Read Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1) Online
Authors: Missy Sheldrake
Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1)
COPYRIGHT 2015
First published by Missy Sheldrake exclusively for Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing March 2015
Call of Kythshire
©2015 Missy Sheldrake
All rights reserved,
Including the right of reproduction
In whole or in part in any form.
Illustrations, Design, and Cover Art by Missy Sheldrake
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Illustrations for this story were created using the Procreate iPad App and Prismacolor Markers.
www.missysheldrake.comStory, Illustrations, Design, and Cover Art ©2015 Melissa Sheldrake All Rights Reserved.
Artwork by Missy Sheldrake, created using Procreate for iPad
Chapter Two: His Majesty’s Elite
Chapter Four: Reconciliation of Grudges
Chapter Thirteen: The Royal Ball
Chapter Twenty-Four: Mind Games
Chapter Twenty-Five: Windswept
Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Keep
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Dark Decisions
To my husband James, who loves and supports me wholeheartedly, even when I’m deeply preoccupied by fairies (which is most of the time, really).
To my son Wesley, who shows me every day how magical the world around us is.
To my mom Bonnie, who encouraged me to write every day, and who read everything I sent her as fast as I could send it.
I love you all, with all of my heart, forever.
“Azaeli Hammerfel. Sponsor: His Majesty’s Elite!” The crier announces my name, and a cheer erupts from the overfilled stands as I march into the arena and take my place on the pitch beside the other the Squire hopefuls.
“Hammerfel. Wretchedsmell,” Jord, the boy beside me, guffaws at his own brilliance. The rest of the competitors on the line chuckle, their amusement easily missed by the noisy crowd of spectators above. I ignore him and focus on our shadows stretched across the grass. My own seems quite out of place beside the others, so much shorter than those cast by the boys in the line.
“Dacva Archomyn. Sponsor: Redemption!” I square my shoulders and stare ahead at attention as the name is called. Of course it has to be him next, I think to myself. Master Ragnor probably made the list order himself. A small part of me truly believes that he enjoys seeing boys torment me. As the only girl in swordplay training I’m used to being a target, and after eight years dealing with it, I’ve learned to brush it off. Dacva’s reception from the crowd as he comes to stand beside me is loud enough and long enough to mask his flung insult so only those close by can hear it.
“Hammerfel. Corpse’s shell,” he snorts, standing in perfect formation. From my right, Jord offers another.
“Fishbait.” He rocks back on his heels, obviously pleased with himself. This one bothers me more than the last two. It conjures the memory of a group of them dangling me by the ankles over Cerion’s high sea wall when we were younger. I can still hear their cruel laughter, see the angry white waves crashing into the jagged rocks of the cliff face far below, and smell the salty spray in my face. Another player is announced, and another cheer sounds from the crowd as that one files in next to Dacva.
“Good one, Jord,” Dacva murmurs. “Wormsmeal.”
“Heel-grind.” Jord says with exaggerated menace.
“Royal pup.” Dacva growls.
“Wench.”
“Braggart.”
I turn a deaf ear and occupy myself by searching the colorful stands for our guild’s gold and blue until I finally spot my father. Bryse, our shield master, towers beside him. The giant of a man takes up three seats on the bench, but his size is not overly remarkable among the diversity of the crowd. Cerion is a place that welcomes all types, and that lends itself to a very interesting mix of people among the throngs. All races within the city’s walls, and the colorful blend of guild banners and allies sitting side by side makes me beam with pride for my country. Da and Bryse catch me watching and wave, and as the mocking continues I know what Bryse would say.
Use it. Let it fuel you.
“You know today is your death day, right, Fishmeal?” I don’t give Dacva the satisfaction of an answer. He’s told me the same nearly every day for the past year:
Cerion Day will be your last.
I’m not afraid of him, though. I’ve bested him in practice many times. What bothers me most is that he’s done more than his share to make me dread this day that I’ve dreamed of for so long. Cerion Day is a festival that I look forward to every year at midsummer, a celebration to honor our king and the peace that his family’s reign has kept for nearly two hundred years now. The squire trials are just a small part of the festival, but a very popular event nonetheless.
There are sixteen of us when the list is done, each of us sixteen years old. We’ll be paired up and pitted against each other in a quick game of skill. Eight will come out victors, earning the title of squire. My heart races at the thought. When I’m named squire, my duties will lie with my guild, and my training will be their responsibility. I’ll be through with these wretched boys for good. I’ll never have to go back to Ragnor’s arms training again.
