Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  “It’ll pass,” she says thickly through her own mouthful of sugar. “Eat.” She pushes another cube into my mouth.

  “Stop that,” I protest, but the sugar is sweet and comforting. It distracts me from my misery. I let it dissolve on my tongue and give in to more of them.

  “Stop crying, you’ll get all blotchy,” she says.

  “Why did you show me that?” I ask after I calm down a little. “I thought you were going to show me whatever it is that’s worse than Jacek.”

  “I can’t show you that,” she mumbles around her sugar and scoots back to sit on my legs. “Can I see your hands?” Confused, I take off my gloves and hold my hands out to her.

  “What do you mean, you can’t show me that? That was the whole point of looking in the first place.”

  “I can’t show you what I haven’t seen. And no, that wasn’t the point. The point was this.” She holds my hand up to my face and turns it, showing me the golden Mark that creep over my skin in intricate spirals.

  My heart pangs with anger and shame. I shiver and tug my glove on securely to cover it up.

  “Why do you hide it away?” Flitt asks. I realize we’ve fallen into the rhythm of the game again and shake my head.

  “It frightens me, seeing the Marks,” I say honestly. “I’ve had nightmares about the Justiciar spotting them and making me use my magic in the trials. Or people kidnapping me and forcing me to delve into the minds of others, to find out their secrets and make them do things. I don’t like how I got it. It came from evil, from deception. I don’t like how it makes me feel. If people saw it, they wouldn’t trust me anymore.”

  “Stubs isn’t evil,” Flitt laughs. “He’s just a tuffet. He gave you a gift to help you fight Jacek. Imagine if he hadn’t, where we’d all be now. It’s part of what you can do. Part of who you are, Azi, and you’re not wicked. You don’t need to be ashamed of it. Not here, at least,” she says.

  “Wait, you’re distracting me,” I shake my head. “I’m confused. The point was my Mark?”

  “Yup,” she grins. “Oh, good! It’s on your face, too. Look.”

  She flutters up, pulls me to my feet, and guides me through the enormous grass. The tall fronds part slowly to reveal a mirror, and my own reflection.

  She’s right. The gold Mark curls elegantly across my cheek. I step back and shake my head in protest. It’s never gotten that bad before. Now, everyone will see. Everyone will know. My heart pounds in my chest.

  “Look at yourself,” Flitt says. Her tone is gentle and calming. “Look at yourself like you’re a stranger. Like you’ve never seen yourself before. Really look.”

  I try my best to stay calm and do as she says. At first I can only fixate on the golden Mark. Eventually, I tear my eyes away and I look at the woman in the mirror.

  Her midnight blue armor gleams in the sunlight. Her blonde hair falls over her shoulder in a long braid that coordinates perfectly with the swirling Mark and the gold trim of her white cloak. Her sword is sheathed at her back, its handle highly polished steel. The name Hammerfel is etched in the hand guard, which is inlaid with blue enamel to go with the armor. Scale and plate armor, but made of something else, not metal. Stony, with flecks of gold and black and lighter blue that echoes in her eyes. Even while she looks herself over with curiosity, she has an air of determination, of strength and righteousness.

  Not only is she a knight, she could be a Paladin. The golden Mark gives her an air of power and mystery. She’s impressive. Stirring.

  Flitt hovers beside me in my reflection, her usual tiny self. After a moment, she tucks herself into her niche in my collar where my pauldron meets my neck guard. When she does, her light bursts across the crystals in my armor and shines over the golden swirls so brilliantly that I have to shield my eyes.

  “This,” she beams, “is what I meant to show you.” She leans back in the tiny space and looks very much at home there. A Paladin’s companion. Ili’luvrie. A perfect duo.

  “You’ve found your place,” I breathe.

  “I’ve found my place,” she grins. “Now, let’s go see the Queen.”

  Chapter Thirteen: Doorway to Cerion

  Celli

  More maze-like passages. We weave through them for ages, and the harder I try to keep track of the lefts and rights, the dizzier and sicker I feel. By the time Dub stops in front of a huge red door, I have to lean on the wall to keep myself steady. The swirling design carved into the frame of it press into my shoulder. It reminds me of the beautiful Mark on Quenson’s face, and I can’t help but daydream a little.

