Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (41 page)

My pulse quickens. Slowly, secretly, I reach for my bandolier. Rest my right hand over it. With my left I poke at Twig, who’s nestled in a crumpled veil beside the princess.  He wakes up.  I know he feels it, too. There’s no way he couldn’t.

“
Shush
,” Twig pushes. “
Rian. A breach. They’re here.
”

His silent announcement makes the unraveling pause. Rian taps Gaethon. The two stand up. Gaethon gestures to the other Mages. They stand, too. I don’t have time to watch and see what they’re going to do, or even to fasten my bandolier on. I draw two knives. Turn to the third imp. The one just beyond the wards, right behind the wall. The one with his sights on Margy. She wakes up just in time to see me slip away, out of sight. I pause at the wards. Check them. If I walk through, I won’t break them. They won’t fail. Good. I do. I step through, a knife in each hand.

The imp hovers just above the wall. Right beside the wards. His greedy eyes search the space where I just came through. He can’t see me, though. I’m hidden.

“Can’t see you, no,” he hisses, “but can feel you, Tibreseli Nullen. The one who stole from us. Who tricked us. You thought we were after the princess? No. Our quarrel is with you.”

I don’t answer. I keep still. Silent. Raise my knives. I’m close enough, now. Close enough to slash at him. To end him.

“Yes, I feel your thirst for blood. Your desire to end me. I feel it, boy. But, you will not. Look to the south. Turn your attentions there. You will feel it. You will see it. The Dusk, poised. Ready. Cerion will burn. Innocents will die. Unless…”

My fingers grip the handles of my knives until my knuckles go white. I bite my tongue. Wait for him to finish.

“Give us back what was stolen, Tibreseli. What we rightfully earned. Your thievery was underhanded. Your actions will mar your journey. Your future will be cursed.”

I feel a strange sensation, like the wind over dust. Like light stretching out over the land at dawn. A star breaking through thick clouds. The flap of a cloak.  Protection. Valenor. The imp cowers.

I turn to the south and close my eyes. He’s right. I feel them. Slinking in hidden places. Gathering in shadows. The Dusk and the enemies of Cerion, waiting. Dark places beside the points of light. Ready to strike. I’m not sure what’s happening. Am I awake? Am I dreaming? I look back into the circle. Rian and the other Mages are on their feet. Mending the weaknesses in the wards. Being watchful. Margy is standing. Her hands are folded in front of her. Her head is bowed.

A figure enters the pillars. Cloaked. Hooded.

“You have less time than you think,” the imp hisses behind me as I watch the figure kneel at the pyre. Fingers graze the stone before it. Rake through the ash. The assembly watches with mild interest. No Sorcerer could enter this sacred, protected place. At night, no outsider is permitted. Only a native of Cerion can come through the wards unaffected. There’s no danger, no threat from this figure. The historians had explained that some would take some small collection of ashes. This is normal. It’s expected. I tell myself all of these things, but I don’t believe any of it. I would know her anywhere.

With my healed eye, I look through the cover of the hood. I’m greeted with a conniving, wicked smile.

Celli

I make sure he sees me, just like Quenson said. Make sure he knows I’m the one who slipped past their wards. Blood of Cerion, Quenson said. They’d never see me coming. My master was right. My master knows all. His perfect plan had no chance of failing. He is a mastermind. He is everything. Brilliant. Infallible. Perfect.

With the king’s ashes tight in my grip, I back to the wall beside the pyre. Someone murmurs at the benches.

“Son of the Prince. Ash of the father. No. Get her! Stop her!” he shouts. Rian. That Mage from the boy’s house. The one who almost stopped us.

Tib takes off toward me. Across the circle. Fast, but not fast enough.

“It’s too late,” I laugh and spring up. Over the wall. Over the cliff. I start to plummet to the sea, but they catch my arms and legs. The Imps. The Dusk. Our allies. They grab me and yank me through space. Back to the keep. Back home, to Quenson. I fall at his feet. His perfect, handsome feet.

