“Tib!” the shrill voice makes me wince. Gemma, a young barmaid, swoops in on me in a flurry of skirts and perfume. Her face is painted crazy pink and red and blue. Some men love it. I’ve seen the way they eye her. Not me. It makes her look much older than when I met her at the fishmonger. Not my age anymore, definitely. She leans down so we’re eye to eye. Looks me over. Flutters her eyelashes. “Something to eat?” she asks with an inviting smile.
“Uh,” I swallow. Slide away, toward Loren. Nod. “Whatever he has, Gemma.” I point to the bowl.
She moves closer. Purrs at me like Zeze. “Anything else?” she whispers.
“No. Thanks.” I try not to let my gaze stray to her bare shoulders or the low cut of her shirt as she hovers. When I shake my head again, her smile falters a little.
“All right, Sweeting. If you change your mind, you let me know,” she taps my shoulder playfully and goes off to get my cobbler. Loren turns to me.
“Are you friends with her?” he asks. The way he watches her leave makes it obvious he likes her paint and perfume.
“I’ve known her for a while,” I say.
“That girl in the alley. You stopped her. You stopped all of them. They were afraid of you or something.” He leans back against the wall. Tries to look taller. “I could have, you know. They would have all been sorry. Except…”
“Except you weren’t supposed to use magic,” I finish for him.
“How did you…?” he asks. Stares at me. Shakes his head. “Anyway, thanks for stopping them,” he says after a while. He glances past me, like he’s trying to figure out his escape.
“What was it? In the bag?” I rest my arm on the table. Make it clear he’s not getting past me until I have answers.
“I can use it. Magic. I can if I need to. I could use it now.” He reaches toward me. His fingertips crackle.
“Go on,” I laugh. “Try it.”
He tilts his head. Watches me. Moves his crackling hand closer. Blue sparks. A lightning bolt is painful, even at a small scale. It would jolt through me. Burn my flesh. Well, not me. Someone else, maybe. When I don’t flinch, he drops his hand to his lap, looking puzzled.
“I can’t tell you,” he says.
“Can’t you?” I scowl and drum my fingers on the hilt of my dagger. “I’m surrounded by friends here. They’d look the other way, you know.”
Loren swallows. Pushes his cobbler around in his bowl. “I really can’t. I swore a Binding Oath to my master.”
“Oh,” I say. My heart sinks. I know about those magical oaths. Even if he wanted to tell me what it was, he couldn’t. He’s not lying, either. He really took one. I can tell. Gemma comes back with my bowl. She tries again to get my attention but I’m too caught up with Loren and the vest. After a while, she gets tired of being ignored and wanders off again.
“Tell me this. Will it hurt the princess?” I ask. It’s really all I need to know.
Loren’s eyes go wide. He looks shocked and disgusted I’d even think to ask him that. He shakes his head. “Never,” he says. That’s good enough for me. I start to get up.
“You’re going?” he asks. “That’s it?”
“That’s all I needed to know,” I say. I look at him. Slowly start to see him differently. He’s only a kid my age. He tries hard to look confident, but he’s out of place here. Alone in a dirty tavern full of sailors. An islander in a strange land. A boy in a country not his own. Like I was, when Mevyn lured me out of Sunteri. When he made me do things and then made me forget.
I look at Loren. Really look. He’s scared. He ought to be. What kind of master sends a boy dressed like that into a place like this? He should have at least disguised his clothes. It’s stupid of them both. Strange, too. And if he had a delivery for the princess, why not go straight to the castle with it instead of meeting her guard here? It doesn’t add up.
Loren shifts uncomfortably while I think all of this over. Doesn’t say anything. Waits for me to speak first. He’s smart.
“How’d you get to Cerion?” I ask. “Ship?”
“Sure,” he nods.
“A charter? By yourself?”
He nods again.
When I ask him, “What about your master?” he winces.
“He’s not here,” he says vaguely.
“Yeah, figured that one out. If that thing’s so special, why didn’t he bring it himself?” I ask.
“He’s working on something more important,” Loren replies. He’s relaxing a little. Warming up to me, maybe.
“I don’t know, a delivery to Cerion’s palace seems pretty important to me.” I say.