  “Don’t lean,” Dub orders, but I have to. Everything’s spinning. I’m too dizzy to stand on my own. I might tip over or even faint. “You want me to tell Quenson you can’t follow a simple direction?” he growls, grabs my arm, and yanks me roughly away from the wall.

  I can’t help it. I cling to him. As much as I hate him and as cruel as he is, I don’t want to disappoint Quenson and I can’t stand on my own.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I ask him. “I feel so strange.”

  “Wards,” he says with a smirk. “You’re too close. You’ll get used to it if they keep you around.”

  “Wards on the door?” I ask. He doesn’t answer. Instead he holds out his hand.

  “Give me your coin,” he says.

  “My coin?” I try to play stupid. The coin Quenson gave me is mine. It’s the only thing he’s given me. I’m not about to give it to Dub or anyone else.

  “I swear to…” his gruff oath trails off and he grasps me hard by the shoulders and turns me to face the door. “Look. What do you see?”

  “A door,” I say, and when his grip tightens painfully I look harder. “It’s red, with Mage Mark swirls. It’s got no handle, but carvings all over.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but reaches past me and presses a coin into a circle in the door that’s carved to fit it perfectly. His coin’s just like mine, with prongs around the outside and a picture of a spire in the clouds on one side.

  “Do yours there,” he says, and points to another carved circle beside it. I get my coin out of my pouch and press it into the space where it’s meant to go. A spark jolts my fingertip when I do and I jump back. His laugh infuriates me, and I have all I can do to keep from punching him. “Now, press your finger to it,” he demonstrates with his own fingertip, “and repeat after me.”

  “Sparrow and fox,” he says. I press my finger to my coin in the door.

  “Sparrow and fox,” I say, and the coin crackles under my touch.

  “Boar and perch,” he whispers, and the wooden surface starts to shimmer.

  “Boar and perch,” I say, and feel the coin give under my touch.

  “Foreshine, forewarn,” he says, and the Mage-Mark swirls on his side of the door start to dance and curl across the red.

  “Foreshine, forewarn,” I repeat, and my side does the same. I push my finger harder against the coin and it moves forward. The surface is soft now, like a piece of fabric stretched across an embroidery ring.

  “Induct, destroy,” Dub says, his expression darkening.

  “Induct, destroy,” I repeat, and the Mark expands until it covers every bit of the red with thick black spirals.

  “Cerion,” Dub says, and the curling lines flick out and grab him. Before I can react, they pull him through the door and I’m left alone in the corridor, watching the tendrils swirl and slither like a pit full of black serpents.

  My finger slips on the coin. My hands are shaking. I know what I have to do, but the black swirls are terrifying. I try to have courage. Dub’s words ring over and over in my mind: You want me to tell Quenson you can’t follow a simple direction? Quenson will hear of this.

  “Cerion,” I manage to croak, and the swirls lash out, binding my arms, creeping over my waist, my legs, my face until I’m completely enclosed in darkness. I can’t think, I can’t see, I can’t breathe. The coin nearly falls, but I catch it as I’m pulled forward into the space where the doo
r once stood. My stomach lurches as I race forward under the force of the shadowy tendrils, and just as suddenly as they grabbed me, they deposit me on the other side.

  I fall to my knees at Dub’s feet, panting for breath. The floor is rotted wood and dust. The musty smell of it combined with the violent speed of my journey makes me gag.

  “You’ll get used to that, too,” Dub says gruffly. He lifts me onto my feet by my collar. He’s still smirking, like my confusion and fear is entertaining to him. Amusing. I try hard to hide it. I don’t want to give him that satisfaction.

  “I’m fine,” I say, and shove my coin back into my pocket. “What was that?” I ask, still trying to catch my breath.

  “You’re not here to ask questions,” he says.

  He makes me wait while he goes to get me something to change into. He tells me to stay away from the windows and keep out of sight. I obey him not because I want to, but because I’m afraid to walk across the rotting wood floor that seems like one misstep will send me crashing through it.

