“Very funny, Flitt!” I say, crossing my arms. Above me, the first two sentries shift slightly. “Flitt?” I wait a little while, expecting her to appear again, laughing at her little joke. When she doesn’t, I look up at the mushroom sentry to my right.
“Excuse me,” I call to him, “do you happen to know where my friend went?”
He turns his head very deliberately and looks down his nose at me. His polished armor glares in the sunlight. His eyes, dark and wide, seem to bore through me, straight into my heart.
“She must follow her own path,” he declares, “And you, yours.”
I peer ahead at the trail of golden pebbles and up at the sentries. There are at least a dozen of them on each side. For some reason, their presence reminds me of Iren, the Guardian of the North in Kythshire. I understand immediately what that means. If I tried to walk this path without their permission, the results could be deadly for me.
“Azaeli Hammerfel,” the sentries announce in unison with a resounding, eerie echo. “The Temperate, Pure of Heart, Reviver of Iren, The Great Protector, Cerion’s Ambassador to Kythshire.”
As always, I feel my cheeks go warm at the recitation of my titles. I bow my head as the echoing voices fade, slightly embarrassed. These titles were given to me by Crocus in Kythshire two years ago, and I find them a little pretentious.
I look up, ready to move past the titles and get onto the path, but the sentries keep going.
“Knight of His Majesty’s Elite, Champion of Princess Margary of Cerion, Ally of Valenor of the Dreaming, Vanquisher of the Prince, The Betrothed of Rian Eldinae: Oathkeeper, Windsaver, Arcane Guardian, Steward of the Wellspring. The Mentalist. The Paladin.”
“No,” I say, “I…those last ones, they aren’t—”
“Do you deny that you are Azaeli Hammerfel, Knight of Cerion?” They interrupt. The two closest to me turn to face me.
“Yes! I mean no, I don’t deny that’s who I am, but those titles aren’t mine. The Mentalist, The Paladin, Vanquisher of the Prince.”
“They have been bestowed upon you in this place,” they explain, and turn to face each other again.
I close my eyes and try to calm myself. My hands are shaking. Titles are important to the fae. I don’t accept them lightly. I didn’t vanquish Eron. I’m not a paladin, nor can I call my meager skills of looking into people’s minds full-fledged Mentalism. I think of Flitt and her insistence that I embrace that side of me. I wish she was here to guide me. Thinking of her reminds me of the game. The sentries are still once more, and I realize it’s my turn to ask a question. I think for a moment and formulate a good one.
“Please, good sentries, will you grant me passage down this path, so that I can join my companion and present myself to the queen?” I venture.
The rest of the sentries turn to face me. They stomp their feet in unison and stand at attention.
“To prove your worth, you must first pass through the Three,” the two before me announce. The others join in. “The Gauntlet. The Challenge. The Gateway. State your consent, and we shall begin.”
“I agree,” I nod. As soon as the words leave my lips, the sentries charge me. A score of them at least, wielding spears or swords. They make a line in front of me and form a wall of wings and armor that stretches several fairies high. The higher ones draw bows, notch gleaming arrows, and aim them at me.
My instincts kick in. I clap my visor over my face and draw my sword. They offer a bow, as is the custom in duels, and I respond with the same. As soon as I straighten, it begins. The first line rushes in as arrows glance off of my armor from above with the unnerving thud of stone on stone.
It feels like a dream. The sentries bear down on me. They surround me on all sides. I start out cautious, but when they don’t hold back, I understand quickly this is a serious duel. A matter of survival. I don’t have time to wish for Rian’s wards or Flitt’s light or Mya’s song. I understand the test. I’m meant to prove my mettle alone, without the aid of those who usually stand beside me.
The two before me are shield-bearing. They arc their elegant long swords with grace and power. I’ve trained for this. I know the most effective counters and attacks. Still, their strange fighting style makes it difficult to fall into a rhythm.
These aren’t the fairies from children’s stories. These fae are fierce warriors, steadfast in their duties. More of them close in on me, and I position myself with my back to a mushroom for cover.
