and sway and cast brilliant reflections across the shining floor. It has the same effect as the sunlight through Flit’s wings, and it’s just as dizzying, so much so that I have to hold tight to Rian’s arm to keep myself from tipping among the dancing beams.

  “It’s absolutely stunning,” I whisper. Rian shakes his head and waves a hand dismissively at the décor, then points at me, leans down, and steals a quick kiss. I grin and feel my cheeks warm. A squeal of excitement shatters the moment. Over his shoulder, I see a team of giggling girls peeking around a pillar. “Brace yourself,” I say. Just then, the royal family files in and the musicians begin to play. The king and queen and Prince Eron and Princess Amei pair up together to start off the ball, and a page taps Rian on the shoulder.

  “Her Highness requests you join her on the dance floor,” he says. Rian flashes me a helpless, wide-eyed look before he turns to meet the Princess’s request. I try to hide my disappointment as he bows to Sarabel and takes her hand. If either of us had to dance, I truly hoped it would be together, especially for the first dance. I watch the three couples move gracefully across the floor and soon they are joined by more and more pairs until the crowd of dancers is too thick for me to see much. Occasionally I catch a whirling glimpse of him. It’s then that Princess Margy tugs on my skirt and looks up at me, feverish with excitement.

  “Let’s go now. Nobody will notice. They’ll just be dancing.” She takes my hand and we weave together between the guests and the pillars of the ballroom until she waves me in through a hidden door off the side of the ballroom. When she pulls it closed behind us, the sounds of the ball beyond are blocked out completely.

  “What is it you wanted to show me?” I crouch to her level. She looks perfectly in place here amongst the exquisite furniture, dressed in her lavender silk gown that shimmers with silver embroidery and drips with pearls. The walls are lined in dark, ornately carved paneling, and warm fire crackles merrily in the hearth. The room is otherwise empty.

  “Not here,” she whispers secretively, and leads the way out of the room and through a narrow corridor lined with the occasional pair of palace guards.

  As she passes each guard, Margy calls out to them: “’lo Fen. “’lo Mari.” “’lo Vince.” In turn, the guards wiggle their fingers at her and offer her a smile, and their eyes scan over me appraisingly. After dozens of similar greetings through the winding corridors, the princess stops at an elaborately painted door, pulls it open and then waves me through again. “Wait ‘til you see,” she whispers.

  I step through the door into another richly decorated room, but this one is a little less pristine than the last. Here there are stacks of books piled about, and a half-finished needlepoint is draped on one of the velvet arms of a chair near the fireplace, where the embers have died to a quiet black crackle. Two large desks adorn opposite walls, set in front of shelves that stretch up so high that they require a rolling ladder to reach the top. I lift my skirts to step over a tiny model of the kingdom carefully arranged with miniature subjects. Across the room, Margy disappears behind a drape that’s stretched from the corner of the desk to the wall.

  “I’m not sure I should be in here,” I say to her uneasily as I cross by the desk, which is piled with official-looking documents. Still, I’m hopeful. My goal tonight was to find the missing pages of those books to help us break the curse, and also any clues that might lead me to what Eron could be plotting. This is a perfect place to begin my search.

  “It’s just our study,” she says. “It’s okay. Look here.” She waves me into the little cubby behind the curtain and I have to gather my skirts up in order to keep from bumping anything. The drape closes behind us and suddenly I feel as if I’m someplace secret and wonderful. This small corner of the room is the princess’s own, private space. Her colorful drawings are scattered over the walls, and the book shelves are piled with storybooks and dolls and stuffed toys. She kneels and peers at the little tarnished silver jewel box that had previously been in the garden.

  “Twig,” she whispers as she kneels there, her hands folded neatly her lap. She grins. “Twig, it’s okay. Yes, she’s here.” she pauses. “Oh, you want me to show her that first? Okay.” She slides a children’s book from the shelf and hands it to me. “Will you read this to me?” she asks, and tucks her knees up under her chin beside me.

