Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1)

by Missy Sheldrake

  Yes, climb. My feet are swift and sure in the darkness as I leap and cling to the rough stone. They find each crevice perfectly, anchoring me as I push myself up. Climbing feels good. Free. The higher I go, the better I can see the city stretched out before me. In the dye fields, they tell stories of Zhaghen with eyes full of awe. How beautiful it is, how majestic. For me, it’s the place that breeds greed. Cruel. Twisted. Soiled.

  “Higher.”

  Yes, higher. The towers are dark tonight, unprotected. Not as scary as I thought they’d be, reaching up into the sky. I creep closer to a slotted window and pause. Sniff. The air here is thick with the scent of old paper. Books. A fan of shining black hair flicks into my memory as my fingers grip the stone through soft leather gloves.

  “Inside.”

  Yes, inside. My feet find the ledge and I crouch on the sill. Tucked safely into the shadows, I peer below into the darkness. It was a good climb, a long climb. Now I’m high, higher than any city boy could climb. Higher than I’ve ever climbed. Far up above the city. So easy here to ignore the suffering below. To live unaware of it. The cries of the starving, the stench of the gutters, they could never reach this high. Only the Mages. Mages and students. Worse. Sorcerers. My hatred for them pushes me forward.

  “The hearth.”

  Yes, the hearth. I slide from the sill and land lightly on my feet. My new boots are silent on the plush carpet. The room is still. Huge. Dark except for dying embers crackling far beyond tables piled with pages and books. Shelves. Scrolls. Bottles and jars. The ceiling is high. Domed. Glass. Stars shine above. No one is here this late. The tower is asleep. Empty, except for books. Hundreds. Thousands. Ancient. Irreplaceable. Sacred. Neatly arranged on dozens of shelves. Good to hide behind. To sneak behind.

  “Start it.”

  I take a sheaf of parchment from the shelf as I pass through the last row and creep forward. The crackle of coals lures me. It’s dying, but soon it won’t be. Soon it will grow. I light the sheaf, watch the edges flare and curl black. I move away through the room. One by one I tuck the burning pages into place on shelves and tables. Everything is so dry and old, it catches quickly. I back toward the window, my escape. Watch the glow of flame that crawls up shelves and across tabletops. I did this. I alone. This is my revenge. Their precious knowledge, turning to char. Ashes. Dust.

  “Outside.”

  Yes, outside. I slip through the window. My fingers find the crevices and I start my descent. Watch the smoke pour from the window. Hear the cries from inside. Fire! Fire! My feet are swift. My hands are steady. I land lightly on the cobbles and stroll away from the smoking tower. The gloves come off, tuck into my tattered bag. They’re too fine for the rest of me. They’d give me away.

  “On to the next.”

  Yes, on to the next. I step around the corner, into the gathering crowd. Necks craned up, watching smoke billowing. Some rush the doors with buckets of water, but even in this crisis they’re turned away. No one notices me, the whelp in field clothes, older than a boy but not yet a man. I’m nothing to them. Unimportant. Unnoticed. I disappear as the crowd thickens around the base of the tower. On to the next.

  Six pillars of black smoke rise into the night sky. Six towers burn. My work is done. The city is awake now. Watching, Screaming. Crying. Cheering. I don’t need to run. Nobody suspects me. Nobody notices the poor boy in field clothes.

  “Into the sea.”

  Yes, into the sea. I tuck my new boots safely into my bag and jump from the harbor wall into the deep. The water is warm and calm. I go under. Scrub the soot from my hands, face, and hair. Masts of tall ships loom before me, dark shapes against the darker sky, anchored in the inky water. I’m a fair swimmer. I find the ship with the crest I need: purple chevron under a blue ring. I reach it and pull myself into a skiff lashed beside. Rest a moment. Listen. On deck, men are talking. Watching the smoke rise. Wondering if it will delay their departure.

  “Say something.”

  Yes, I ought to.

  “Ho there, sirs!” I call up. Footsteps. Faces peering down at me. Men with trimmed beards. Hair tied neatly. Uniforms. Swords.

  “Who goes?” one says.

  “It’s just a boy,” the other answers.

  “You swim all that way, boy?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m a fair swimmer, sir.”

  “What for?”

  “I need passage to Cerion, sir.”

  “Passage to Cerion!” Scoffing. Laughter. “We’re no charter, boy! Find yourself another ship.”