  While he’s away I shuffle carefully around to look at the wall we came through. That’s all it is. Bricks and mortar. I look closer and make out a half dozen coin-sized circles stamped into the crumbling faces of the bricks. High above the circles, stamped on another brick, is a strange symbol. A circle slashed in half with a straight line. It could be a horizon, I think. A reflection of the sun on the water. Sunrise or sunset. Dawn or dusk.

  “Put these on,” Dub calls to me from the door. The clothes he’s scrounged up hit me in the back before I can turn around. He goes back out without waiting for a reply, and when I gather the clothes from the dust I realize they’re mine. He must have stolen them from my house. The thought makes me shiver. I think of Mum and Da. I wonder if they’re safe.

  Once I’m dressed, Dub comes back inside.

  “You know this kid, then?” he asks me.

  “Ti—” I start, but he clamps his gloved hand over my mouth.

  “Don’t say his name,” he hisses and takes his hand away. “You’re friends?”

  “Not really,” I say, “he’s kind of a jerk. He thinks he’s better than everyone. Most of the others either stay out of his way or idolize him. I can’t stand him.”

  “You’re going to turn that around,” Dub says. “You two are going to become best friends.”

  “Why do they want him?” I ask, but his only reply is to jerk his head toward the street to order me outside. I’m not here to ask questions.

  Chapter Fourteen: Aftermath

  Tib

  It doesn’t take Saesa long to gather herself. She’s a warrior in training, after all. We follow the wall around to the open gate. There’s already a crowd here. Injured. Bleeding. Healers dressed in brown robes weave through the wounded, casting and curing. This kind of magic is different to me. Soothing. I can sense it the same as the arcane, and if I want to, I can allow it to affect me.

  Beside me, Saesa steels herself. I try not to look, but I can’t help it. I’ve never seen so much blood, so much pain and fear in one place. Dozens of people crying, pleading. There isn’t much we can do for them aside from keeping out of the healers’ way.

  We make our way slowly through the gates. I’ve never been inside the Conclave before. Never needed to, thankfully. No one is here to greet us. The gate is open, just like always. Cerion’s arms are always open to the suffering. In a peaceful kingdom, there’s no need to shut out the sick and hurting.

  Saesa takes the lead. She’s been here before. The halls are empty, though. The healers gone. It’s so clean. White. Stark. Open. Peaceful, compared to the outside. Quiet, except for the shuffle of boots on stone and the soft trickle of water. Ahead, the ceiling arches up to the sky. Light pours through the ceiling onto the sculpture of a woman as tall as Nessa’s house.

  She’s a round woman with a kind, smiling face. Water spills from her eyes like tears. It trickles into the folds of her robes that pool at her feet. In one hand she holds a bundle to her chest. The other one is stretched out over us in a healing gesture.

  I forget Saesa and move closer. I feel drawn to her, the statue. She reminds me of my mother somehow. The mother I lost when I was much younger.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Saesa asks with awe. “She reminds me of my mother,” she echoes my thoughts.

  “Mother of Peace. Lady of Solace,” a pensive voice comes from the other side of the statue. A hunched old man peers around the Mother’s feet at the two of us. He beckons us closer.

  “Come for a healing?” he asks, reaching for us with knobby, wrinkled hands. Saesa takes them in hers. His milky gray eyes smile.

  “Saesa Coltori,” he says with kindness and warmth. “Your heart is heavy, as it should be at the decline of the Age of Peace. You have come to ask for help, but help has already been granted to those at the High Court. Most of our numbers are there now, undoing the evil that has befallen our great city. Dark times. Dark times, indeed.”

  “How do you know me?” Saesa asks, “And what do you mean, the decline of the Age of Peace?”

  “I know what the Lady tells me,” the man says, his voice less feeble as he goes on. “She sees you. She cries for a future rent with suffering, not unlike that which you have seen today. Our source of healing is finite, Saesa. It cannot withstand this much pain, this much destruction, at once. She weeps for the loss of it. She weeps for the children. She weeps for Cerion, the great city. The fallen city.”

