Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  “Still, it does not keep those determined to wield its power from seeking its gates. The Dusk has built an alliance on this premise. It is called The Order, or the Circle of Spires. They have pooled their resources with Sorcerers who have been lying in wait for some years now, conspiring and plotting. Dark fae and darker men, who scour the lands for any clue which might lead them to the Great Source. What they do not know is this: The more determined they are, the more selfish and ruthless they become in their efforts, the further they skew the balance, and therefore the more elusive the gates become to them. Still, their numbers are such that they stand at the precipice of victory. They could discover the gates at any time and take them by force.”

  “Many a quest such as this has begun with a choice, Azaeli and Rian,” the queen tilts her head to the side gracefully. “Azaeli, you have sworn to seek this city for your princess. We see the seal of the promise between you plain as the Light. Rian, you have given yourself to the fae time and again in the name of the Light, and time and again you have shown us a selfless restraint which rivals that of any living Mage. Knowing so, your choice is this: Walk away from this place and the quest set before you and forget all connections and dealings with our people, or take up this quest to thwart the Circle of Spires, open the gates of Brindelier for the Dawn, and set a worthy ruler upon its throne.”

  Rian’s arms tighten around me at the queen’s proposal. None of us says anything in response, not even Flitt or Shush. I can feel them both holding their breath as they wait for our reply.

  “It is the custom,” Zilliandin pipes up with his finger raised, “to have a game at questions. I propose to Her Majesty that, in the interest of time and clarity, in consideration for the gravity of the quest set before them, we forgo this custom.” He blinks and gives a nervous chuckle. “Just this once, of course.”

  “A fine proposal, and one that we shall grant. You may ask your questions freely, and we shall answer to the best of our abilities.”

  Beside me, Flitt’s eyes go wide. She looks at Shush, whose expression matches her own. “Wow,” they both mouth to each other. The dismissal of the question game is apparently as big a deal as I would have expected.

  “I have one,” Rian says right away. “Actually, I have more than I can count, but a good one to start. How long do we have to find this worthy suitor you speak of, and how do we find the city ourselves if it’s hidden to those who seek it?”

  “That’s two questions, Rian!” Flitt rolls her eyes and groans. “Typical.”

  “It is fine, my love,” the queen chuckles. “Zilliandin?”

  The queen’s advisor pushes his spectacles up his long nose and drifts closer to the rest of us. He looks over his shoulder conspiratorially.

  “You must remember what Her Majesty said earlier. The shadows listen. So anything I tell you here, anything we speak of, could be overheard by the Dusk. From this point on, you must assume they know everything you know. That being said, I’m happy to answer your questions, Mage. It is our belief that you have found the suitor already. You will find the answer to your second question in Orivosak.”

  Leaving Rian to ponder his answers, Zilliandrin turns to me.

  “And you, my dear,” he gives a little bow, “have you a question?”

  I think long and hard on the ocean of information that’s been revealed by the queen, and as always my thoughts go to Cerion. Obviously, Margy is the suitor, but she’s also the last living heir to the throne of Cerion. Eron is dead, and Sarabel has married off to Sunteri. With no one to rule in His Majesty’s wake, what will happen to the peace of our kingdom?

  “I understand the importance of keeping the Dusk out of Brindelier,” I start slowly, turning over my thoughts carefully before I speak them aloud. “But if the suitor is who I think it is, it will leave our kingdom in chaos. We will have no one to hold the throne, if our only remaining heir lays claim to another. If we were to accept this quest, how could we ensure the stability of Cerion?”

  Rian turns his head slowly to look at me. His eyes are wide with disbelief, and his mouth opens slowly before he snaps it shut again.

  “That…that’s really an excellent question, Azi,” he says in awe. I guess I should be flattered, but I’m a little annoyed that he’d be so surprised that I’d come up with it.

  “It is difficult for us to understand the delicate balance of the governments of man,” Her Majesty says with a patronizing smile. “Though we know how important your peace is to our own survival. The Plethore Dynasty has kept our secret for over a century, and for this we are grateful. If your quest were to succeed, Azaeli Hammerfel and Rian Eldinae, it would be the start of a new age for all of us. An age of kinship. It is our hope that fae and folk could live in harmony after the gates of Brindelier are opened, and the time of Ili’luvrie could return once more.

