The Keeper Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by JA Andrews

  Menwoth snorted and the two disappeared out the door, his voice fading away.

  Alaric’s stomach dropped. Gustav was already west of here, searching for Mallon’s body. Through the council chamber ceiling, the rain drummed loudly. Alaric growled in frustration. It was going to take them the better part of a day to reach the Greenwood, and Gustav was already there.

  It was people like Lord Horwen and his nervous peasants who would suffer if Mallon was raised. People who didn’t completely understand what was going on and who didn’t have the power to do anything about it. The same people who Alaric had once spent a great deal of energy to protect. How had they fallen so far out of his view? Alaric looked in annoyance at the table spread with maps and papers. He needed to leave, to chase down that stupid wizard and stop him before he managed to pull off another thing he shouldn’t be able to.

  General Marton looked after the departing lord with a troubled face. “That’s strange,” he said. “We received a report of a red dragon seen in the area yesterday.”

  Alaric looked sharply at the general. “What area?”

  “This area. Near the city. The report came this morning from a farmer whose land lies a half day’s journey north of here.” Marton looked thoughtful. “I sent a soldier back with him to check it out, but I admit I didn’t believe him. If there’s a dragon in the area, it’s not acting very dragon-like.”

  “Gustav flies on a red dragon,” Alaric told the general. “I’m sure Horwen’s people are telling the truth. I expect him to be over the Greenwood looking for Mallon. But I can’t imagine that he would come back east to Queenstown. There’s nothing here for him. If your soldier finds anything, let me know.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Hours later, Alaric closed the door of his room behind him. He had offered Saren the help he could. The army would be assembled and some general plans were underway.

  As the day had gone on, Alaric had felt more and more overwhelmed. Something about the seemingly unattainable expectations everyone had of him, and the constant reminders that if he hadn’t been gone for so long, a good many problems could have been avoided. It all combined to leave him feeling like he was fighting against a cloud of guilt and judgment. Saren had ordered food brought to the council chamber, and they had feasted and talked and planned, but Alaric had spent much of the time wishing he could just return to his room for peace and quiet.

  Night had fallen, and his room was filled with the comforting red light of a fire someone had lit in the hearth. On the desk, a single candle was lit for him, and Alaric didn’t bother to light any more of them. When he dropped into the chair in front of the fireplace, he saw that his bag and cloak had been tidied up over in the corner. He let out a groan that he knew expressed more frustration than some cleaning deserved, but couldn’t even the cleaning staff leave him alone for a single day? He had forgotten how diligent the servants were in the palace. After one incident, years ago, of a servant sweeping up and burning the tatters of an ancient scroll he had been trying to reconstruct, he had greatly curtailed their duties. It was going to be hard to come back here.

  Having someone prepare a warm fire was nice, though.

  A book on the mantle caught his eye, and he leaned forward to get a better view of it. It was one of several decorating the shelf along with candles and a vase of flowers. The rest of the books he was familiar with, but not that one. The title read, True Light. He heaved himself out of the chair, grabbed the book, and sank back down. He flipped open the book. The pages were blank.

  He turned back to the cover. True Light.

  Alaric picked up the unlit candle that was sitting on the side table. Touching the wick gently, he said, “Verus lumen.” A rush of energy barreled through his finger, and a tiny dot of bluish-white light appeared. Alaric forced his finger to stay steady while the energy burned through it, far more energy than a normal flame required. The light grew brighter, casting a stark white light. Alaric pulled away, clenching his finger for a few breaths until the pain faded.

  He set the candle next to him on the table and opened the book to the first page. Silver words leapt into existence.

  Brother,

  I have a troubling matter and no one to turn to.

  If it is you, speak your name.

  Alaric stared at the words for a moment. “Alaric.”

  The writing shimmered slightly, but remained unchanged. Who had left this? No Keeper had stayed here since he left.

  No, Will had been here. If this was from Will, what did he want Alaric to say?

  Of course. “Alaric the Feckless.”

  The words shimmered, faded, and reappeared.

  Speak your full name.

  Alaric grinned. “Alaric the Feckless, Keeper of Trivia, Pawn of Queens.”

  The words shimmered brightly and then faded. In a breath, the entire page sparkled with silver writing.

  Yes you are.

  Brother,

  I leave this message because I do not trust it to a raven. I have no time to return to the Stronghold myself. I have lingered as long as I dare. I hope you return soon.

  I have been to the elves and met an elf named Ayda. She appears to be the last living elf. She said the elven people fought the Rivor and imprisoned him.

  I have seen Mallon’s body. He is not dead. In fact, he is still strong. The elves have his mind trapped, however, and he is not conscious of anything around him. I could find no way to wound the body.

  Something must be done. Although Ayda was complacent, I believe the Rivor will find a way to escape. Without the elves to help, I fear his return would be unstoppable. Tell the Shield. We need to destroy Mallon now while he is weakened. Although how we are to do that, I have no idea.

  The other thing that troubles me concerns the elf, Ayda. I spent three weeks in the Greenwood as her guest. I probably shouldn’t have stayed so long, but you know how I love the elves. She didn’t act as I expected—polite, but really just waiting for me to leave. Instead, she seemed genuinely pleased to have me around.

