Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (32 page)

“Tibreseli Nullen,” I shout as I draw my knives and slice at a tendril. I tumble beneath the ferns as the vines whip the broad leaves that shelter me. “House Ganvent, Steward of the Last, Knifethrower, Dreamstalker, Bearer of the Guardian, Slayer of Shadows, Liberator of Valenor!”

With each title, the vines slow and shrink until everything is still. Valenor stands on the edge of the oasis, silently watching. Wearing a smile of pride. The vine-beast pauses. Curls its tendrils tight to itself. Bows its head to me.

“Tibreseli Nullen,” it thunders. “House Ganvent, Steward of the Last, Knifethrower, Dreamstalker, Bearer of the Guardian, Slayer of Shadows, Liberator of Valenor, you are welcome here. Enter.”

I glance back at Valenor. He nods to me.

“Can Valenor come, too?” I ask Gred. It rolls its shoulders and its eyes flash blue.

“Proceed,” it says with a bow, and we walk together into the oasis.

The desert is a memory in the span of a few steps, replaced by dripping green leaves. Green moss on the trees. Green grass thick and squishy beneath our feet. All around us, I feel them. Fairies, hidden. I don’t need to know where the Wellspring is. I can feel it. Its power is a beacon. It pulls me closer and closer. Fairy orbs drift behind us as we go. Watching. Listening. Curious. Their giggles make my skin prickle. Like they’re amused by some secret I don’t know.

Sunteri’s Wellspring is a fairly small pool. Maybe the size of Nessa’s dining table. Big enough for a few people to sit in. Not very deep, either. Up to my waist, probably. Not impressive at all, except that it glows like molten gold. It reminds me of the red-hot end of the blade Sir Benen hammered for me. The magic of it shines so brightly that the leaves and trunks of trees around it are pure white. Once in a while, sparks of magic spray up out of it like embers.

Even though it’s so small, the feeling of it is overwhelming. The power it holds is incredible. Like ten Sorcerer’s keeps. Like twenty Academies. It feels infinite, even though I know it isn’t. Not long ago, it was depleted. Drained completely. That’s why Mevyn needed me. That’s why he forced me to help him. I used to hate him so much.

“Mevyn,” I fight the lump in my throat to call his name.

All around the pool, they wait. Watch. Whisper. Fairies. Eyes between the trees. Flashes of wings among the leaves. When I look closer, my healed eye can see their full forms. Hiding. Waiting. I feel like I know some of them. Like I must have carried them.

The surface of the pool ripples and glitters. The first thing to emerge is his spear tip. The tips of his golden wings. His golden hair. His face like a burnished statue. His armored shoulders, also gold. He drifts toward me through the pool until only his toes are grazing the surface of it, leaving a rippling wake behind him. He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of my face, close enough to touch me.

“My friend,” he says and opens his arms in a welcoming gesture. “What a relief to see you. I feared we might have lost you to the Dusk.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Mevyn,” I smile. I never would have thought it, but it really is. It’s a relief. Even if I am only dreaming. It’s like a part of me was missing and now it’s back again. He moves closer and stares into my healed eye.

“Something new,” he says.

“It’s a long story,” I shrug.

“Dub,” he says simply.

“How did you--?” I start, and he shakes his head.

“I see things. Glimpses. He is allied with the Dusk. He has a great hatred for you.”

“I know,” I scowl.

“No matter. I know why you have come, and I shan’t waste your time. I cannot give you what you seek, my friend,” he says. My heart sinks. The Sunteri offering was supposed to be the easy one.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because you could not bring it away with you through the dreaming,” he says mournfully.

“Oh,” I sigh.

“There is another way, my friend. But I would need to break my promise to you and to this Source.”

“What way?” I ask.

“I can deliver it myself. In the waking. You still have the tether, I see,” he smiles fondly and points to my feet.

I shrug. “I like them. They’re good boots.”

“Tib,” Mevyn glances over my shoulder at Valenor, and back to me again. “This task you’ve set for yourself, this quest, is more dangerous than you might expect. It is more than just a race to the same destination as the Dusk. It will test your will, your Light. In desperate times and difficult choices, the truth of one’s heart is revealed. Who you think you are becomes twisted.”

“I have help. Friends. They want to see the Dusk stopped just as much as I do.”

“Perhaps so, but be wary,” he warns. “For they, too, will face their inner darkness.”

“Right,” I say, “because that’s a real struggle for Lady Azaeli and Rian and the rest of the Elite.”