  “As such, your suitor would keep a throne both in Cerion and Brindelier, and all of the territories of both would fall under one ruler.”

  “You mean to say,” I gape at the queen, “the suitor would rule over both, and have command of the Source of all of the Wellsprings, everywhere?”

  “That’s a lot of power,” Rian says quietly. “Too much for one person.”

  “If it is meant to be, then the way will be open to you. If the right suitor is chosen, then your path will not be difficult. Brindelier will guide you,” Zilliandin says with a smile. “The Great Source, the city, is a power in itself. It lies in wait for the proper alignment of the stars, for the Champions of Light to show themselves. If you are meant to succeed, you shall.”

  “Do not make it sound so simple, Zilliandin,” the queen warns, “the Dusk encroaches. They will try to take the city by force, if they are able to find it. They will stop at nothing to keep you from your goal. Your quest shall not be as simple as my advisor makes it seem. But if you are true to the Light, the way will open to you.”

  “The first step,” Zilliandin nods, “is to accept the quest.”

  “I have another question first,” Rian says quietly. Behind his eyes I can see the cogs turning. His mind is racing already, and more answers will surely set his head spinning. “In recent months, there have been many portents of some great dark force. We at the Academy have seen these warnings come in many forms. Is it this Circle of Spires, this Dusk you speak of, or could there be some larger, darker force that threatens?”

  “We, too, have seen the portents you speak of. We cannot say for certain, but if the Dusk is allowed to present its own suitor, and if this suitor is allowed to reign, then a darkness unlike any that has been seen will fall over the Known Lands. Light will become shadow, and good will be snuffed out forever. This faction of Dusk is ruthless and hungry for power. Long have they felt that the balance is too oppressive. They will crush the light for the sake of their own power. Hopelessness and cruelty will reign.”

  “Chosen heroes face the end of the world against all odds,” Rian murmurs. “Light versus Dark. This is a tale I’ve read many times.”

  “The good news is the Light always wins, right?” Flitt tries to sound cheerful, but there’s a hint of doubt she can’t quite hide.

  “We’re certain you have more questions,” the queen says, “but the sun sets now, and we’re certain you’re all quite spent. You must decide whether to accept the quest laid before you, or walk away and lose all memories of this place and those you have encountered within it. We shall give you the night to think it over. In the morning, we shall feast and hear your declaration. For now, go, and rest your weary heads.”

  Before we can protest, the queen makes an elegant gesture and the scene before us fades away. Flitt, Shush, Rian and I find ourselves in a room with glowing walls of rose petals. Four beds draped with gauzy white webbing and dressed with lavish silky coverlets line the wall, and opposite them a fire of blue and golden flames crackles merrily. There is a table set with fruits and wine and draped in sparkling cloth. Orbs of light drift lazily through the room, casting soft, soothing li
ght.

  The inviting coziness of the beds makes me realize how very tired I am, and the table of food makes my stomach growl.

  “Typical,” Rian sighs as he strides to the table. A whisper and a gesture of a spell ensures him that the food is safe to eat. He pulls out a chair for me and nods with a forced smile. Across the room, Flitt and Shush converse in secret whispers. Once in a while, they throw a glance our way. I sink into a velvety chair, and we both eat in thoughtful silence. The berries are plump and perfectly ripe, and the wine is the best I’ve ever tasted. Together we eat our fill, and eventually Shush and Flitt come to join us.

  “Looks like it’s okay to talk freely in here,” Flitt says thickly around a mouthful.

  “Oh, indeed,” Shush whispers. “Thanks to the wisps.” He nods to an orb that drifts past.

  They’re right. The fire at the hearth and the soft light of the orbs ensure there isn’t a single shadow cast in this place. Flitt seems to be grateful for this reprieve. She allows her own light to dim a little as she tucks in to her plate of berries.

  “How much of this did you two know about? And for how long?” Rian asks as he tips back on the two feet of his chair. “You,” he points at Shush and narrows one accusing eye, “you said something way back at the battle of the keep at Kythshire.”

  Shush shrugs. He lets out a guilty sigh of wind which swirls across the table, nearly tipping my goblet.

  “A while,” he whispers.

