Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (37 page)

In the darkness, with the rhythm of my footsteps, I start to question myself. What purpose do I have here? Why did I bother coming? I start to think it must be some powerful spell, shifting my thoughts, but how could it be? I can’t be affected by magic. I’m the Dreamstalker. But what does that mean, really? I’m nothing. No one important. Six hundred paces. Seven.

I start to forget why I’ve come. I start to forget who I am. I remember something recent. A ruined fae. An imp. “I’m nothing,” she said to me. “No one.” I understand now. I am, too. I stop counting steps. Eventually, I stop walking.

“
Are you
?” asks a voice in my head. “
Keep walking.
”

Yes, keep walking. I do. I keep going, dragging my fingertips along the wall. That one voice, that one question, lingers.
Are you
? Are you no one? No, I’m not. I’m someone. Important. I have a job to do. I have a plan. Nine hundred paces. One thousand.

“Will this room ever end?” I ask aloud.

“He speaks,” comes the reply.

“All this time, yet he still speaks,” says another.

The voices are high-pitched and low at the same time. Everywhere. Everything and nothing. They drown out my thoughts. Make me start to believe it again. That I’m not, after all, anything.

“Who’s there?” I call out. Talking seems to help as much as counting my steps does. It keeps my mind busy. Shuts out the nothing. One-thousand two hundred forty paces.

“We are the Void,” they say. “The True Dusk.”

“True Dusk? No. There’s still light at dusk. This place is completely dark,” I reply, still walking. Still counting. One thousand six hundred paces.

I look up. Try to find the source of the voices. It’s too dark. I look down to the floor. To the center. Something is there. Something larger than I would have expected. Not a creature. I can’t make out limbs or a head with my healed eye. I can only see something in the nothing. Something indescribable. A fog. A cloud. Something vast and unfathomable. Something dark and eerie. The Void.

“Clever boy,” the voices echo through me. Chills prickle my arms and shiver across the back of my neck. “We see you. You are nothing to us.”

Their words try to affect me, but they can’t. They lick at me and cower away, back to the Void.

“You can’t control me. You can’t have me and you never will,” I growl and keep pacing. At the center of the void, I feel them gathering. More of them, whatever they are. Imps. Sorcerers. Minds. Single, terrible forces gathered into one.

“Resistant little pup,” they say. Their voices weave in and out of space. Try to get into my head. I feel them testing me, looking for a weakness. For some way in. They won’t find it. There isn’t one.
Dreamstalker
, I think to myself.
The Untouched.

My feet pause. I think back. This is the purpose of this place. To make you forget. To make you feel nothing. To mold you to their will. To convince you their thinking is the only way. I wonder if Celli was sent through here. If Errie or the other boys were. 

I keep walking. Keep counting. The rhythm of my steps grounds me. Keeps me aware of myself. Why did they bring me here? What did they think to gain?
They need the location of the archway. The entrance to Brindelier. They need my cooperation. Is that all, though? If I revealed it to them, what then? Would they want more? Is this it? This Void? Is this the driving force for the Sorcerers and the Dusk? If it was defeated, what then? Would the Dusk go on without it?

The questions make me pause in my step-counting. I turn to face the deep dark. The Void. My hand drifts to the knives at my chest. The vials. I think of Valenor, all that time ago. The shadows that held him. How I fought them. How I was the only one. How he told me the truth of it. The vials are nothing. The power is within me.

“What is he doing?” their whispers repeat and echo and pulse around me. I push away from the wall and step closer to center. The Void recedes. It fears me. I feel it. I take another step forward.

“He mustn’t,” the voices cry, eerie and drawn out. Ghostly. Wraith-like. Other-worldly. Hundreds of them. I imagine shadows like the ones that held Valenor, but all balled up together. Endless and eternal. How long can I fight them, I wonder, before I get tired? Before I have to rest? And what then?

My dagger slides easily from its sheath. It’s odd they didn’t take it this time. Maybe they believed me when I said I’d make a deal. Maybe they trusted me. They shouldn’t have. I take another step toward the center. The shadows shrink further away.

“Are you afraid?” I ask them. “Afraid of the Slayer of Shadows? Afraid of the Dreamstalker?”

“We fear nothing,” they hiss in whispers.

“Then why do you cower?” I ask.

The shadows swirl around me in a vortex. A cyclone of darkness that whips the air beside my face and rustles my hair. To me it’s a soft breeze. They can’t touch me. The thought gives me confidence. I lash out with my blade and slice at the force. A flash of light bursts from it, casting away the shadows. In that moment I see my adversaries.