“You have no idea,” Mevyn shakes his head. “Do not take their Light for granted, Tib. Darkness hides in the most unlikely places.”

“Maybe,” I shrug. I don’t know why his warning annoys me so much. Maybe I just don’t want to believe him. “So what now?”

“Now you shall wake, and I shall deliver the offering to you myself,” he says.

“I’m sleeping in Kaso Viro’s tower. Do you know him?”

Mevyn glances again at Valenor with a glint of amusement.

“I have heard the name,” he smirks. There’s the Mevyn I remember. Secretive. Cocky. Obviously smarter than me.

“I’ll wake up, then,” I say. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s already on my nerves. Maybe it’s all the magic here.

I don’t wait for him to reply. I shift my thinking. I’m not here. I’m back at the tower, in the comfortable guest bed Kaso Viro offered me. Sleeping. Waking up. The oasis fades slowly. I feel myself inside my head. It’s a strange feeling. Difficult to describe. It’s the Half-Realm. The place between sleeping and awake, where Rian and Azi can go with a thought. The place I slip into that feels like walking through cobwebs.

Mevyn’s already here when I wake up. Sitting on my knee, looking smug. In his hands, he holds a red glass bottle that shines with liquid from the golden pool.

“Quickly,” he whispers to me. I take the offered bottle, and he disappears before I can think to utter goodbye.

Azi

The passage to the dungeons is dank and quiet compared to the courtyard just outside. It’s so silent my footsteps barely make a sound on the sand-worn stone as I rush down the steep slope. I imagine what it must be like to be led through here as a prisoner, as a criminal facing her sentence, and I shiver.

If it wasn’t for the light from my sword, it would be too dark to even see my feet. There are no doorways or other passages that branch off this one. The further I go down the passage, the more determined I feel. I see the archer clearly in my mind, his arrow dripping with poison, and my heart thunders in my chest. I need to know everything about him. Who is he? Why would he do such a thing? I can know. I can find out. The lure of it entices me.

The dark passage leads directly to a cell-like room with a carved wooden desk and a shelf filled with scrolls. Two palace guards flank a broad door to the side of the desk. A fairly young Mage dressed in disturbingly bright orange robes and a strange pointed hat faces them with his back to me.

The three of them are so occupied with whatever the Mage is doing they fail to notice me. I creep up behind the Mage and watch over his shoulder while he performs a complicated sleight-of-hand that involves three glass marbles and a square of silk. When the trick is done, I give a single clap. The guards startle toward me, hands on hilts, and the Mage yelps and catches his hat as it tumbles from his head.

“What-Who-Ah!” the Mage sputters and jumps to his feet. His eyes linger on my face and go wide. “H-how can I help you? That is—wh-what are you? I mean,” he musters a little courage and stands a little straighter. “What are you doing here, Lady Knight?”

“That’s Sir Hammerfel,” one of the guards gives me a nod and drops his hand from his hilt. “She’s within her rights to be here.”

His statement is as much of a surprise to me as it seems to be to the Mage. I’ve never had a reason to be here in the dungeons before, so naturally I didn’t realize I’m allowed to be.

“L-lady, S-sir Hammerfel. Pleasure, pleasure,” the Mage stammers, offers a hand to shake, and then pulls it away with uncertainty before I can reach for it. “Right. Name’s Dumfrey. Willis Dumfrey. I’ve always admired you. I mean, your, Rian. Your guild! The Elite. Admired them. Yes.” He folds his arms over his chest and rocks back on his heels as though he’s really unsure what to do with himself. His gaze lingers on the Mark on my cheek. Behind him the guards watch us both, obviously amused by his nervousness. “Wh-what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to see the archer,” I say.

“Uh, the archer, the archer,” he murmurs and rifles through the messy pile of parchment on the desk.

“He just came through,” I crane my neck to look at the papers and then glance at the guards.

“Aye, you just put a sleep on him, Dum,” one of the guards says. “It’s that one there you were just filling out.”

“Right! Well! Here it is, yes. Charges: Trespassing, High Treason, Attempted Regicide,” he scowls at the page. “Name: Unknown. Origin: Unknown. Motive: Unknown.”

“I’d like to see him, please,” I say, and the back of my neck prickles with excitement as Dumfrey gasps.

“Oh, no. I can’t allow that, Lady Knight. Once a prisoner is held asleep, I can only wake him up for trial. That’s the law. I am sorry.”