  “Well, we couldn’t be sure, really, could we? And we did have to make sure. The princess taking to Twig was the first real sign, and then your Mum just happened to stumble back to Kythshire, didn’t she, Azi? A while ago, they thought it might be her. But then she married that metal-pounding hothead and—”

  “Hey!” I glare across at her. “Don’t talk about my Da that way. He’s a good man.” Flitt shrugs.

  “I guess he could be both, couldn’t he?” Shush placates. “Hot-headed but a good man, too.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Flitt waves her hand dismissively. “I was saying, they thought it could be her, but then she ended up with him and that wouldn’t work. You know what the song says, Mage and Sword, Blade and Arcane, twixt the two, hmm, hmm….” She hums the rest, trailing off.

  “Actually, no,” Rian interrupts.

  “What do you mean, no?” Flitt scowls. “They’ve sung it forever. I’ve heard it a million times and sung it myself another million. It gets stuck in your head, doesn’t it? Can’t really get the words wrong.”

  “I meant no, we don’t know what the song says.” Rian explains. “We haven’t heard it.”

  Flitt’s jaw drops, her open mouth revealing a half-chewed bite of berry.

  “But, your mum’s the most famous bard in Cerion. How could she not have sung that to you?” Flitt asks in disbelief.

  “Why would my mum know a song sung by fairy muses?” Rian scowls, obviously annoyed by Flitt’s criticism of his mother’s knowledge of songs.

  “Same way bards know most songs,” Shush whispers. “They pluck them from the aether. They absorb them from inspiration.”

  “The aether?” I ask.

  “Aether, Dreaming, inspiration, Source, Half-Realm…” Flitt shrugs. “Lots of names for the same general thing. Magic. You humans think of Magic as a thing that’s molded and wielded and bent to your will. Fairies know it’s more than that. It’s a thing, sure, but it’s also a place. It has lots of locations. Lots of ways to access it.”

  We stay up talking late into the night until we can barely keep our heads from nodding and our eyes from drifting closed. Once we have our answer for the queen and our general plan mapped out, we retire to the welcoming clouds of our beds and drift into the most perfectly comfortable slumber any of us has ever had the luxury to enjoy.

  In the morning when we’re ready, the room fades as easily as it had appeared the night before, and we find ourselves standing at the base of the long staircase to the throne.

  The queen sits regal and commanding in a gown of butterflies and spider silk that twinkles in the morning light like drops of molten gold. Hundreds of fairies have come to listen to our declaration. They line the open spaces between the columns all the way up to the open ceiling where the fragile tips of the palace’s petal walls fall open to the soft pink sky above.

  Rian is caught mid-yawn beside me through the transformation. He blinks sleepily and goes wide-eyed at the scene, then takes my hand as if to check and see if we’re still dreaming. Flitt and Shush don’t seem at all surprised. Rather, to my surprise and slight embarrassment, Flitt soars up the stairs and gives the queen a sweet, dainty kiss on the cheek.

  “A bright morning to you, my little Sunbeam,” she says with a smile. Flitt grins and squeezes the queen’s hand before floating slowly to my side again. “And to all assembled here.”

  “Bright morning!” The wish surges through the crowd. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but the light of dawn seems to shine stronger as their chorus echoes through the ivory pillars.

  The queen nods to Zilliandin, and the elder fairy drifts forward to address the crowd.

  “Today our champions stand before us,” he declares. “From Kythshire: Felicity Lumine Instacia Tenacity Teeming Elite Reformer.” He nods to Flitt, and she darts to the first step.

  Her wings close and open slowly, catching the golden light and splashing it across the crowd in a dazzling, blinding display of rainbow prisms. The crowd erupts into applause and cheers.

  “From Kythshire,” Zillandin’s call hushes the crowd, “Soren Hasten Udi Swiftish Haven Illustrious Noble General.”

  Shush towers beside Rian. His iridescent green armor shimmers with flecks of blue and magenta. He raises his long spear as he stalks forward on mantis-like legs to take the step beside Flitt. Turning to the crowd, he lowers his bug-like goggles over his eyes and draws in a deep breath. All around us, the crowd pauses. The smart ones cling to pillars. Rian steps closer to me and takes me in his arms.