  The cover of the book is plain and unadorned, but when I open it I’m enchanted by the fantastic illustrations that greet me. I turn the page and gasp at a drawing of a woman with a long, blonde braid dressed in shining armor. She wields a great glowing two-handed sword against a twisting, dark mass. The artist has drawn tiny glimpses of hands, feet, wings, and frightened faces spinning and whirling within the harsh black twisting lines of the mass. The warrior wears a grimace of determination as she arcs her sword to slice at the foe.

  “She looks just like you, doesn’t she, Azi?” Margy scoots closer to me and points to the blond braid.

  “She does,” I say, a little rattled. “Where did you get this?”

  “Oh, here somewhere,” Margy answers dismissively.

  “Go on, read it,” Flit’s whisper almost makes me jump. I had forgotten about her. I take a moment to compose myself before I begin to read aloud.

  Chapter Fourteen: Fairy Tales

  “There once was a fair warrior whose aim was always true, because her heart belonged to her sword, and her sword was one with her heart. Together, the two left no foe undefeated. But this power did not intoxicate her as it would most men. Instead, she traveled the lands seeking to snuff out all manner of evil, and wickedness, and selfishness and cruelty. She journeyed over mountains and plains, through deserts and snow, until one day she crossed into an enchanted forest.

  “The creatures who dwelt there were so pure of heart and so innocent that they did not know deception or danger. They lived in peace and prosperity, and kept themselves well hidden from outsiders. And so imagine their surprise when they one day came upon the warrior sleeping on a thick bed of moss at the edge of their forest. They did not know what to make of the warrior, for she was such a giant to them, and foreign. At first when she woke, the warrior was startled to find herself so surrounded, but the creatures were trusting of her, and she was delighted by their kind spirit and playful manner, and they soon became friends.

  “As it was her quest, the warrior spent many months exploring the land of the fairies seeking out wickedness to defeat, but despite her efforts, she could find no evil in their land. One day, when she had been walking endlessly among the golden grasses and colorful flowers, she came upon a curious sight. A deep pool of glimmering light stretched out before her. It was perfectly round and still, and its contents glimmered like the stars in the sky even in the sunlight. The warrior was entranced by the sight, and knelt to dip her fingers into it, but the fairies cried out to warn her.

  “’Do not touch the pool, for it is the source of all magic. It must not be tainted by those who do not understand it!’ The warrior knelt quietly, enticed by the sparkling surface. From time to time, streaks of it would shoot off into the sky in a powerful, glittering jet like a shooting star. Eventually, h
er curiosity swayed her, and she removed her glove and dipped her fingers into the pool. When she held them up, she saw that they had blackened with coils that wound in thick lines. In the distance, for the first time in the many months she had spent in their land, she heard the ominous rumble of thunder.

  “Lightning struck the mountain in the distance, and all of the fairies fled the pool in fear. The warrior rose to her feet and turned toward the storm. A strange sound chilled her to her very bones, and she readied her sword as she watched the coming foe. The twisting shadow shot her through with terror as it approached, but she did not falter. Even when she could see swallowed within it the faces of her small friends, she stood her ground. She swung her sword true and sliced through the shadow, which all at once disappeared, leaving her battered friends in a heap in the grass.

  “The warrior tended to them until they were well again. She swore an oath that she would forever guard their wellspring from harm, and defend the fairies from the twisting shadows which she believed to be birthed by the abuse of their magical source. And so she stayed with them until she grew weary from uselessness, and lonesome for her own kind. Because the fairies did not like to see their friend so downtrodden, they agreed that she should go and find her true love, which is the right of all those with hearts that are pure. But before she bade them farewell, she made them promise that they would call on her if they ever had need of her sword again.

  “The warrior did eventually find her one true love, and when she was too old and weak to keep her promise, she passed her sword to her own daughter, and with it her vow. And they all continued to live in peace happily and forevermore.”