  “I have no money for a charter, sir. I mean to work for it.”

  “Work for it!” More laughter. Footsteps. A deep voice growls about the racket. The men go quiet. Hushed discussion of the boy in the skiff. A broad man with a pitted face and squinted eyes leers down at me. Looks me over. Calls out an order for the rope ladder.

  “Climb it,” he says. I do, as quickly as the flames that licked the shelves. I stand before him. Bow respectfully. “You want to work, eh?” He eyes me. “Why should I let you?”

  “I’m a fast learner, sir. A hard worker. I don’t complain. I’ll do any task. I’m not squeamish. I’m quick. I can climb. I can swim.” I say. He grabs my wrists, inspects my hands. Looks at my fingers stained red.

  “From the dye fields,” he grunts and lets go. “Hard working, I’m sure of it. Ever been on a ship before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’ll get seasick.”

  “I’ve been on a carriage before, sir. A bumpy one. Never got sick, sir.”

  “A carriage!” Laughter again.

  “A carriage is a far cry from a ship tossed by the waves of a storm. We’ve got a crowd in the rows ashore, boy. Men. Strong men. All waiting to work for passage. Seafaring men. Men who know what they’re doing.”

  “I know. That’s why I swum out. I could have stowed away, but I want to work. I’ll work harder than them. I’m honest. I won’t argue. I don’t eat much. I don’t like to sleep. I’m respectful. I don’t steal. I’m not afraid of anything. I’ll do my work, you won’t even notice me. None of them swum out. They don’t want it as much, sir.”

  “Look at him, Cap, sir. Somethin’s not right,” one of the uniformed men murmurs. I cast my eyes down. Don’t let them look too hard. Feel Cap’s eyes on me.

  “Climb the foremast. Untie the lashing on the fore moonraker. Stow it back proper again.” He crosses his arms. Smirks. I don’t question. I run to the ratlines and climb all the way to the top. Even anchored in the calm, the mast rocks. I grip hard with my legs. Work the knots. Drop the edge of the highest sail. Bind it up again. Tie it. They watch from below. I’m sure they’re impressed. A boy from the dye fields shouldn’t know knots, rigging, and sails. I don’t know it, but it comes to me anyway. I lash it up again, exactly as it was. Make perfect knots. Slide down the ratlines. Land light and sure at the captain’s feet. Salute.

  “Well done.” He’s impressed. Pleasantly surprised. I nod once, but don’t smile. Don’t want to look too proud. Powerful men don’t like that. “You can stay on. Do as you’re told. One wrong move and we cast you over. Agreed?” He offers his hand, and I shake it. “What’re you called, boy?”

  “Tib, sir.”

  “Welcome aboard, then, Tib.”

  The journey is long. Days into weeks. I sleep anywhere but below, where the wood encases me, reminding me of the trees, the roots, the past. The crow’s nest is my favorite. Here I can see all around me. Watch passing ships grow and shrink. See ocean stretch to a thin curve, all the way out on the horizon. I’m talented with the lamplight, and I learn how to send signals to the navy ships that follow us, too slow to keep our pace. We are their scout ship. We watch for danger.

  Soon, I am invisible to those more important to me. I can lurk. Pick up conversations. Learn things. One of those navy ships carries Prince Vorance. The only prince of Sunteri. He courts the eldest daughter of the king of Cerion. Her name is Sarabel. She is smitten with him. Six ships come with him including ours.
Six is an auspicious number, they say. A circle number. I’m not sure what it means, but I can’t ask. If I do, they’ll know that I’ve been listening.

  One month. We sail into the mouth of the river they call Jairun. I don’t like it. We move slower here, through the center of Elespen, where the jungle creeps into the water on both sides of us. Days more of this. Days of watching jungle become village and jungle again, and then sand and only sand as far as I can see. An ocean of sand. Too much like Sunteri. Too much like the home I never wanted to see again. I feel the panic rise in me. I don’t want to be in the desert.

  “Sleep.”

  Yes, sleep. I curl up in the safety of the fore nest, and when I wake the stars stretch out endlessly above me. Noise. Lapping and chatting. Laughing and shouting. Bargaining. Unloading. The scrape of the hull against the pier.

  “Boy!” Cap shouts, and I slip down the ratlines and drop to his side. The deck is deserted except for the pair of watch guards at the gangway. I stand straight and look Cap in the eye, as he has told me to do. It keeps a man honest, he says, to meet his crew’s eyes.