Tendrils of gray-black. Cyclones spinning. Souls and spirits. Wicked minds collected and gathered in this place. They squeal and shrink away at my attack. I swing again and see again. The more I fight, the more they reveal. I see plans. People. Agents of Dusk. Inner workings. Feelings. Secrets.

Eron lies on a stone slab, stripped bare. His body is whole again, but he still looks dead. Errie plays happily on the floor beside him. Strands of energy drift between them, like pipe smoke in a sunbeam. A single Sorceress stands with them, watching. Guiding the energy.

The Void screeches in disbelief and frustration. It fights harder, but it can’t touch me. It tries again to mold me to its will, but I’m immune. It tries to keep me from seeing, but I’m in too deep now.

Another vision, another plan. Agents of Dusk, lying in wait. Bonds and oaths to kill the king. To kill Margy. To weaken Cerion, their best competition for Brindelier. To end the peace of the kingdom. A dozen men, ready to take action. Waiting for the word.

A smaller plot. Dacva. Stolen away. Strapped down. A man with Marks of gold and black, tearing away at his thoughts. Ripping into his memories. Gleaning whatever useful information he can about the Elite.

More of the same. Men and women. Sorcerers, gathering and planning. Using children to blackmail and control. To feed anger and fear. Not just Griff and Mikken. More missing kids, from everywhere. Seeds of mistrust planted. Seeds of hatred for the throne. Plots against the Academy. Against the Elves. Against the Dawn. Destruction.

The more I see of them, the less intimidated I am. The more powerful I feel. They can’t help but reveal these things to me. They can’t stop me. Can’t reach me. Can’t break me. It infuriates them.

I strike out for Errie. For Griff and Mikken. Even for Celli, as gone as she is. I fight until they drive me back against the roughly molded metal. The doors swing open and I stumble backward through them. I lose my footing. My dagger flies away into the void. I fall to the floor at Quenson’s feet.

“Kill him,” the whispers of the Void drift eerily across the keep, mingled with the thunderous sound of slamming doors.

Quenson towers over me as I lie at his feet gasping for breath. He gazes down, his eyes narrowed. His fingers crackle with energy.

“Celli,” he says.

Something grabs the cross of my bandolier. Yanks me to my feet. Something hot. Too hot.

“Get up.” Vae shouts and tugs me forward. “Run!”

I take off down the passage away from the doors. Into the twisting maze. A knife whizzes past my shoulder. Behind me, Celli screams in frustration. She throws two more. My feet pound the stone. Ahead of me, guards step out to block my way. I duck into the Half-Realm. The cobwebs brush my face. I run, hard. Weave between them. Dodge another knife. Just because they can’t see me doesn’t mean they can’t hit me.

At my chest, Vae clings to me. Now that we’re both in the Half-Realm, I can see her. Her wings are still broken, but somehow she’s helping propel me forward.

“The dais,” I say to her, breathing hard. “The room with the pedestals. Do you know where it is?”

“This way,” she tugs me down a side hall. Something behind me shifts. A spirit. A ghost. Osven. I curse under my breath. Behind me, Celli’s footsteps near. I push my legs until my calves burn. Dodge around guards who can’t see me.

Vae guides me until I can see it ahead. The closed door. The one. I can feel it. The wards. The spells. The forces in place to keep everyone out. Beyond that, the offerings, glowing like beacons. The door is guarded by half a dozen sentries. When I get nearer, they turn in unison. Stomp their feet, just once. Look right at me. Inside their helms, their eyes are black and empty.

I feel it on them. Smell it. Death. Necromancy. Bones, animated. Dark, wicked magic. They raise their swords. March toward me. Behind me, Celli’s footsteps skid to a stop.

“They can see you, Tib,” she says. “Step out of hiding so I can watch you die.”

“Keep running,” Vae whispers. “Run through them.”

I look past the approaching six. Into the dais room with my healed eye. It’s empty, save for the bottles. No one is in there. I just need to get past these sentries and through the door. All I have are knives, though. Small ones. Knives that wouldn’t do much damage to animated bones.

“Just run,” Vae screams, and I take a deep breath and decide to trust her. If she wanted me defeated, she wouldn’t have helped me up to begin with. I crash through the sentries who swing their weapons wildly. One of them has a club. I tear it from his grip and swing it hard, catching two of them with the brunt of my attack. Two arms fly off at me with surprising strength and spin across the floor.