They encroach on me with a wild hunger. I see it in their eyes. This is no test to them. They won’t relent. They’ll finish me. A shower of arrows rains down on me. One of them flies straight into my visor, glancing my temple. Swords and spears flash, and I count six in melee with me as I press back against the mushroom.
More arrows shoot toward me, but none meet their mark. The blade of my great sword catches on a spear. I twist it up and fling it away, disarming that opponent. I have no time to celebrate the small victory. Blood from my temple drips into my right eye, obscuring my vision. The fairies close in. Their small weapons give them even more of an advantage. My own sword is heavy and difficult to maneuver in such a closed space. The mushroom serves to protect my back, but it also prevents me from using my attacks to my full advantage.
While I do my best to hold my position, a hint of a thought creeps into my mind. I have other abilities I could use to make them stop. I could easily force them to give me passage. I push the thought away as the thin blade of a rapier pierces into my shoulder beneath my pauldron. They aren’t using magic. Mentalism would give me an unfair advantage. It’d be uneven.
More uneven than this? I think as I finally defeat one of the sentries with a longsword. It’s a short victory. His companion heals him completely, and he comes at me again with even more enthusiasm.
My shoulder is bleeding. I can feel it sticky and warm under my armor. I swing my sword again, but I’m too distracted by my thoughts and I miss the parry.
“Wait,” I say breathlessly, “is the object of this duel that I’m meant to defeat all of you?”
I’m answered by laughter and another shower of arrows.
“Of course not. That would be nigh impossible. You must simply reach the other side,” the second sentry says as he slams me with his shield.
“She didn’t know? That would explain why she hasn’t been moving much!” one of the archers giggles. She’s dressed in glittering strips of grass that only barely cover her for modesty.
“I was starting to wonder if she wasn’t a little thick,” chuckles a blue-haired one. She notches an arrow and aims it at me, one eye closed.
“My friend Windy says she is,” another one chimes in. She’s twice as tall as the other two and looks as though her skinny limbs have been pulled and stretched. “She said,” she whispers something to the others, and they float higher in fits of giggles.
A blow to my knees jars me back to the fight. I swing my sword hard and slice through three of my closest attackers. They hardly seem bothered by the wounds. My blade leaves a thin trail of red blood behind, but the gashes it leaves on their skin close as quickly as they open. I growl in frustration.
As much as I hate to admit it, I know I have to run from this fight. I’m outnumbered and outmatched. If the object of this battle is to get to the end of the path, I’m not going to get there by fighting my way through. Again, I consider using my Mentalism, and the idea thrills me. I feel the rush of it, the pull which is so much stronger in this place that’s already so full of magic. I don’t let it take hold of me, though. Instead, I simply stop fighting.
“I concede,” I say. I drive the point of my sword into the earth in front of me and raise my hands to the group of them.
“Maybe she’s not stupid after all,” one of the archers whispers. I don’t spare them a glance. I keep my attention on the first two sentries, who lower their swords looking slightly disappointed. For a moment I fear that they won’t accept my yield, but the score of other guards drift back to their mushr
ooms to stand at attention, and the archers settle back into the leaves above them.
“Very well. We accept your offering,” the first sentry to address me nods to the second, who pulls my sword from the earth. The other steps to me and pulls the arrow from my visor. My temple and shoulder tingle with a soft, refreshing sensation as he heals me. “You are a formidable fighter, and your concession has demonstrated that you are wise enough for self-preservation. Walk the path, Azaeli. The Challenge awaits you.”
“Thank you,” I say with relief. I turn to the second sentry and hold my hand out for my sword. He looks at me with a bemused expression.
“Yes?” he asks, and it dawns on me. Your offering, he’d said. I look at my sword with longing. It has been with me since my sixteenth birthday. We’ve been through so much together. It isn’t just a weapon. It’s a part of me. Who am I, without it?