My fist is clutched to my chest. I feel my heart beat through it. Pounding from the excitement of what just happened. From the thrill of being close to my master again. He takes my wrist and holds a jar beneath it. I open my hand and let the king’s ashes slip through my fingers into it.

“Quickly,” the imps say, and then they’re gone.

“Time,” Quenson says with a whisper of excitement that sends a shiver through me. “You have bought us time, my dear. Weeks, with this acquirement. Weeks that won’t be spent waiting. Come.”

We weave through passages lit by torchlight. This time when others pass my master, they pause. They bow. They show the respect he deserves. They know he’s winning. They know they’d better stay in his good graces. They know they were fools before, to ever ignore him. To ever doubt him. Even though they respect him now, I still hate them. I’ll still jump at the chance to snuff their lives out. For him. For Quenson. My master. My love.

“He saw you?” he asks me as we walk.

“Yes, Master” I reply. “I made sure of it.”

“Then it is only a matter of time before he comes to seek you out,” he says with a hint of triumph. “Subtlety, my dear, will tip the scales.”

“The Mage, my lord,” I say quietly. “He knew. When I took the ashes, he knew why.”

“Good,” says Quenson. “Then they shall be on alert. A challenge is always welcome, my dear. Otherwise, victory is dull. Don’t you agree?”

He pushes the door open and Sybel looks up from her vigil at the dais where Eron lies. Beside her on the floor is the boy I stole, covered in a blanket. Nearly spent. Quenson raises the jar and Sybel’s eyes light up. She looks at my master with a hunger that makes my blood boil.

“Ash of the father,” she whispers with passion.

“Wait outside, Celli,” he says to me. Reluctantly, I obey.

Azi

A fairy’s mind is a strange, beautiful place. Flitt’s had been filled with light, color, and song. Sapience’s is similar, though the light is all gold, and the song is a hundred voices in harmony. Light and dark, good and wicked, pain and pleasure. The Wellspring. Through it, I can reach everyone. I can see everyone. Every link to every Mage. Every trail of magical power. Every reverent thought, and every selfish black tendril.

My understanding of how it works comes slowly, like the blossom of a morning glory unfurling in the first rays of the morning sun. I see everywhere the magic is. I know. The fae, of course, are the most present. Their use of the Wellspring is natural and lighthearted. Everything they do is allowed and needed. The coloring of spring buds, the shape of a snowflake, the pulse of sap through the trees, the red and gold design of an autumn leaf. Kythshire thrives on their magic. It needs it in order to go on. But the magic of their Wellspring stretches further. It reaches out in flowing jets carried through the Half-Realm. It streams across the leagues of mountains and fields to its many masters. Mages of Cerion’s Academy, who have linked their learning to it. Mages who were attuned the moment they received the Mentor’s print. The mark of a student, given by a mentor.  The golden press of a thumbprint against a forehead, opening the link.

So vast is the power lent by such a small pool, that I can barely grasp the depth of it. Dozens of Masters, Mentors, and pupils, all governed by the Academy. All touched by a mentor and entrusted with this power. This sharing of energy is governed by the fae. We were right to treat it so sacredly. Cerion has been respectful of the gifts bestowed upon us by the fairies of Kythshire. My heart swells with pride.

But then, as always, there is the darkness. Members of the Academy and others who no longer associate themselves with Cerion. They have little respect or consideration for the Source. They desire only power, and concern themselves with their own gain and nothing else. The gold in their minds and in their hearts twists and taints. It turns black and blue like bruises of the mind and of the spirit. It prints on their skin to Mark them as wicked, selfish, and dangerous. A way for them to be identified to the Good. To the valorous, who would put a stop to them. These Mages— no, Sorcerers— are abominations. They twist the natural to their bidding. They waste and pillage and taint the magic until it’s something different. They squander the gift of the fae until it becomes unrecognizable and fiendish.