My attack doesn’t scare the others. They’re mindless. Thoughtless. At my chest, Vae burns. She spits a ball of fire that catches one right in its empty eye. The sentry stumbles mid-swing and catches its partner. Bones clatter against stone. A tapestry nearby catches the spark and bursts into flame.

“Go,” Vae yelps, and I crash through the remaining two with my club and bash the door in.

The door itself is weaker than I expected. I guess they figured the wards were strong enough to keep people out. They didn’t need to have heavy doors or locks. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful. I race toward the pillars bearing the bottles.

Outside, I hear them. An army. A mass of men, encroaching. I close my hand around a bottle. The spell protecting it sparks and fizzles. I probably would have lost my hand if I’d been anyone else, but all I feel is a slight tingle.

I whirl toward the door. My healed eye searches the corridor outside as I run toward the next pillar. Outside, scores of guards march on us. Quenson lifts the wards. The men charge through, weapons raised. I have no time to reach the second pillar. No way out, except… I look at the space between two pillars. A towering window of colored glass. I glance over my shoulder as the guards spill inside. Turn back to the window. Throw the club. Hard.

The window smashes and I dive through it and start to plummet. I gather Vae and the bottle to my chest.

“Valenor,” I scream as I tumble from the parapet. “Mevyn!”

Azi
 

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting deep shadows across the throngs of people who have come to hear the king’s speech. I scan them with a smile, noting how very many of them bear the Princess’s Light. The Elite line the balcony beside me, waiting for His Majesty to make his appearance. Rian stands so close our shoulders touch. Shush hovers beside him, in plain sight of the crowd. Flitt’s here, too, tucked into her place at my pauldron. Her prisms of light dance across the stone facade of the palace in brightly-colored rainbows.

Saesa stands on my other side, and out of the corner of my eye I catch her wiggle her fingers surreptitiously to the crowd. I follow her gaze to see the gathering of Ganvent children hopping up and down, waving up at us. Even Nessa is here. The only ones I don’t see are Ruben and Raefe.

The sense of anticipation mixed with the flying of colorful banners gives the gathering an air of excitement. It feels like Cerion day, the festival we were forced to abandon in the middle of Eron’s trials. Cerion is merry again, its people glad to have a reason to celebrate once more.

On the other side of the balcony, the elves stand regal as they look out over the crowd. They garner as much attention as we do, if not more. From time to time, garlands of flowers are thrown up over the railings, tied with bright ribbons of blue and gold and purple.

It was a long afternoon of discussion and planning, and by the end of it all of us left feeling uplifted and bolstered by each other’s friendship.

A crier steps out onto the balcony, followed by a pair of trumpeters. They raise the long brass instruments to the sky and play a quick, bold fanfare. The crowd goes silent.

“His Majesty, King Tirnon Plethore,” the crier shouts. “Her Highness, Queen Naelle Plethore, and Her Highness Princess Margary!”

The royal family emerges from within and the crowd erupts into cheers. More flowers are thrown, and Margy catches a nosegay tied with silver ribbon and waves her tiny, white-gloved hand. She holds it to Twig, who closes his eyes and sniffs their perfume with a smile.

“People of Cerion,” His Majesty gestures toward the gathering, palms out in a peaceful stance. “I welcome you to the dawning of a new age for all of us. An age of renewed friendship and hope, and of rekindled alliances. Long have our ways been guided by agreements made in the distant past. Today, I stand before you to reassure you that these alliances still stand.

“My daughter,” the king says, resting his hands on Margy’s shoulders, “has been blessed with the Gift of the Fairies. The gift of Magic. Our allies to the far west assure me that this is more than permitted. It is welcome and encouraged. The Princess will guide us into a more meaningful alliance with the people of Kythshire, and open the doors of friendship wide, to promote a deeper understanding between our people and theirs.

“‘To what end?’, you might ask. I shall tell you as much as I know, for this a time for us to learn together, you and I. Cerion will grow stronger. Our stores will be plentiful, and word of our peace and prosperity will spread throughout the Known Lands. Our reach shall extend, and our territories shall grow.

“Between us, as you well know, the elves reside. They have ever been our allies, and they have come to show us their support in this rekindled friendship with Kythshire. They have agreed to tutor our princess in the ways of Ili’luvrie, the pairing between fairy and man. This practice is common in Ceras’lain, and beneficial to all.