  We spent the time in a contest of storytelling. The first time I realized she was unusual was when I was taking my time getting to the end of Isond and Gondrey’s tragic tale. Ayda had been leaning forward, eager as a child, listening when suddenly she stepped… no, crashed into my mind.

  I was powerless. She entered my mind as if it were her personal library, picked up the end of the story and stepped back out. It wasn’t that she had done anything harmful to me, but the ease with which she’d done it and my utter lack of power to stop her were terrifying.

  Several other times, always in a similarly negligent way, she displayed extraordinary power. But mostly she was pleasant. Pleasant and lovely. I know I found her lovelier than I should have, and I often wondered if she had a hand in that.

  It was the day before I left when I saw what was truly troubling.

  She had found a stone along the river and tossed it to me. The sunlight had caught in the stone, and when I held it in my palm, it started to collect my memories. Milky scenes chased each other through it. My hand on my old knife, writing that report about elves in the library of the Stronghold, throwing stones into a creek during my childhood. Each scene, although mundane, seemed to speak a sort of truth to me. Or perhaps a truth about me. As though the stone were sifting through my memories to find out who I was.

  It was a Wellstone. I tried to direct it, but could get nothing coherent out of it. It was too wild. I realized that by studying it, we could gain insight into how our Wellstone thought—or whatever thinking is called when it’s done by a rock. Perhaps that knowledge could help us decipher the visions from our own cut stone. Or teach us to ask better questions.

  Thrilled with the possibilities, I lifted it up to Ayda, intending to ask if I could keep it. But as I lifted it toward her, I was practically blinded by the light that shone through it.

  Through the Wellstone, I caught a glimpse of her standing alone in the center of a glen, power radiating out
from her until the very trees bent away.

  Then the real Ayda, who had been watching me curiously, shifted slightly. In that moment, the light in her was swallowed up by a darkness so deep and so complete that I was terrified. The stone pulled me into blackness—a very old, very angry blackness.

  I knew that all was lost.

  Then the Wellstone was knocked from my hand, and Ayda stood before me as lovely and real as ever.

  “Those stones don’t like me,” she said, kicking it into the river. Then she looked at me, a look of piercing loneliness and sadness. “They expect the worst from me. As though one small thing that I carry could destroy everything else.”

  Please travel to the Stronghold and tell the Shield that the Rivor is not dead, but he may be weaker than he has ever been. Now is the time to act.

  And tell him that Ayda—she should be watched. You may not understand this until you meet her, but there is something about her. When I am with her, I am incredibly fond of her. Still, I am afraid. Afraid of the darkness she carries. And not only her darkness, I am afraid even of her light.

  I do not trust her. Find her, if you can, but do not trust her.

  I will try to return to the Stronghold by year’s end.

  I wish you were here. I am out of my depth and crave your insight.

  Your brother,

  Will

  Alaric sat back, his nerves thrumming with apprehension. He lifted the flame Ayda had frozen that still hung around his neck, watching it glint in the light.

  Did he trust her? If he was honest, he had started to. And if he was honest, he had no reason to. She was hiding something about when the elves fought Mallon. She wouldn’t explain to him why her magic was so powerful. Until the meeting with Saren earlier today, she had never even shown any loyalty to him.

  Will feared that Ayda was manipulating him, and it was easy to see that she did manipulate almost everyone she met. But it had always felt relatively harmless, a childish desire to be liked. Was it more than that? Brandson and Milly obviously cared about her. Douglon, a dwarf, had overcome his dislike of elves to such an extent that Alaric wondered if there was anything the dwarf wouldn’t do for Ayda. Even Gustav had seemed to like her.

  The logical conclusion was that Alaric trusted her because she wanted him to.

  And the darkness Will saw, what was that? Will was fun to the point of being reckless—at least the Keepers’ idea of reckless. Yet there had been real gravity in his warning. The fact that Will had gone to such lengths to keep the message secret was astonishing.

  Alaric was a little surprised he hadn’t found a crumpled, stained letter stuck to his door with tree sap labeled, “Secret information for Keeper Alaric.”

  Alaric sat back and rubbed his eyes. He shouldn’t be mocking Will’s Keeper skills. At least Will had noticed something off about Ayda. Alaric had been completely taken in by her. If this little side trip to the palace had done nothing else, at least it had shown Alaric all of the ways that he had missed things a Keeper should have seen.

  A bell somewhere in the city tolled midnight. The rain had lightened to a pattering outside his window.

  He looked again at the frozen flame necklace he had. Who was Ayda? He started to pull it over his head, but paused. There was something about the necklace that felt like it should be kept close. Maybe he shouldn’t be trusting his own judgment any longer, but he let it drop back down next to the ruby.

  This collecting of troubling stone necklaces was getting to be a habit.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Alaric turned back to the book. Will’s warning had filled the page, and Alaric, flipping idly to the next, was surprised to see a postscript spring into view, filling the page completely.

  One more thing.

  I go west directly. Beyond the Scale Mountains are rumors of a gathering war. A holy man walks among the nomadic tribes recalling them to the Rivor’s banner.