In the distance the bells of the Conclave ring, pealing out the royal wedding song. I try not to think about the hundreds of eyes on me, waiting to see what I can do. The games today are in the Prince’s honor to celebrate his wedding day, and so the stands are packed twice as full as usual with masses from all over the known world, hoping to catch a glimpse of him and his new bride at their first public appearance. The trumpets sound and Master Ragnor rides down the line to take his place at the end. As the cheers rise again, Jord sways and bumps my shoulder.
“High strung blood, blood wretch...” he stumbles and falls forward, landing on his face with a thud. I’m not surprised. The blazing sun of midsummer is brutal, and with all of us decked in padded gambesons, full chain mail, and the surcoats of our sponsoring guilds, it was only a matter of time before the heat claimed some. The vigil itself is part of the trial. Jord is only the first to go down. As we stand at attention waiting through the afternoon for the royal procession, three more hopefuls fall and are carried off.
Finally, the trumpets sound again and the crowd erupts with a deafening cheer. My attention snaps to the royal box, and I stand rail-straight as His Majesty King Tirnon mounts the steps hand in hand with Queen Naelle. A simple gold circlet rests on his silver-blonde hair, and beside him Her Majesty is stunning as always as she smiles and waves at the crowd. Even on a day such as this, their clothes are fine but not too bold, an echo of the city’s sentiment.
The king and queen are followed by Prince Eron, who is an exact younger version of his father, though his hair is cropped shorter and his face clean shaven. Beside him is his new bride, Princess Amei, who is both exquisite and exotic. She comes from a small island nation to the south called the Stepstone Isles; a new ally and an important marriage for Cerion. Her azure wedding gown complements her dark brown complexion perfectly, and the bright amethyst jewels of her tiara are dazzling against her midnight black curls. The newlywed couple kisses each other tenderly, and a fresh wave of cheers washes over the arena.
They take their seats, and behind them the two princesses climb up to join their family. Sarabel is my age, but so ladylike in her deep purple gown that I barely recognize her as she holds her little sister’s hand. Margary, the tiniest royal, is dressed all in lace and ruffles. She’s the portrait of a princess with a dainty sparkling circlet perched on her dark curls. As the princesses greet the crowd, Margy scans the row and her eyes stop at me. She points and hops and tugs at Sarabel, and they both favor me with an excited wave. I want to return the gesture, but I show discipline by giving just the slightest nod instead.
The trumpets sound again and my heart pounds in time with the rumbling of hooves that approach the line. I try to keep my eyes forward but I can’t help but slide them to the side as the riders approach. Twelve riders, all decked in gleaming armor and bearing the flags of their guilds, thunder the circuit of the ring. Clumps of earth are churned up just within arm’s reach of us as each rider passes, but I remain as still as stone, steady and strong.
My sponsor, high atop a massive horse draped to the hooves in blue and gold livery, comes to a halt facing the royal box. I march forward with the remaining hopefuls to the great relief of my stiff muscles, and take my place beside my knight’s towering steed. In perfect unison, we all snap to salute. The king rises to speak, and the arena goes so silent that I can hear my knight’s chain-mailed boot ringing softly just beside my ear.
“My dear subjects, allies, and guests, I present to you the hopefuls of Cerion’s Festival of Peace. As is our tradition, these houses and guilds have volunteered to demonstrate their skills and present to us the future squires of Cerion. The victors of these games shall win our favor and be honored with the title of Squire, and one day, Knight. Hopefuls, I invite you now to show us the fruits of your years of training. May you fight honorably for Cerion!”
“For Cerion!” the crowd roars as His Majesty settles back onto his throne. I hold my salute while a wiry man in purple livery readies to announce the matches. He unfurls a scroll and waits for the crowd to settle, but they don’t show him the same silent respect as they did the king.
“Hopefuls of the first match,” he shouts as he reads from the scroll, “Dacva Archomyn, Redemption,” a roar erupts from the crowd, and I notice Prince Eron applaud enthusiastically, “versus Azaeli Hammerfel, His Majesty’s Elite!” It’s fitting that our knights would be paired here on the field. Our guilds have been rivals since mine gained His Majesty’s favor, and it’s obvious the tension is famous with the crowd, which thunders its approval of the match with such enthusiasm that my ears ring from the din.
“Their challenge,” the crier continues, “the rings!”