“In time, you will find the presence of fairies, the people of Kythshire, commonplace in our kingdom and beyond. This is the beginning of an exciting time for all of us.” His words cause an eruption of cheers, which slowly fade when he holds up his hand to speak again.

“As with all such agreements, there is give and take. The elves of Ceras’lain have asked for our aid in putting a stop to attacks upon their gates, and I have agreed to send troops to assist them. Any able-bodied citizen interested in rallying to the cause in my name and taking up arms can refer to postings at the palace gates which are being made as I speak to you.”

“And now, one final word. To my daughter, the last of my children, who has grown from beloved child to the bud of a young woman,” Tirnon looks to Margy and smiles warmly, and when the princess looks up to her father, she shows him the utmost affection and adoration. At her shoulder, Twig grins.

“You have shown your temperance, your strength, your sweet-natured kindness through every difficulty. You are a diligent and caring young woman, and your love of our kingdom and its people is plain to anyone who meets you. I can think of no one else I would trust as successor to my kingdom,” he says with great tenderness, brushing a curl from her temple lovingly.

Everyone is so caught up in the sweet, perfect moment between king and princess, father and daughter, that no one notices the arrow until it’s too late. It spikes through the air, aimed straight for the princess.

Thinking quickly, Twig lashes out with a vine that catches it by the shaft and tosses it away. Everything erupts into chaos. His Majesty steps between Margy and the crowd, shielding her as another arrow flies.

The Elite close in to protect them both, but not fast enough. This one meets its mark. As Tirnon straightens to usher Margy away, it strikes him square between the shoulderblades. The queen screams. Da raises his shield as another two arrows fly.

Somehow, they slip past his defenses. The sound as one of them plunges into his Majesty’s neck is sickening. He crumples, and Bryse and shields Margy from another torrent in one swift motion.

The elves leap from the balcony and dash across, chasing through the crowd. They disappear through the gates, obviously on someone’s trail. Below, the people gathered scream and panic. Rian grabs my hand. We rush toward Margy as Bryse darts past with His Majesty in his arms.

“Paba!” Margy screams, and then her screams are silenced. Bryse’s hulking form blocks the place where she stood. As he moves past, I hold my breath, expecting to see her lying on the stone, struck by arrows. But when I can see the spot again, she’s gone. Disappeared.

“Princess!” I cry.

“
Twig
,” Flitt pushes. That’s all she needs to say. I understand. Twig took her. She’s safe.

I run to the railing and look out, trying to spot the archers. The courtyard is chaos. People are running from one place to another, trampling each other, screaming. Guards and patrols are trying in vain to keep them calm and moving. Mum skids to a stop beside me. She closes her eyes, and I feel her push herself harder than she ever has before. I can see her peace spread out from her like a silver dome. It settles over the people in the courtyard, calming them. They slow themselves, help each other up, and walk calmly away through the gates.

“Wards should have been set!” Uncle Gaethon booms from inside. “Why were there no protections?”

“There were,” someone replies. “The arrows broke through them.”

“Impossible!” he shouts, and their argument is hushed by the healers.

“There,” Rian points. Across the courtyard, up in the ramparts, a group of men are scuffling. Two of them have bows, and the other four are Royal Guards. Despite being outnumbered, the bowmen seem to have the upper hand. Two of the guards are stumbling around, the other two seem to be blinded. One of them crashes against the wall and plummets into the courtyard below.

“No!” Shush shouts, and at the last moment a gust of wind cushions the man’s fall.

Rian grabs my arm and pulls me into the Half-Realm. I reach out for Saesa and take a firm hold of her wrist. We don’t go far. I barely have time to catch my breath before we’re standing across the courtyard, face to face with the two archers. Mercy is in my hands before I can think. I slash at the closest of the two. Crimson blood blooms across his chest and he falls.

Saesa takes the second one with Feat. She skillfully disarms him of his bow, and he slashes at her with his rapier. Beside me, Rian thrusts his hands forward. An arc of bright blue energy bursts forth from his hands and crashes into the second man, singeing his leather armor. He falls back, screaming.

“Sleep them!” one of the guards calls as he waves his hands in front of himself blindly. “They’ll need to be questioned. Sleep them, and the Sorcerer, too!”

“Getting his wards,” Rian shouts.

“I’ll help!” Flitt shouts. She sends a beam of light into the shadows to reveal a crouched and blackened figure. He stretches a crooked finger out to us, and Rian doesn’t give him time to do any more. His fingers crackle and flame loudly, and he shoots a powerful jet of fire mixed with lightning at the enemy.