Loren shakes his head slowly. “Some things are more pressing,” he looks around carefully. Looks down. “Threats.”
“Threats?” I ask. “What kind of threats?” I sink back to the bench. The iron at my back scrapes against the wall. I had almost forgotten about it. The sound draws the attention of a nearby table. They eye us curiously. Eventually, they look away. I adjust the straps. Lean closer to him. “Threats against Cerion? Or Stepstone?”
“Threats,” he whispers. “Painted in the stars. Threats against everything. The Known Lands and beyond. Master sees them. Watches for them. He knows what will start it coming. He’s wise. He couldn’t leave observation. He had to stay. He’s the only one who can see clearly.”
“Start what coming? What threats?” I whisper. When he doesn’t answer, I press on. “Sorcery? Something worse?”
“Sorcery!” he laughs. “If only it was so simple as that. No, this is like nothing anyone has seen. And not something I’ll talk about anymore. Master says mention of it gives it power. It feeds on fear and belief. It grows as it feeds. It consumes. Better to put it out of your mind.”
“If that’s true, then why’d you just tell me about it?” I ask. “Didn’t you just make it worse? You’re helping it, whatever it is.”
Loren’s eyes go wide. He shakes his head slowly. “You asked. I didn’t think…”
I cross my arms and lean back. Either he’s lying or he’s not very bright. Since he’s a Mage, I choose the first option. Lying. I think of what Nessa always says. Keep close to the ones you don’t trust. Keep them in your sights. That makes it difficult for them to hide their secrets.
“You staying here at the Swoop?” I ask.
He looks around a little distastefully. “I imagine,” he says.
“I know a better place,” I offer. He looks at me. Thinks I’m trying to trick him, I bet.
“I have to wait here for that guard to come back,” he says.
“Suit yourself. It’s on Overlook,” I say. “Out of here, turn right. The Ganvents. They’re my family. Ask for them. Nessa takes kids in. She’ll be happy to have another even for a short stay. We’ve got a Mage girl there. Name’s Lilen. You two will have a lot to talk about. Tell them Tib sent you. I’ve got to take care of this anyway.” I gesture to the iron at my back. “I’ll be home before sundown.”
“What is it?” he asks, pointing to the iron.
“Later,” I reply. Before he can ask me anything else, I put a silver on the table and slide from the bench. I disappear into the rowdy crowd and out into the market.
The sun is low in the sky, but it’s still so hot that sweat runs down my back. I shift the metal again and wipe my brow. I don’t have a lot of time if I’m going to get back to Nessa’s by supper. I hope Loren decides to show up. If not, he’ll be one more thing on my daily list to track down. I duck into alleys and jog along twisting, lesser-traveled routes until I reach the shack. Goosebumps prickle my arms and neck. The first time I came here, I was attacked by mercenaries, and then the Dreamwalker. I almost died. If Saesa and Raefe hadn’t found me and brought a healer to me, I would have.
It was Mevyn who forced me here, I think to myself like I do every time I climb down this ladder. Into darkness. Into the cool underground. I think about Mevyn every time I come down here. I wonder if I’d have fought harder against him if I knew what we’d end up accomplishi
ng together. No, I would have chosen it. Chosen to help him revive Valenor and restore Sunteri’s Wellspring and its fae. He was the last of them, after all. He should have trusted me with the truth from the beginning. Still, as difficult and controlling as he was, I miss him sometimes.
I close my eyes as I climb down. Remember the fight above, when Mevyn drove my attacker away with a spear to the eye. Remember the vision Jacek, the Dreamwalker, created for me as I tried to escape him. Zhilee running through the red blooms. My little sister, happy and alive. My older sister, Viala, buried in the pages of her book. Red petals floating in the air. My foot finds the dusty bottom too soon. I hop down. Back to reality. At least I still have Viala. She’s changed, but she’s still alive. Her name is Ki now. She lives with the fae in Kythshire. In service to Iren, the Guardian of the North.
It’s different down here since I’ve been working. I light the torches with my flint and unbuckle the iron from my back. It falls to the ground with a clatter. I roll my sore shoulders with relief. Look over my work. Chains. Gears. Cranks. Fins. Wings. Bellows. Bladders. This iron will be the brace for the left. Tomorrow I’ll track down another strip and have Benen shape the right for me.