  Shush blows out and his wind rushes through the palace, rattling the pillars, shaking the fragile petals, and sending tiny dervishes to dance across the white stone. The assembled fairies giggle as they cling to anything they can, even each other. Those who weren’t prepared tumble away through the wind, whooping and laughing. Rian’s robes and my cloak lash around us like whips, and my feet slip on the polished stone as we’re pushed back by the force of it. When the windstorm finally dies down, Shush grins and bows, and the crowd erupts into applause the same as they had for Flitt.

  “From Cerion,” Zilliandin announces, and the crowd hushes once more. “Rian Eldinae, Mentor of the Academy of Cerion, Mage of His Majesty’s Elite, Windsaver, Oathkeeper, Arcane Guardian, Steward of the Wellspring.” Rian’s arms tighten around me nervously and then drop away. He stands silent as the hushed whispers of the crowd echo around us.

  “Do something impressive,” Shush pushes to him.

  At his sides, Rian’s hands flex and relax. He takes a calming breath and steps to the stairs. My heart races nervously as he gazes out over the mass of fairies. I’m not sure if my anxiety is sympathy for him or my own apprehension about what I’ll do when it’s my turn. His eyes scan the hall thoughtfully, and he raises his hands in an elegant gesture.

  He starts to speak the incantation of a spell and the magic in the air around him is tangible. It gathers on his fingertips like clusters of pollen, white-hot and bright. It seeps into the pores of his skin and radiates outward. His fingers curl with the intensity of the power that flows through him. His eyes go wild and vacant. All around us, fairies cower behind the shelter of the pillars. Even I take a step back, surprised by my own fear of the devastating arcane power he’s about to wield.

  All of the light in the hall gathers around him, poised to unleash itself by his command. His eyes flash with terrible might. He raises his hands straight up as though he’ll thrust them forward. Then slowly, with measured restraint, he closes his fists, lowers his hands, and closes his eyes. The gathere
d magic dissipates. Rian bows his head, and I understand. His power, his talent, is restraint.

  The fairies break into cheers twice as loud as their show of appreciation for Flitt and Shush. In time, they finally quiet down and my stomach twists into knots. It’s my turn, now.

  “From Cerion,” Zilliandin’s voice seems louder to me this time, “Azaeli Hammerfel, Knight of His Majesty’s Elite, The Temperate, Pure at Heart, Reviver of Iren, The Great Protector, Cerion’s Ambassador to Kythshire, Vanquisher of the Prince, The Mentalist, The Paladin.”

  I stand rooted to the spot as the fairies stare at me with and whisper amongst each other with great anticipation. My heart pounds. I can’t think of what to do. My new titles ring over and over in my head. I try to push them away and think of something to do, but I have no idea what it could be. My sword was given up. That’s my only true talent. That’s what I’m known for. Without it, what proof can I give of my worthiness for this quest?

  Their eyes are steady on me. It seems like Rian has only just noticed my weapon is gone. I will my feet to move. I hope when I reach the step and take it, I’ll be able to prove myself somehow. My feet are heavy as I trudge forward to stand beside my companions.

  I turn to face the hundreds staring at me, waiting for my demonstration. The pull of their thoughts entrances me. Tendrils of gold hang thick in the air between us. So many minds, so much power to behold. Still, my heart aches for my sword. If I hadn’t given it up, I could show them. I could impress them with skills honed over years of training. Instead I stand before them feeling foolish and unprepared.

  “Do something,” Flitt pushes to me desperately, and my desire for my sword fills me up. My hands raise as though curled around a sword’s hilt. I don’t know what comes over me, but I imagine the most impressive weapon I can. With the tendrils of thoughts that reach out from the fairy crowd, I begin to weave my vision.

  I imagine a shining, heavy broadsword with a serrated blade as sharp as a surgeon’s knife. The tendrils of fairy minds collaborate with my own memories of my father and the sword he honed perfectly for me out of love. The sword I lost. The intertwined thoughts curl into place like the Mark, floating in gold filigree in midair before me. They form solidly in my hands, forging a sword of the perfect weight and balance. Its hilt and hand guard are spirals and curls. Elegant script bears the name Hammerfel, glinting and pulsing with magic. Its blade glows with shimmering light as it shifts from imagined to real.