With the archers down, I scramble past the blinded guards and raise my sword. I bring it down just as Rian’s spell breaks the wards, and the Sorcerer cowers away. Rian casts his cloud of pink and the man slumps down the wall, sound asleep.

I spin on my heel and look at Rian, who’s already turned to the archers to sleep them, too. Flitt helps the guards by pushing away the blindness spell, and they push themselves to their feet and start carting away the held prisoners. Rian’s eyes meet mine.

“The king,” he says. The two of us don’t stop to think. I link my arm through Saesa’s and Rian and I close our eyes and pop through the half-realm again, across the courtyard, into the doorway that leads to the balcony.

Queen Naelle kneels on the floor beside her husband. Mum kneels with her, holding her as she sobs. Four healers stand over them, Brother Donal among them. The arrows that struck His Majesty lie discarded at his side.

Mya plays her lute softy, her hands shaking. When she sees Rian and I step into view, her face pales further. She looks at the king and looks at us again, and shakes her head. Behind her, Da paces. Cort and Bryse stand guard at the door. Uncle is outside in the hallway, still shouting. Elliot leaves Mya’s side and picks up an arrow. He sniffs the point of it and closes his eyes.

“Blackheart,” he whispers, and Brother Donal looks up.

“Aye,” the healer whispers and shakes his head.

“No,” I choke, and drop to my knees beside Mum.

“
Blackheart?
” Flitt pushes. I can’t reply. I’m too numb. Too shocked. His Majesty. Tirnon. Our friend. Our king. Our kind, just ruler.

“He can’t,” I whisper. Mum pulls me close with her free arm.

“
Blackheart
,” Rian pushes, “
is a poison, rare and deadly. Once in the bloodstream, it rushes straight to the heart. It turns it to stone.
”

The queen takes her husband’s hand and kisses it tenderly, weeping. Beside her Mum bows her head as her own tears spill down her cheeks. She squeezes me tighter as the healers unleash every last bit of energy into their efforts.

Flitt pushes off from my shoulder and settles on His Majesty’s chest. Her bright light sparkles over his brass buttons and splashes over his gray curls. She presses her tiny hands to his wound and screws her eyes shut tight. When all of her color is drained and there’s nothing left, Shush lands beside her and gives her all of his own.

Still, His Majesty doesn’t stir. The healing efforts are fruitless, even when the second wave of healers appears to relieve the exhausted first. The poison, as Rian said, is deadly.

“Flitt,” I whisper around the lump in my throat, and reach to gather her up. White as snow, completely drained, she slumps over in my palms and closes her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I tried.”

Slowly, the healers lower their hands. They turn slightly toward the queen and bow their heads mournfully.

“The king is dead,” one of them declares. “Long live the princess.”

“Long live Princess Margary,” the others repeat. “Long live the queen.”

“No,” Queen Naelle whispers. She drapes herself across His Majesty’s chest and gathers his vest in her hands and sobs his name over and over. Mum kneels beside her, offering what small comfort she can. Saesa leans against my arm. In my hands, Flitt takes a long, shuddering breath. I can’t bear the scene any longer. Tears flood my vision and I close my eyes and let them spill over.

“Kythshire,” I whisper, and the ground beneath me falls away. I feel Saesa cling to me as I go, and I’m grateful for her companionship.

The quiet chiming of Flitt’s bauble trees and the colorful fronds of leaves dipping into the clear pool of her grotto soothe my grief immediately. I sink to my knees in the moss and hug her to my chest.

“
What do you need?
” I push to her. “
What can I do?
” If I keep my attention on Flitt, if I focus on helping her, then I don’t have to think about what’s happening in Cerion.

“
Twig
,” she pushes back, and the thought is enough to send the three of us spinning away again. Flitt shudders in my hands as I hold tight to her. “Ow, w
ings
,” she sends, and I loosen my grip a little as we settle on a cushion of fallen leaves. They rustle and crunch beneath my feet, churning up the musty scent of damp earth.

Before us in a grove of stout oak trees, a domed bush of forsythia, wisteria, and morning glory blooms brightly with yellow, purple, and white blossoms. As we approach, the white blossoms seem to follow us, raising their fluted blooms to watch us come. The nearer we get, the more alert they seem, until I find myself standing before them and being, for no better way to describe it, sniffed by the delicate white trumpets. Saesa reaches a curious hand toward them, and one of them shies away while the other licks out with its stamen.