  “Sir!” I shout. He taught me to do that, too.

  He tells me I’m a hard worker. I have earned five copper, which he jingles in a pouch. I like the sound of it. I have never held coin before. It has more weight than I expected. He tells me I can go ashore if I want to, and then he goes back below. I peer out at the city. Cresten. Capital of Elespen. It’s different from Zhaghen. Cleaner. Brighter, even in the starlight. Noisy, but the noise is happier. No towers here, to watch and rule over them. Just a castle, low and sprawling. Music leaks out from the taverns into the street. People in beautiful colors dance in the glow of torchlight. Others toss coin at them. Even in the night, merchants in booths cook and sell. The aroma is exotic and flavorful. My mouth waters.

  “Stay aboard.”

  Yes, stay aboard. I tie the coin to my belt and wrap the sash around it three times to secure it. Then I climb back into the nest and sleep again.

  I wake to the signal. The air is cooler, even with the sun bearing down. We’re sailing again, flying across the water. North still, but more west now. The jungle is far behind us, just a line of deep green between the sea and sky. I train the scope behind, find the trailing ship. Read the message. Flash the mirror to acknowledge.

  Two months now at sea, since we left Zhaghen. Sea and days of messages filled with nothing. All is well. All is well. Back and forth. Over and again. Still, the work is easy. Not like the fields. Freer, even confined to a ship. I keep to myself way up here, and nobody bothers with me. The main nest collects the same messages as mine. Cap tells me I’m the backup. My keen eye is valuable. I could do the main nest one day, if I stay on. He thinks I want a life of this. He doesn’t know.

  When they appear, Cerion’s cliffs are unmistakable. A white slash between the cloudless blue sky and the crisp blue-green sea. They grow impossibly high as we approach, so high that it would take ten of our ship’s highest masts to reach the top. As we dock I’m paid again, and told that I’m welcome back. I say little in the way of farewells. I know I’ll never return to the sea.

  The climb up the cliff seems as long as the sailing itself. Stairs and more stairs. My legs are strong, though, from climbing the ratlines. I scurry past others who trudge more slowly. The stone glints wet beneath my feet, catching the sun. Wet, but not icy, which I find strange. The wind is threatens to carry me off, and I keep close to the wall as it lashes at me. I have never felt cold like this before. Winter. Sunteri has no winter. The chill is painful. I am not dressed for it. I have my gloves. I have my new boots. No cloak, though. No sleeves to cover my arms.

  “Climb faster.”

  Yes, climb faster. The work keeps me warm. Up and up I go, until I reach the top and the city stretches out before me. Low. Plain. Clean. Kind. Someone stops me. Offers me a clay mug filled with a sweet, hot drink. Tells me I should visit their tavern. Moves on to those behind me without asking for payment. I sip it and it warms me to the toes. Children run past, laughing, cloaks of fur flapping behind them.

  “Follow them.”

  Yes, follow them. I leave my empty cup at the stall and trot after them, ignoring the numbness in my toes and the sting of cold that pinches my fingertips through my gloves. I hug myself tightly as I pass booths selling fresh fish, or baubles, or fine clothes. I slow at one that boasts barrels of ground dye powders, heaping with red and blue and orange dust.

  “Ten silver a scoop,”a pretty lady smiles at me. I wonder if she knows the work that goes into one scoop. Thousands of blooms. The picking, the hauling, the drying, the grinding. The dozens who break their backs in the field for a loaf to feed their family and a roof over their heads.

  “The children.”

  Yes, the children. I tear myself from the booth and chase after the laughter. When I catch up, I find them standing in a crowd that lines the streets. One of them, a girl just a little younger than I am with bright red curls that poke out from beneath her hat, bumps my shoulder.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asks, eying my bare arms. Her eyes are green. Jungle green. Prettier, though. I shrug. “Raefe.” She tugs the cloak of the boy beside her. Hes an older boy, with his own spyglass. He cranes his neck to peer over the crowd through it. He’s bundled. All of them are, in fur wraps and thick woven hats and strips of weaving that wind round their necks up to their noses. The girls have soft, round, pillow-like tubes which they slip their hands into to keep them warm. The colorful ribbons that trail from them flutter in the wind.

  “The carriage is coming. It’s going slow,” he says on tiptoe. “Wish we could climb up on something.”