I look up at the guards and down at the paper again.

“I understand,” I nod thoughtfully. Perhaps it’s best to leave the matter to the courts, after all. Then again, this isn’t about justice. It’s about preventing another attempt at the King’s life. I turn to the guards.

“I’m concerned he won't be the first,” I say to the one who knew me. “Surely, that man has information. He had a reason to do what he did.”

I rub at my tingling forehead. Something in my heart is guiding me to this, something is insisting it’s the proper course. The memory of Margy’s dewdrop prickles my palm. The lure of magic entices me. This is right, I convince myself. In the name of the king, this is good.

“Your duty is the same as mine,” I explain. It seems like I’m starting to sway them. “To protect the throne. To preserve peace in Cerion. All I ask is for a moment to look into his eyes,” my words send a thrill through me. A hunger to experience that rush of magic again. It frightens me a little, but the fear is blotted out by the excitement of what’s to come.

“I wouldn’t dare to ask you to go against your oaths or break the law for me…” I trail off as Dumfrey screws his lips together thoughtfully.

“Don’t see the harm in it, really,” one guard shrugs at the other.

“You say you just want to look at him?” Dumfrey asks.

“Into his eyes,” I nod. I don’t know whether a person would need to be awake for me to see into their thoughts. I don’t know if I need their consent, or if it’s something I can just take. The idea of finding out makes me even more excited to try.

“If that’s all, I imagine it’s all right,” Dumfrey glances at the guards, who shrug and nod.

“Wonderful. Thank you,” I smile at the three of them. “If it goes well, I might even be able to help you fill out the rest of that form.”

They unlock the door with a series of keys and usher me down a long stone passage lined with at least a dozen more locked doors. What strikes me here is the silence. There are no cries of innocence, no catcalls or screams of frustration. There is no noise from the prisoners at all. They’re all fast asleep.

They bring me to the end of the passage and pull open a heavy reinforced door. Inside, six prisoners sleep on simple cots arranged against the walls.

I see him straight away: The archer from the alcove.

“A fighter, that one,” one of the guards says to me as I walk toward him. “Took four palace guards to get him to Dumfrey. He’s heavier than he looks, too. Must be all muscle.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly.  I creep to the edge of the cot and peer down at the man. He’s young. Early twenties, maybe. His hair is stringy and caked with something that looks like tar. His face bears the scar of a burn which stretches from his ear to his chin.

“Should we remain, Lady Knight?” The guards ask. I nod and crouch. Now that I’m here, I’m having doubts. I shouldn’t. It’s not right. But it is. If I can find out why, then we can keep it from happening again. We can keep the king safe. My hand shakes as I push the man’s eyelid open. His unremarkable brown eye stares blankly back at me.

My heart races with the influx of magic. I don’t have to make any effort at all. It swells through me and bursts out in strands of soft, glittering gold, seeping into his open eye. The release of it is such a relief that I let it flow unchecked. I tumble toward him much more quickly than I expected to, into his dreaming mind.

I’m greeted immediately by darkness and the whisper of a fervent oath.

“I do so swear fealty to you, my prince. My word is my bond,” the archer says. In his mind, he is me, and I am him.

“You understand what it means, Wrett,” Eron’s voice startles me so much that I almost pull myself back from the memory. The archer’s dark thoughts mix with mine. If I do this, I will earn his favor, he thinks. If I do this and the prince is the victor, I will rise from the filth of Redstone row and become someone worthy of respect.

“I do, Your Highness,” I say.

“Tell me, then,” Eron commands.

“I will be the one to clear the throne for you,” I say. “I swear it. When you fall. When they think you lost forever. My arrow will end him.”

“Join hands,” a third voice orders in the darkness. A woman. I fumble to reach for Eron. I feel his hand grip mine. It’s weaker than I expected. Softer. A third hand rests over ours. A slash of pain. Our blood mixes and the woman whispers a spell. Her words are foreign, but the meaning is clear. This oath is bound by blood. Even if I wanted to, I could not forsake the prince now. His death will be the king’s own sentence.

It’s too dark to see either of them, but I have dealt with this Sorceress before. She’s a beauty, with curls of rich brown hair and eyes the color of amber ale. Sybel. One day, maybe, she will see me as more than a tool for her plots. One day, when the king is dead, I might be someone to her.

My thoughts—his thoughts shift away from the darkness. Dreams, fleeting and confusing. Dreams that, under the spell of holding sleep, will be forgotten once he wakes.