The rings. It’s one of my favorites. Rings of various colors are thrown to the field by spectators and hung by ribbons from the walls. Each color accounts for a certain number of points, the most valuable being the purple ones tossed by the royal family. The object is for the squires to collect the rings as quickly as they can and fasten them to hooks on the livery of their knight’s horse. Points are tallied when the sands of the hourglass run out. It would be a simple game, if not for the risk of being trampled by a war horse or caught in the midst of the knights’ fierce battle.
My knight turns back to our place and I follow, glancing across the field at our opponents. Redemption’s knight, who I recognize as Dacva’s cousin Dar, is huge. His shoulders are as broad as two strong men. My knight is half his size, but carries twice the skill. I’m confident in our victory.
The trumpet sounds again and Dacva presents his knight with an enormous broad ax as he flashes me a taunting grin.
Let it fuel you
, I think to myself. I turn for my own knight’s weapon and smile as its familiar presence bolsters me. The great sword is nearly as tall as I am and etched with an intricate design that glows blue as I heft it up to my knight.
“Yeah, Azi!” Someone cheers my name as the two horses ride to meet each other at the center. The knights give the ready signal, and the crier turns the hourglass.
“Begin!”
Instantly I’m pelted with rings from the excited crowd. As the knights clash together furiously, the larger man’s red and orange cape snaps around him like flames licking at char. The battle is as fierce and entertaining as it’s meant to be. Though Dacva’s knight has power, mine has speed. The powerful clash of their weapons sends sparks scattering around them. I tear my attention from the fray and crouch to scoop up a handful of rings strewn across the grass.
As I stand up I’m aware that Dacva is charging me. His sword is raised, his teeth are bared ferociously, his battle cry lost among the roaring crowd. I’m caught off guard and barely have time to shove the rings into my surcoat and slide my sword from its scabbard before he’s upon me, slashing furiously. He means to keep his promise,that much is clear. I know his style so the counters are easy, but I’m unprepared in my footing and I fall back into the grass as I raise my sword to parry.
In training, the spar would pause now and I would have time to get up while the fight resets. But the bloodlust in his eyes assures me that training is over. He isn’t stopping, he means to kill.
“Foul!” An indignant voice sounds over the crowd, possibly my father’s.
“You’re through, Cur!” Dacva sneers as he drives his sword at me and I raise my own to block it. I kick his stomach hard and he doubles over and falls back.
Let it fuel you
. With a rage that has been bottled up for years, I jump to my feet and swing with all of my strength, hitting him hard in the side with the flat of my blade. I feel the blow crack his ribs beneath his chain mail and he falls to his knees, breathless. I dive at him again, but he recovers quickly and our swords clash as we press each other back and forth along the wall.
In the center of the field, my knight and his are locked in a similarly ruthless battle. It’s impossible to tell who has the upper hand. Dacva and I fight on, circling each other until I’m sure the hourglass must be half empty. The rings are forgotten. Sure in my footing now, I swing another heavy blow to his side as he raises his sword arm, and meet the same cracked ribs. Furious, he stabs at me with a grimace of pain and his sword finds the gap in the armor at my collar and slices into my shoulder.
I shove him away, ignoring the pain that sears through the wound. Enraged, I charge him, raising my sword, ready to end this once and for all, but I’m suddenly blocked by a wall of blue and yellow livery. The horse rears up and strong hooves thunder down inches from Dacva’s head as he sprawls back.
“The rings!” My knight commands. On the other side of the steed, the blue sword arcs and meets with Dacva’s, and Redemption’s knight thunders across to bear down on us. I quickly sheath my sword and fumble into my coat for the rings, ignoring the pain that shoots from my shoulder into my arm. I grasp a hook just behind my knight’s knee and try to fasten the rings there, but my glove gets caught. The rings scatter to the ground, and I’m dragged as the fight moves across the field toward the royal box. I struggle to free myself, but now I’m pinned between the beast and the wall with Dacva charging us as the battle rages between axe and sword above me.
Slowly I’m aware of a sensation radiating from my knight. Calm. I push away the pain and steady my shaking hands to work the buckle which cinches my glove to my wrist. The feeling gradually pulses stronger until it washes over me with a comforting peace. My desperate fumbling fingers become sure. The pain in my wounded shoulder disappears. The horses stand still. The clashing of weapons slows, quiets. Dacva looms nearby, his mouth open, his expression vacant. The crowd nearby hushes. As my hand finally comes free, I glance at the nearly empty hourglass.