  A village that I visited near the Greenwood told me tales of a Shade Seeker who had served Mallon. An elderly man who still comes through their village, demanding food and money. Mallon had left him in their village the day he had gone into the Greenwood. They said the Shade Seeker had never harmed any of them and that he wasn’t even particularly threatening, but they were still afraid. The fear Mallon spread still lingers, even after all this time. When the Shade Seeker left, some young men from the village followed him on a dare. He went to the Roven Sweep. I think this Shade Seeker is the one gathering the Nomads. Could he know the Rivor is not dead?

  Was Will talking about Gustav? If Brandson was right and Gustav had spent time among the nomads, then it could be. There were not many Shade Seekers, and it was highly unlikely there would be two of them interacting with the nomads.

  But that would mean the wizard had been close to Mallon, trusted by him. Which meant Gustav wasn’t an idiot at all. If Mallon found him useful, Gustav must be powerful.

  The Rivor cared for nothing but power.

  A cold knot sat in Alaric’s stomach. He had underestimated Gustav to a dangerous extent.

  Duke Thornton’s estimation of Alaric’s worth as a Keeper was feeling more and more accurate.

  Alaric turned back to the book and flipped the page one more time, just to be sure he was at the end. He found one last line of writing.

  Last I heard, the Shade Seeker was masquerading as some elderly western lord.

  Lord Horwen.

  The exhausted fog in his mind stirred. Lord Horwen was Gustav. The truth of it blew through his mind like a breeze, clearing away the cloud that had hung over him all afternoon.

  Alaric dropped the book and swore. The wizard had done it again. He wasn’t exhausted. He was being manipulated by Gustav’s influence. Again.

  Alaric dropped the book and raced into the hall, calling out for the nearest guard to take him to Lord Horwen’s rooms. The guard ran ahead of Alaric leading him to Lord Horwen’s apartment in a different part of the palace.

  Alaric turned the doorknob, expecting it to be locked, but the door swung open. He ran into the lavish quarters. They were empty.

  A servant girl stood inside, looking wide-eyed at the guard and Alaric.

  “Where is he?” Alaric demanded.

  “Lord Horwen left hours ago,” she answered, shrinking away from his scowl.

  The room was messy, trunks rummaged through, and drawers left open, as though it had been hastily vacated. Gustav was gone.

  “Close the gates,” Alaric commanded the guard. “Inform Queen Saren that Lord Horwen is an imposter. Search the premises for him.” At the man’s hesitation, Alaric snapped, “Now!”

  If Gustav had left hours ago, it wouldn’t matter, but Alaric had to do something. The guard raced off, and Alaric stepped into the room, letting his eyes roam across the mess. The room smelled earthy, like mud. Alaric looked around for the source and saw a grungy canvas bag tossed on a table by the window.

  He walked over to it and saw smudges of dirt all over the table and chairs. He picked up the bag and under it found a wide-open box holding a grimy red handkerchief. Alaric stared at the box, his stomach sinking. He reached forward slowly and flipped the box lid closed, revealing the cover, carved with a sprawling oak tree.

  He had seen this box before in the memories of the Keepers’ Wellstone. It was the box Kordan had used to store the emerald he had created when he had tried to save that young boy’s life. The emerald he had wrapped in a red handkerchief.

  Alaric sank into a chair. This box, covered in dirt, was what Gustav had dug up in Bone Valley. A box containing an emerald. Not a Wellstone.

  Kordan hadn’t even buried the Wellstone in Bone Valley.

  The book Alaric had found in the Stronghold had read: I will store all of my memories in the Wellstone, and bury my treasure here beneath a young oak. Alaric had assumed the treasure was the Wellstone, never thinking that Kordan would have valued the emerald after the boy had died.

  Alaric’s head thumped down on the table. It ma
de perfect sense. Kordan had buried the emerald under the oak tree for the exact same reason Ewan had buried his wife under one, to give the boy a burial place of honor.

  Alaric had been chasing the wrong treasure this entire time.

  Alaric fell into bed in his own room. His body felt like it was made of stone, like it would be a simple thing to just lie on this bed forever.

  The guards weren’t going to find Gustav. He had left the palace hours ago. He was probably back with his dragon, a half day’s journey north of here. But why had Gustav come to the palace? What did he want?

  Alaric groaned and threw his arm over his face.

  And where was Kordan’s Wellstone? Alaric had thought back over everything, but he could think of nothing that had specifically said that the treasure buried in Bone Valley was the Wellstone. Alaric had supplied that idea all on his own. Of course Kordan would have buried the emerald. It had gone dark after the boy had died. Why would Kordan have kept a Reservoir Stone that didn't hold any energy?

  Which meant that Kordan’s Wellstone was probably in the place where he went after he left Kordan’s Blight, after he left the Keepers. Kordan’s Wellstone was sitting in the very tower where Douglon had found the map.

  There was a polite knock at the door, and Alaric heaved himself into a sitting position before calling for them to enter. Matthew, the queen’s steward opened the door.

  “I’m sorry, sir. No trace has been found of Lord Horwen.”