Though I can follow the jets to dozens of Mages and Sorcerers alike, there is an end to my sight. Only those whose schooling started in Cerion, by the golden touch of Kythshire’s Wellspring, can be tracked. I understand there other sources out there. Other Wellsprings, though it’s difficult to see or track them. They are only very weakly linked. One has no way of knowing how the other is fairing without years of training, concentration, and attunement. A trail flows to some central point, but it’s blocked. It ends, and for me there is no way to get to it.

My skin prickles at the realization that things were not always this way. Before Brindelier was closed, they were all tightly linked. Magic flowed freely from one place to another. There was no danger of one spring running dry, as almost happened in Sunteri two years ago. Restoring Brindelier will open the flow again, and will ensure that all wellsprings everywhere will thrive. This isn’t just about Dawn versus Dusk. This is about preserving the Source of all magic, everywhere. If the Dusk, if the Sorcerers, were to gain Brindelier, it would devastate all Wellsprings, everywhere. The lure would be too strong. They would never restrain themselves. I understand now, why Sapience has allowed me to see this. It’s not just about my promise to Margy. It’s about the preservation of the Wellsprings across the Known Lands.

While I’m coming to this realization I can feel him in my mind, a distance away. Sapience. He is watching everything. Pulling apart my deepest, most secret memories. Learning all about me. It doesn’t feel at all like an imposition. This knowledge is his right, and it’s my duty to allow him to see it.  He looks into my lineage, far into my family’s past. He shows me things about my mother and grandmother, and hers before her. Things I never knew. They lived here, the women of my past. On Kythshire’s soil. Like so many others of my kind did before the Sorcerer King, they lived in harmony with the fairies here. This land was for human and fae alike. I feel it more than I see it: A connection to these lands. A calling home. I knew it on some level the first time I came to Kythshire to fight the shadow cyclones. I think, looking back, that Mum has known it all along. This is our homeland. Eron knew it, too. That was why he was so focused on gaining my allegiance before it was certain how loyal I’d be to my guild and to Cerion. He wanted to use me to get to Kythshire. He wanted the blood of my fairy homeland that flowed through me. My birthright.

“But why?”
I ask into the memories.
“Why focus on that now? Eron is gone.”

I know the answer, though. He isn’t gone, really. He’s about to be returned. Our rivalry, our battle, is not yet over. His hatred for me runs thick in his blood, just as my desire for peace and light runs through mine. Eron is cursed as I am blessed, and now that they’ve mixed that with the darkest kind of magic, he will stop at nothing to claim the throne he believes is his. With an army of Sorcerers behind him, there will be no mercy. Cerion is threatened. Kythshire is threatened. We need a champion as righteous as he is wicked, as caring as he is cruel, as light as he is dark. Without that, there is no hope.

“
Step into the pool
,” Sapience’s answer is a thousand voices speaking as one.

“
What?
” I ask in disbelief.

“
Step into the pool,
” the voices urge again. It’s Flitt’s though, Flitt’s single, tiny voice in my ear from her place at my shoulder that truly convinces me.

I see everything. The memories, the Wellsprings, the Mages and Sorcerers. Cerion, Kythshire, fairies and humans. Moss-covered pebbles and the tip of my stone-like boot as it touches the golden surface. The liquid is warm and soothing as it flows to my toes. I enter the depths of the pool and it swirls around me, welcoming me. There’s no way to describe how wonderful it feels. No words would do it justice, except one. Love. As the golden waters swirl around me, I feel as though I’m cradled in complete peace. Everything is still, warm, and safe. My skin tingles with euphoria as if every part of me is being kissed and held and adored. I think of Rian and his love, and my insides fill up with the same golden, perfect light that surrounds me from outside.

I tip my head back and feel the warmth of the pool as it caresses every follicle. I let the liquid seep over my face until only the tip of my nose is above it and then, as it, too, sinks into the gold, I hold my breath and surrender myself to the generosity of the Wellspring.