I get started attaching it with thick cords and screws. I’m too absorbed in my work to notice the shadows stretching longer. Thicker. My eyelids droop. It’s been a long day. I could sleep. Just a nap, a short one. My head bobs forward. My eyes close. I snap them open again.
“Very funny,” I mumble. Tie a knot. Burnish the leather. The shadows laugh. I’m not afraid. I know very well who it is. A friend. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpse his billowing cloak. His bright grin against deep brown skin. His long, silver beard. Valenor. The rightful Dreamwalker, who reclaimed his position after Jacek’s defeat.
“Don’t make me regret that I allowed you to help me sleep, Valenor,” I chuckle. When I turn to look at him properly, he’s gone.
“You’re making progress,” his amused voice echoes around me. “Have you thought of how you’ll be getting it out of here?”
“I have to find a new place,” I say. “Soon. I’ll carry it up in pieces to wherever. I think I found a spot. An old stable out of business.”
“Rather out in the open, wouldn’t that be?” Valenor asks.
“I’m going to have to show it to people eventually,” I shrug.
“Why not ask the Princess for a place to work? Certainly she’d provide,” his voice is far away and back again. Dreamy. Unreal. His shadows creep around my work, inspecting.
“If I asked Margy,” I say as I work a screw through the wood, “then there’d be paperwork and contracts and check-ins by men who’d think they could do a better job than me. I don’t need the headache. And I don’t want help. I want to do it on my own.”
“There’s always…” he starts, but I shake my head.
“Thanks, but you know I don’t want to build it in the Dreaming,” I say. “I want to do it without magic. Make sure it really works without help.”
“Very well,” Valenor sighs. “What you’ve already done is extraordinary, Tib. What is this?” His cloak flicks at a thick pile of waxed silk.
“Air bladder,” I reply. Squat back on my heels. Shake out my arm, sore from twisting screws.
“Air bladder, hm. So it would go above?”
“No, below. This long one goes below. One on both side. Then it gets pumped up through here, through sealed holes in the bulwark. Five men, five pumps. That blows up. Lifts the ship up above. See? Meanwhile this other one,” I scoot across the dirt and pat a larger pile of silks, “goes above, and that gets the hot air. These are stabilizers. They’ll keep things level once it’s airborne. And these are for steering.”
“I have to say it is quite ambitious, Tib. Quite.” Valenor’s cloak swirls and glitters just beside me. It’s amazing, I think, how differently the mantle suits him than it did Jacek. On Valenor’s shoulders, it doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels friendly. Welcoming. Familiar. His shadows are a comfort. Always balanced by the light. Always sparkling with stars. Just like his kingdom, the Dreaming. Pleasant again. There are still nightmares, and there are still pleasant dreams. Most importantly, there’s balance.
“Is something wrong?” I ask him as I take a wide step over fins to reach the brace again. “It’s nice to see you, but…” I let myself trail off.
“No, no, nothing pressing,” he says.
“Nothing pressing? That’s reassuring.” I snort and adjust the wood against the iron. Two more screws. I flex my sore fingers and then set to work again. Valenor stays silent. Watches. Waits. When I finish my work and he still hasn’t said anything, I look up. The shadows are still again. Unmoving.
“Valenor?” I whisper. “What do you mean, nothing pressing? Valenor?”
“Keep an ear to the darkness and shadows, Tib. Listen to whisperings, especially at dusk. Do not dismiss that which strikes you as unusual. Keep working. Keep thinking. Be vigilant.” His voice echoes softly as it fades away, leaving my arms prickling with chills again.
“Thanks for that!” I call out to the empty room, a little annoyed. No use trying to get more information out of him. He’s gone. I toss my turnscrew into the toolbox and douse the torches. Climb up the ladder. Bar the door. Weave through the routes again. Back to the rich part of town. Back to Nessa’s, all the while thinking of Valenor’s warning and Loren and the vest and Celli. It’s not like her to steal. Not that way, anyway. A loaf of bread, maybe. A handful of coin. Anything to get by. Not a rich man’s bag. Or a rich boy’s, for that matter. Do not dismiss that which strikes you as unusual.