I look from one to the next of them, and my heart starts to race again. They won’t give it back to me freely, I’m sure of that. I could force them to with my magic, or I could grapple it away and run. I’m fair in a fist fight…I shake my head. What is the matter with you? I ask myself, and memories of the ways that weapon has lead me into distress flood into my memory. I hold too much attachment to it. It’s an object, just an object. The thought gives me a pang of guilt. It feels like a betrayal to Cerion, to my father. Still, I’ve given that weapon too much importance, and it’s gotten me in trouble time and again.
The moment I make the decision to let go of it for certain, relief washes over me. I bow to the two remaining sentries.
“Thank you,” I whisper. Without a glance behind me, I turn to walk the golden path.
Leaving my sword behind is easier than I would have thought. With every step away from it, I feel lighter. The path ahead is dappled with sunlight that dances over the stones, making me feel as though I’m walking across a golden pool. It reminds me of the glimpse of Kythshire’s wellspring that I caught years ago. The familiarity of it soothes me. I don’t worry about being weaponless. For some reason, I’m at peace with that now.
The path ends at a curtain of vines bearing fragrant blooms of white and yellow. I take a deep breath and gently push them aside to step through.
The air here is much thicker with magic. Towering in the distance is the closed bud of the queen’s palace. The ever-rising sun casts a sharp shadow of it across the forest ahead and tumbles onto soft, green grass. The scene would be lovely were it not for the rocky chasm which slices the earth at my toes, barring my access to the other side.
I yelp and jump back, clinging to the vines to steady myself as vertigo sets in from being so close to the cliff’s edge.
“Flitt?” I venture, remembering her promise to meet me on the other side. My heart sinks when I’m met with silence. I’m not finished yet. I need to face this alone, too.
There is no bridge across, that I can see. Thinking I could possibly climb down the cliff face, I hold tight to the vines and lean forward. I can’t see the bottom due to a thick, swirling mist quite a way down. The rock face of the chasm is sheer, with no place to grip and climb. If there’s water beneath the mist, I think, that presents another problem.
I remember my first trip to Kythshire with Rian. When he realized anything was possible there, he was able to soar through the air.
“Always with the flying,” I murmur, my heart racing. Reluctantly, I let go of the vines and edge myself to the lip of the chasm. I close my eyes and imagine myself floating up.
“Huh,” I say with a hint of relief when nothing happens. I don’t relish the thought of flying, anyway.
I pace along the edge, looking for anything that might help me cross. It’s certainly too far to jump it, even if I had a pole for leverage. I peer across to the other side, and that’s when I see the lever. Standing beside it is a squat, round old man with shiny red cheeks and a beard that grows to his toes.
“Hello, sir!” I call across to him, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. He just stands by the lever, his hand ready to pull it. I run until I’m directly across from him, and wave my arms. His gaze is set straight ahead. He doesn’t seem to see me, either. “Good day!” I shout louder. His only reply is to rock back on his feet and whistle merrily.
“Could you pull that lever, please?” I shout.
He cocks his head to the side and cups a hand around his ear.
“I said could you pull the lever?” I yell as loud as I can.
His only reply is to shrug and start up again with the whistling. I groan in annoyance and shake my head. I know where this is going. They’ve been pushing me to it since I arrived here.
I focus on the man and reach my thoughts out to him. In my mind, I conjure the idea of golden strings. The rush of magic floods through me and bursts forth easily. The strings loop around the man’s hand. His eyes go even more vacant than they had been. He grips the lever, guided by my golden threads, and pulls it up.
The ground beneath my feet starts to rumble. I fall back against the vines and hold them tightly as a massive bridge scrapes and thunders up the chasm wall. The golden threads break. Across the way, the man shakes his head in confusion. The rush of magic fades, leaving me feeling empty and tired.
The bridge looks sturdy enough as it settles into place, but there are no rails or ropes along the side. It’s simply a slab of stone just wide enough for one person to cross over. I hesitate only for a moment before I step carefully onto its smooth, slippery surface.