  I stare at the drawing on the page of the woman that could be me, or my mother, kissing a man who doesn’t at all resemble my father, with fairies circling them joyfully, throwing sparkling bits of magic at them. In her arms is a baby with wispy golden hair, and the sword strapped to her back has a familiar blue glow to it. I shake my head. It’s just a strange coincidence. It has to be. I flip to the front again and read the bookmaker’s mark. It’s over a hundred years old. But why have I never heard the tale before? It seems like just the sort of story my mother would have told me at bedtime.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Flit prods.

  “Now will you come out, Twig?” Margy whispers, “What? Who? Who’s coming?” Her eyes go wide and she snaps the curtain closed and presses a finger to her lips. Not a moment later, the door opens and slams shut again.

  “Someone will hear,” a familiar voice whispers. Margy clings to me, her eyes still wide. I peer through the narrow crack between the curtain and the desk and see Eron gripping a woman by the arms. He pushes her against the wall beside the door and kisses her. Her long blue-black hair falls in a curtain over her bare arm, which is almost completely covered in the black coils of the Mark. Viala. She tips her head back against the wall as he bends to trail his affections along her black, swirling Marks.

  “I told you we’d win him over,” she whispers, “just a little at a time. Patience.” The prince raises his head to meet her eyes and I look away as they grow more passionate. Margy blinks up at me, her face pale, and her lips pressed tightly together.

  “It’s hardly a win,” Eron growls. I hear a thud and I duck my head and close my eyes, trying with all of my might to be completely silent. “Some fancy lights and twinkling stars? That’s nothing. He’s a fool not to see what a waste it is to deny ourselves the power we could harness.”

  “And that,” Viala’s voice is silky smooth, “Is why we’re taking things into our own hands.” There’s another period of kissing and breathy whispers obscured by the rustling of fabric and I slide my hands to cover Margy’s innocent ears. “Patience,” Viala says again through a soft moan, drawing out the end of the word like the hiss of a snake.

  “That’s easy for you to say, while I sit useless. Those fools should have arrived at the border by now. Why hasn’t the offering worked yet? What if we were wrong in sending her?”

  “Don’t worry,” she purrs. I peek out to see her caressing his hair back. “I’m certain she was the best offering. Just give it time. Curses don’t break as easily as they’re doled. And if it doesn’t work, then we move to the next on the list.” I press my back up against the side of the desk as I hear the prince’s footsteps approach. A spattering of glitter puffs in front of my eyes.

  “Don’t make a sound. He can’t see you, but he might hear you.” Flit says silently. I hold my breath and look to Margy, who I can feel pressing into my leg, I can’t see her at all. When I tip my head back, the prince is standing just an arm’s reach away from me, rifling through the mess of pages on the desk.

  One of them drifts to the ground beside my knee, old, yellow, and torn into the shape of a fairy’s wing. I know it immediately as Uncle’s research from so long ago, and now I see that it’s a list. My mother’s name is at the top, followed by my own. Beneath them are listed a variety of legendary magical items, and some lesser known objects I’m unfamiliar with. At the heading of the list is written: Lost Treasures. My mother’s name is circled, and so is another object, an amulet.

  The prince shoves the curtain aside to retrieve the list, and I have to quickly pull the fabric of my skirt away to keep him from catching it accidentally. He storms back to Viala, who is casually adjusting the incredibly low neckline of her deep red gown. “We should have sent the real amulet with them, not the replica. I told you that. Just in case they didn’t accept that Paladin. We’ve based this entire plan on some old baby story!”

  “That amulet is too important,” she presses a hand to his chest and leans in to kiss his neck. “I’ve told you. You need to keep it safe.” She takes him by the collar and grazes her painted lips across his jaw. I look away again, thinking of Princess Amei who seemed so alone in the reception line despite the fact that she was standing right beside her prince, who ought to have been trying harder to make her feel more at home. I think of how cold he was to her at Rian’s trial, how he spent the entire time sitting with his back angled away from her, talking to Viala. It all makes sense now. Beside me, I feel Margy shudder, and I close my arms around her as Viala goes on.