  “You shouldn’t say such things,” Saesa says, dropping his hands. “It’s not true. One attack doesn’t mean that the city is falling, and if you go around telling people that, they’ll start to believe it and it will become true. There’s truth in untruths, Nessa says.”

  “The Lady of Solace does not lie,” he replies, and reaches out to me. I hesitate and give him one hand.

  “Tibreseli,” he smiles. “Key to the Skies.”

  His words make my heart race. I think of my invention, tucked deep underground. Almost finished. Almost ready.

  “Do not tarry in your work,” he says. “It will be needed soon, but not for the purpose you envisioned. Go now. I will not waste any more of your precious time. Work in the Light. Carry Peace with you.” He lets go of my hand. Gestures back toward the gate dismissively.

  Saesa stands beside me, staring at the man with a mix of awe and distaste. I take her arm and she blinks rapidly, like she’s clearing something from her eyes.

  “Come on, Saesa. We have to go,” I say urgently. She looks reluctant, but she nods slowly and the two of us turn and dash out.

  “Who was that?” she asks as we reach the gates and pick up speed.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I thought you knew, the way you took to him.”

  “No, I—” she skids to a stop in the street. Look around. “Tib, where is everyone?”

  She’s right. We’re in the middle of market street at midday, and it’s empty. Stalls are set with wares, banners flap in the breeze, fires at food carts crackle low, and yet the place is completely empty. Abandoned.

  “It’s so eerie,” Saesa whispers. She clings to my arm.

  The urgency I felt in the Conclave has faded. The thought of checking on my contraption now seems silly and pointless. This is all wrong. Something is off. Not just the absence of people. I feel it. The presence of magic. I edge forward cautiously.

  “What is it, Tib?” Saesa whispers, refusing to let go of me.

  “Magic,” I reply, approaching a cart. “Wards. They’re everywhere.”

  “That’s not unexpected,” Saesa says. “Lots of merchants pay to have wards set on their wares. Look-aways, mostly, when they’re away from them.”

  “There’s something else,” I say. I crouch low and keep moving forward. “Something powerful. Threatening. Waiting.” My free hand rests on the knife at my belt. I focus on the source of it and hone in. Averie’s stall. The apothecary. It’s a mess. Torn up, herbs scattered everywhere, bottles of powders smashed and spilled.

 
; “I feel it too,” Saesa whispers, her own hand gripping her sword, ready to draw. A wave of magic pulses over us. It’s weak, but I recognize it right away.

  “We should go,” Saesa hisses urgently, and starts pulling me back. “Come on,” she whimpers. “Turn around, Tib.”

  “Fear spell,” I murmur to Saesa, unaffected. That seems to snap her out of it. She shakes her head, scowling, while I press closer to the source. The inside of the stall is cramped and cluttered. Puddles of potions glow and steam and bubble on the cobbles. “Watch your step,” I point to them and Saesa nods. I’m getting closer now. The only thing between me and the source of the fear spell is a tattered curtain. I reach to it. Draw a dagger. Pull it back.

  “A bucket of water?” Saesa’s tone is somewhere between relief and disappointment. We crane forward over the bucket.

  “This is where the spell came from,” I say, not bothering to whisper anymore.

  That’s when I see it. A glimpse of yellow silk. I don’t have time to place it. The bucket sloshes on its own. A globe of water pools up out of it. Not a globe, a head. A shoulder. Another. Arms. A torso. The water bubbles and swirls within the form of a man. It splashes and gurgles and sloshes out of the bucket with watery feet.

  “Water golem!” Saesa shouts. She draws her sword and slashes it through the middle. It doesn’t do much aside from angering the golem. The water simply reforms around the wound. In response, it raises its fist to smash her in the face. Saesa reacts quickly, though. She swings upward, blocking the attack with her blade. Water sprays over her like sea mist, soaking her. The golem shrinks a little.

  Its back is to me. I take the advantage. With a dagger in each hand, I plunge the blades into it and pull my hands outward. Water splashes out with the motion, spraying the silks draped around the tent. It shrinks a little more.