The Ganvent manse stands sturdy and welcoming in front of me. Cool stone, rosy with the sunset. Ruben is outside, tossing a ball up the stoop and catching it as it rolls down. He’s ten now, and always wants to do whatever I’m doing, only better. He doesn’t notice me yet. I pause. My mouth waters as the smoky aroma of roast meat wafts past. Supper. Nessa worries if I miss it. It’s really all she asks of us in exchange for her kindness. Make sure you’re home for supper. But these new thoughts about Celli are weighing on me. Valenor’s words ring in my ears with Loren’s. Something’s coming. Listen.
I take off at a jog. Past Ruben. Past the manse.
“Where you going?” Ruben calls after me. “It’s grouse tonight! Raefe caught ‘em! If you’re late, someone’ll eat yours! Tib! Can I have it then?”
“Go home, Rube,” I shout, waving him off. “And don’t you dare eat my grouse!”
He keeps following.
“Go home or Saesa will eat yours,” I shout over my shoulder. His footsteps stop. Go back the other way. My mouth is still watering. I’d much rather be at the table right now, but I have to find out about Celli. Why she stole that bag. The real reason. I pick up my pace. Run fast. Think about the red swirls. Celli’s screaming. Did they take her to the conclave, I wonder, or the Academy? Did the Mark keep growing?
My feet pound across uneven cobbles. Pebbles. Dirt. Mud. I leap over the filthy gutter and skid to a stop. The street that runs through the crooked houses of Redstone Row is empty. Too empty for this time of day. Usually at supper there are people wandering around, chatting. Looking for an open place at the table of a generous friend or neighbor. Either that or standing in their own door, calling out they have extra. Not tonight. All the doors are closed. Everything is quiet.
I step back over the gutter and pull the cobwebs around me to sink out of view. I press against the crumbling wall of Old Ven’s house. Listen harder. Hear low voices. Whispers. Urgent. Frightened. I follow the sound along the wall. Four houses down are the Deshtals. Celli’s family. Their small house is full of people. The door is closed tight. The shutters, too. I press my eye to the crack. Try to see. It’s too dark to make anything out, though, and the whispers are all jumbled together.
I turn to press my ear to the shutter. When I do I catch a glimpse of something even more strange. Two boys across the way, slipping into an alley. One looks back over his shoulder.
His glance is full of fear and secrets. I step lightly into the street. Follow them to where they’re huddled together in the narrow space between crooked buildings. They don’t notice me as they stand close together, whispering. I know these two. Griff is twelve, skinny and scrappy. The son of a woodcarver. Mikken is eight. Rounder. Son of a butcher. Both are thought to be good boys by the adults, but I know better. They’re almost always up to some scheme.
I step closer. They smell strange. Like Averie’s apothecary booth. Old, odd things. Dead things. Not just that. Magic. Strange magic. I feel it around them. It lingers like perfume. Powerful. Quiet. Forbidding. These boys are mine, it seems to say. Don’t touch.
“What are we going to do?” Mikken, the younger of the two, hisses. He’s terrified. Breathless. He’s got Griff by the arm. Griff’s not doing much better. He’s shaking. His eyes dart around. He tries to catch his breath.
“We gotta tell someone,” Griff mouths. His voice is too weak, too scared to make a sound.
“We can’t. He said—” Mikken starts, but Griff cuts him off.
“Shh!! Don’t mention him! You remember? Don’t dare, Mik. Don’t, or he’ll…” Griff trails off. Shudders.
“But Celli,” Mik whines under his breath. Glances toward her house. “Everyone’s looking for her.”
“She didn’t listen. They told her to get it and not to touch it, and she didn’t listen,” Griff clings to Mik, too. Keeps looking around, like the shadows will pop out and grab him.
“That doesn’t mean she deserves what they—” Mikken starts again, but Griff claps a hand over his mouth.
“You can’t. You can’t talk about them. Mik, remember what they said. Anyone could hear. Shadows have ears. Remember?” Griff slides his hand away as Mikken nods, wide-eyed.
“But Celli,” Mik says again. “What do we do?”
“She failed,” Griff whispers. “She failed, and she’s got to pay. We can’t do anything. You heard them. We have to do what they say or they’ll take us, too.”
Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) Page 6