  “Nessa said no climbing, Raefe,” says another girl with a bossy tone. “It’s too icy.” This girl is older than the first, and very prim-looking.

  “Can you see the prince? Or the princess? Can you see her round belly?” An even younger boy hops, trying to see over the crowd. “Let me look!”

  “Ruben!” The prim girl scowls and pokes the boy. “Don’t be disrespectful!”

  “Rae.” The first girl tugs the older boy again. “I need a cloak.”

  “In my bag, Saesa.” Raefe leans toward her, still watching. “No, can’t see inside the carriage. The curtains are closed. They might open them when they get closer.”

  “I want to see!” The youngest of them tugs at Raffe while Saesa rummages through his shoulder bag.

  “Here.” She pulls out a thick woolen cloak, dyed green, and hands it to me. I eye it. “Don’t be so suspicious,” she says. “It used to be Raefe’s but it’s too small now. It’s still good, though. Rube didn’t want it, so Nessa said find someone who could use it. It has a hood and everything.” She nudges me with it. My teeth chatter, but I don’t accept. A drink is one thing, but this cloak is expensive. A gift is a trick, my Nan would say. Don’t trust it. Anyone who gives freely just wants power over you. It’s true. I’ve seen it happen.

  “Here they come. They’ve opened the curtain, too!”

  “Let me up, Rae-rae,” the youngest girl whines.

  “Hold on tight, Emmie,” Raefe says as he hefts her to his shoulders. She squeals and waves to the carriage. I feel the cloak drape my shoulders and wrap snug round my arms. Sae smiles at me as she ties the laces closed. Then she ducks to peek through the mass of the crowd in front of us. I should protest, but I don’t. It’s warm. Nice.

  “Stay with them.”

  Yes, I should stay with them. The crowd around us cheers, and the carriage glints golden and purple and burnished wood in flashes as it moves past. Those before us bow, and so do I as it passes. But I’m one of the first to look up.

  “Hail, Prince Eron! Hail Princess Amei!” The crowd calls out. Inside the carriage, the princess waves happily. She is wrapped in clouds of lavender. Her skin is a dark color I haven’t seen before. Rich and brown. Beside her, the prince looks pale but strong. He smiles and nods to those who call his name. His eyes are distant, though. Troubled. I wonder if anyon
e else notices. The crowd throws favors. Beside me, Saesa gasps.

  “Oh, there she is! There she is, Rae!” She bounces with excitement and points to a rider far back in the escort. “Azaeli!” she cries.

  The knight is shorter than the other riders around her, but different. Her armor is blue like midnight with stars that flash and dazzle in the sunlight reflected off of her white cloak. The flag she waves is blue and gold check. A great two-handed sword is strapped to her saddle. Her face is covered to her cheeks with her helm. She grins and waves at Saesa, who squeals with delight.

  “Azaeli.”

  Yes, Azaeli. I watch carefully. Others in blue and gold ride beside her. Proud. Tall. Each one more different than the next. I try to pick out their professions. Five warriors, one a giant of a man. An archer with pointed ears. Two Mages. Two healers, but one of them might not be part of the group. He’s got no gold or blue.

  A score of royal guard follow those, and behind them trail a group of subjects who have chosen to walk behind the procession to the gates.

  “Will they escort him all the way to Highcastle?” Ruben, the younger boy, asks.

  “Just to the crossroads,” Saesa answers. “Then the Lake Guard will take them the rest of the way. Oh, imagine it! They could meet any kind of adventure out there! Bandits and bandywilgits. Or trolls! I’ll bet Sir Azaeli could take out twenty trolls.”

  “Oh, honestly, Saesa!” the bossy girl chides. “Only you would dream of being the knight. Imagine being the princess, whisked off to a romantic castle to be pampered and served while waiting for the royal heir to arrive. Strolling by the lake with Prince Eron...” she sighs dreamily. “I heard it’s warmer there. Better for the baby.”

  “What does a princess do but sit around all day? I’d rather have adventure! Azi is the first knight her age in decades! Imagine that!”

  “Well, I heard,” Ruben pipes up, “that the real reason is they’re sending the prince away—”

  “Ruben.” Raefe warns as the people in front of us turn curiously. He lowers Emmie to the street and stretches his neck from side to side. “Time to go home,” he says. “Take Lilen’s hand, Emmie.”