  “It’s not just a story. It’s history based on fact. I researched their line. We’re rid of the paladin already. When Gaethon arrives at the border, Redemption will take care of him and the others just for good measure. Then we just have to worry about the girl, who conveniently remains oblivious. You can easily lure her to you when the time is right, and then I’ll finish her myself. With their line out of the way and your curse debt paid in full, nothing will stand between us and the Wellspring. Then, we build our kingdom. Be patient, my darling.”

  “BAD MAGE!” Flit’s voice booms in my mind, and I clap my hands over my mouth to keep from yelping. Viala’s eyes flick to our corner and I hold my breath, certain for a moment that she can see us.

  “Come, they’ll be missing you,” she snaps her attention back to him and they kiss, forcing me to avert my eyes as he slides his hand over her chest. When the door eventually clicks shut, I finally allow myself to breathe.

  “See, they’re plotting bad things,” Margy whispers. “Twig told me. I didn’t believe him at first, but then I started to pay attention.” A cascade of silvery dust shimmers down over us and I feel a strange crawling across my skin as I become visible again. Margy looks up at me gravely. I close my eyes, rest the back of my head against the desk, and press my shaking hands into my skirts to still them. Of course Rian and I had our suspicions about the prince, but I never would have dreamt that he’d be so brazen and so...I don’t know. I can’t even think of a word to describe what I just overheard, what I just saw.

  “How long have those two been...” I try to think of how to put it delicately to Margy’s innocent ears. “...friendly?”

  “Oh, a long time,” she whispers. “I saw them together after Brother returned from his touring, and he told me I’d better not tell anyone. And I didn’t! I ke
pt his secret. I’m good at secrets, Twig says.”

  “Does Viala know that you know?” I smooth a fold in my skirt, forcing myself not to seem overly concerned.

  “Only if Brother told her.” she says as she peers into the shelf again. I’m sure he must have, which makes me frightened for her safety, but I’d never say that to Margy. She reaches her hands into the shelf, palms up, and leans forward.

  “They mean to kill us,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “But why?” If Margy hears, she doesn’t answer.

  “Won’t you say hello now,” she asks her empty hands sweetly as she draws them close to her chest, “please?” She turns very slowly and carefully to face me, grinning. I look into her palms curiously, only to find them empty. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she asks. For a moment, I’m disappointed. I had really believed that she’d found an actual fairy of her own. “Oh,” she looks down at her empty hands, “she doesn’t see you. I really thought she would! Don’t you believe, Azi? I thought it would be easy for you, by now.”

  “Look harder,” Flit whispers, and I do. I stare at Margy’s delicate little fingers, gently curved around thin air, my eyes following along the lines of her palms. “Not at her hands, genius. Look at him.” I purse my lips and shake my head and try to change my focus to the fairy that everyone’s telling me to see, that isn’t there. I stare until my eyes blur and lose focus and then something strange begins to happen.

  A tiny face with a pointed chin and long nose and a dark, wide-eyed gaze emerges slowly from the bend of her fingers. It looks up, studying me. Slowly, shoulders tufted in yellow dandelion appear, and a tunic of leaf green, and from the sleeves stretch impossibly spindly, long arms. His legs are just as lean, covered in trousers that are spotted with dirt and threadbare with holes. Every bit of exposed skin is brown and smudged with dirt. His black hair is streaked with green, and long fringes of it fall over his eyes so that I wonder how he can manage to see anything at all. Last to appear are his wings, which are quite different from Flit’s larger, iridescent ones. His are two jagged twigs that jut straight out from his back. Just as I start to wonder whether they work to lift him, he pushes off from Margy’s hands and punches the air joyously.