The laughter of children floats carelessly in the air as I drift through the streets of Cerion’s Redstone Row. My attention is brought to a brick one-story, where the windows have been shuttered tight despite the warmth of the midsummer breeze. I step to the threshold and push the door open. Inside is far too small a gathering place for the number of tired-looking men who sit squeezed around a small, worn table. A woman in a dingy summer dress wears her worry plain on her face. Her eyes are red and swollen from tears as she fills the men’s cups with cool water from a clay pitcher.

She pauses beside one of them and rests her hand on his shoulder, but he barely acknowledges her. His eyes are far away; bleary and defeated.

“You mean to tell us there’s nothing to be done, then,” the woman says. She takes a sip from her own cup, but it does little to wash away the hoarseness and exhaustion in her voice. “Our daughter is gone, Milvare, and there is nothing to be done? And what about Tru’s boy, and Polfe’s? Are they to be forgotten, too? Throwaways? Is this what Cerion has come to?”

“His Majesty has other matters on his mind,” a tall man in Mage’s robes replies. “He hasn’t opened court for reception since the attack on High Court. He hides himself away with his advisers and refuses to hear the petty grievances of his people.”

“Petty grievances!” the woman shrieks. “Our daughter has disappeared, Milvare!”

“I don’t disagree with you, Kasha,” Milvare says as he raises a hand in surrender. “I am just telling you the truth of the matter.”

They go on talking, shouting, and I feel myself tense. Not me. Wrett. His fists are clenched, his face is hot. His hand goes to his belt, where his quiver hangs. His fingers graze the fletching. The feel of the rough-cut feathers calms his fury.

First Celli, then Mikken and Griff.

How many more kids have to disappear before something’s done? How long will that bastard sit on his throne feeling sorry for himself? Not much longer. The prince is dead. It’s time. Time to fulfill the oath I made to my prince, just days ago. Time for the New Age to begin, and all by my hand.

“All right, Lady Knight?” one of the guards asks gently. His hands are on mine. I look down at them to get my bearings. My fingers dig like claws into the archer, Wrett’s, forehead. His eye is rolled back so only the white is showing. I think of the oath, the blood bond, and hesitate.

“No,” I whisper, “I’m not all right.” Roughly, I push Wrett’s eye open further. I reach into his thoughts again and sift through them for that one moment, that memory with the Prince. If I took it away, what then? The oath would stay, but he wouldn’t know what it was. What could happen? Could he go mad from it?

He’d deserve no less
, I think as I search. My spins with the flood of magic. The rush makes me soar. I see the memory. It lingers in his mind like a dangling string. I pull at it and drag it along with me. I watch it unravel as I tumble away from his mind one last time. Again, I feel the guard’s hand on mine and his warning tone. Beneath my fingertips, Wrett convulses and shudders on the cot. His mouth foams and gurgles as I pull the memory away and fling it into the darkness.

“What was that?” the guard asks.

“He was mad,” I whisper as I watch the golden tendril fade into the shadows and disappear. “Irrational.” I work to calm my breath.

“Could have told you that, my lady,” the guard grunts.

I know it’s not his intention, but his comment makes me feel foolish. The sudden absence of magic leaves me feeling utterly devastated and spent far beyond my capacity. The whole situation was a horrible idea. I went too far. I should have stayed with the others up in the courtyard. I don’t know what I was thinking coming down here.

I try to stand, but I’m too weak. My hands are shaking. I don’t even know what’s just happened. Did I actually alter that man’s memory? How could I do such a deplorable thing? What if they discover what I’ve done when they question him? What if they needed that information for his trial?

“
There you are!
” Flitt’s squeaky voice makes me jump. “
What are you doing down here? It smells horrible. Ohh, are these criminals? Are they going to get their heads chopped off, too? Like Prince—
”

“Flitt!” I bark, and the guards stare at me wide-eyed.

“My lady?” the quieter of the two guards asks.

Across the room, the fairy, restored to her usual size--wings and all--bobs above the archer curiously.

“Sorry,” I mutter to them. “
Get away from him,”
I push the command to her a little more harshly than I intended to.
“I’m weak. Help me.”

“
Help you what?
” she scowls.

“I need a
boost,
” I push. “
Just a small one.
”

“
Nope, not if you’re going to order me
.
Everyone’s meeting with the king. You should be there instead of down here doing whatever you’re doing. Bye, Azi
.”