I take my time in my effort to keep from slipping into the endless chasm below. I’m so busy concentrating on not falling that I don’t notice when the man across the way scowls and slams the lever down again. The bridge beneath me shifts and rumbles and starts its descent. I drop onto my stomach and try hard to cling to the stone, but there’s no place to grip the wet, smooth surface.
“Stop!” I scream. On the edge of the chasm, the man rocks casually back and forth on his heels. I reach out again with the golden strings and grasp his hand. The lever goes up. The bridge reverses. When it stops at the top again, I get to my feet. I brush my fear aside and sprint the rest of the way. The golden strings break, and the man scowls and pushes the lever down one last time. The bridge rumbles and quakes. I close my eyes, leap from several paces away, and land with a thud in the cushion of soft grass on the other side.
The bridge disappears into the mist of the chasm, and I roll onto my side, gasping for breath. Beside me, the man continues to rock and whistle as though nothing has happened. I glare up at him.
“You could have killed me,” I yell. He tilts his head just slightly and stops whistling.
“Someone there?” he asks vaguely.
“This is nonsense,” I grumble. “What kind of place has an old man who can’t see or hear guard their only means of entry?”
“Best keep your temper if you’re off to see the Queen,” the man snickers.
“Can you hear me or not?” I push myself to my feet.
“What’s that?” he asks. He looks away from me, grinning. I get the sense that he can hear just fine, he’s just being difficult.
“If you can hear me, why didn’t you push the lever when I asked you to?”
“You’ll find the gate through the trees there,” he says without bothering to acknowledge my question. “Best hurry up now, mustn’t keep them waiting. Good day,” he says merrily, and promptly vanishes.
Chapter Sixteen: The Lair
Tib
Mold and filth. Rot. Decay. Waste. Blood.
The stench is overwhelming. My nose comes to before the rest of me. My stomach follows, churning. Next, the pain. My head is ready to split. My ears are ringing. My heart is racing. I want to jump up and run, but I don’t. I lie still. I take stock of myself, one bit at a time. Head throbbing. Shoulders sore, but working. Arms? Muscles twitching. Hands? Bound. Legs? Bound. Feet? Seem okay. I take a deep breath and something scratches my lips. A bag over my head. Rough, like burlap.
I force myself not to panic
or move. Instead I try to figure out where I am.
It’s dark, but that could be the burlap.
I’m lying on something hard. The floor. It’s cold. Wet.
I’m not alone. Nearby, someone sobs. A girl.
Celli. My stomach churns again, this time with anger. He got her, too.
“He’s awake. Get him up,” a deep voice orders.
I try to fight, but the men that lift me by my arms are too strong. They set me on my feet. They pull off the burlap and my eyes sting as I blink into the sudden torch light. The first thing I notice when my eyes adjust is Celli, tied up just like me, slumped against a wall. Her head’s bagged up, too. The same type of bag the Sorcerer put Eron’s in. I shiver when I remember the blood dripping from it as he held it, watching the fight. Celli’s shivering, too. It’s cold in here.
There’s something else. A void. I can’t feel Celli or the men holding me. It’s like they don’t exist. The room is strange. A cell, with walls of dark, hammered metal. The floor is metal, too, and slick with water mixed with blood. My blood, probably. Some of Celli’s too, I’d bet.
A shift in the shadows beside me catches my eye. A man, all dressed in black. Handles of knives glint along his torso. One eye is covered with a patch. Visions of my past flash in my memory. This man, throwing knives into a post, guarding a place I needed to get into. This man, chasing me into the shack, closing in on me, screaming as Mevyn’s spear plunged into his eye. I remember him from that night. Dub.
His lip curls into a sneer as he sees the recognition cross my face. He grabs me by the front of the collar and lifts my feet from the floor.
“Been waiting to see you for some time, Tib Nullen. We’ve got a score to settle,” he growls through clenched teeth. “What’s it they say? An eye for an eye?”
I hear his knife sliding from its sheath. With his free hand, he presses its sharp point to my lower eyelid. I don’t dare fight. If it were to move even the slightest bit…
Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) Page 16