“Don’t worry,” he says to me. “I’ll talk to the others. We’ll make a plan.”
“In the meantime,” Shush says, “I’ll help you figure out how to make it up to Flitt.”
“Trust Shush,” Rian says. He kisses me again, softly, and strokes my cheek. I nod, and he casts the revealer on himself and leaves me to go into the dining hall. As soon as the door clicks behind him, I feel horrible again.
“I can feel it,” Shush whispers. “Your regret. Your shame. Fairies are empathic, you know. Most of us, anyway. Especially the ones who are close to humans. Flitt’s like that, too, but it’s even stronger between the two of you. She can feel it even when you’re far away from each other.”
“So she knows how terrible I feel,” I shake my head.
“Can you think of something?” his whisper is a cool breeze in my ear. “Some selfless act, some way to show her how much her forgiveness means to you? You know her better than you think, Azi. What could you do to prove it to her?”
A hundred thoughts run through my mind. Gifts I could give. Things she enjoys. Mouli’s sweets, or the sugar cubes she loves so much. She loves light, the stars, colorful, bright things like ribbons and gemstones. There’s not enough time, though. I can’t go off searching for the perfect present to show her what she means to me.
Peals of laughter ring out from inside the ballroom, and Mya’s song mixes with that of the elves. I imagine Flitt in there, laughing along with them through her hurt feelings and her disdain for what I almost did. I imagine Uncle, whispering with Rian, starting to plan. I imagine His Majesty entertaining Twig and Margy and the elves.
“You’re getting closer,” Shush whispers as if he can follow my train of thought. “Think about what you know of her. What she’s risked for you.”
What she’s risked for me. My thoughts go to the Ring and what she told me of her struggles there. How they almost cast her out. How she stood her ground and kept to her beliefs so that we could maybe someday be Ili’luvrie. She risked her place with her own kind because she believed so strongly in our partnership.
“Our kind worries all the time,” Shush whispers, “that because we’re small, we’re considered inferior by humans. We’re not as important. That’s what many of us think you think. That’s why Flitt’s so harsh sometimes. So she can seem as important. As equal. When you did that, down there, you made her feel lesser. Like something to be used.”
I reach up and press my hand to my neck, where the curl of the Mark peeks up over my collar. I look at the door. I know what I have to do. Something selfless. Something that will prove to her that her forgiveness matters to me. That she’s my equal, and she deserves my respect.
“What are you going to do?” he whispers.
“I’m going in there,” I say, “in front of everyone, and I’m going to apologize to her.”
“What about what Gaethon said?” Shush whispers.
“He’s right. It would be a scandal to show myself like this,” I take a deep breath and gather my courage, “but it’s worth it to me to lose face with all of them, even my king, if it means I’ll gain her trust again.”
“Ha. You’re brighter than she gives you credit for, Azi,” Shush chuckles. “I’ll join you.”
The air around him swirls into a dervish so strong that I squeeze my eyes and duck away. When it dies down, Shush is standing beside me, actually towering beside me, resplendent in his gleaming green armor. My head comes only to the top of his shoulder, making him taller than Rian. Perhaps as tall as Bryse, though not as broad. In fact, his narrow frame gives him a rather ethereal and imposing appearance, similar to an elf. He bends slightly and offers me his elbow.
“Shall we?” he asks, and I nod and let him step me out of the Half-Realm.
Saesa gasps at our sudden appearance. Her gaze lingers on Shush for a moment and then bows low to the two of us.
“We’re going in, Saesa,” I say, a little shakily. Shush gives my hand a reassuring pat and then lets go.
“I think it’d be best,” he whispers, “if I go first.”
The guards flanking the doors push them open to allow us to enter. The dining room drapes are open to the morning sunlight. Dozens of fairy orbs drift in and out of the beams, catching the light and casting it out to dance across the walls and high ceiling. The tables and chairs, arranged in a u-shape around the entertainers in the center, are adorned with rich garlands of fragrant flowers. The elves have arranged themselves in the center to sing a perfect, lilting harmony together. Their backs are facing me, so I can’t be sure, but I think I recognize Julini and Shoel. Both helped us face Jacek in Ceras’lain two years ago.
We enter facing the king and royal family, who are of course seated at the very center of the center table. Margy sits at His Majesty’s right hand, and Queen Naelle at his left. Twig is seated beside the princess, bobbing his head in time to the music. Beside him is Flitt, human-sized again, and looking as though she’s making an effort to smile and seem joyous. His Majesty’s Elite line the table beside her, in order of rank from Mya to Bryse. Across from them on the other side of the U, His Majesty’s Royal Advisors have their place. At least half of them are Mages of the Academy. I feel their eyes on me as soon as I walk in.
The elves’ song ends. No one applauds. They’re all too fixated on Shush and me. The performers turn to see what’s caught everyone’s attention. Julini is the first to notice my Mark. She nudges Shoel, and his brow furrows.
The silence in the room is deafening. Every eye is on me. My heartbeat thumps so loudly I’m sure they can hear it. I gather my courage as the first scandalized whisper breaks out amongst the Mages, and I stride, as knightly as possible, to face His Majesty.
I drop to one knee before him and press my fist to my chest. Beside me, Shush does the same.
“Azaeli Hammerfel,” His Majesty says. His words are barely laced with a question.
“Your Majesty,” I reply.
“I believe most of our guests know you by name, Lady Knight,” he says, a bit more coldly than he might, probably, had I not come bursting in covered in black Mark. “But I do not know your companion.”
“This is Soren Hasten Udi Swiftish Haven Illustrious Noble General, Your Majesty,” I say with a nod toward Shush, who has already stood up.
“Shush is good enough,” he whispers.
“What’s that?” King Tirnon asks, cupping a hand around his ear and leaning forward. “Could you speak a little louder, friend?”
“Shush,” Shush says aloud, and a puff of wind rushes out from him, ruffling the fur of His Majesty’s cloak and setting his crown askew. “Sorry,” he whispers bashfully.
“He’s a wind fae, Your Majesty,” I explain.
“Ha! That explains it,” King Tirnon laughs merrily and straightens his crown. “We have a place for both of you, of course. Come join the table.”
I stand a little nervously, certain that most in the room have noticed my Mark. They’re all still silent, even after the king’s welcome. I feel their eyes on me, especially Uncle’s. His glare of disapproval bores into me, and in my imagination the Mark burns my flesh where it curls under their gaze.
I try to ignore it. I expected as much when I made my decision. The Mages are well within their rights to take me in and strip me. I expected it, and I accepted the risk. All for her.
In the continued silence, with everyone’s eyes on me, I turn and walk slowly along the richly set table to face Flitt, who sits with her arms crossed, glaring. When I stop before her, she looks pointedly away and scowls.
“Felicity Lumine Instacia Tenacity Teeming Elite Reformer,” I say. “Flitt.”
“Flitter,” she says sternly.
“Flitter.” I repeat with a nod. “I lost myself. I went too far. Before His Majesty and all those assembled here, I am humbly, deeply, and wholly sorry for the way I behaved. I will never,” I swallow the lump in my throat, “never do that again. You are my dearest friend, and I should never have ordered you o
r thought to use you in such a way.”
“Your dearest friend?” she asks dubiously.
“Without a doubt,” I reply.
“Dearer than Rian?” she tilts her head slightly. Around us, a few of the onlookers chuckle softly.
“Rian is more than a friend to me,” I reply after some careful thought.
Flitt purses her lips together and stares at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. All around us, the dining hall seems to have collectively held its breath in anticipation of her response. She chews her pink lip and leans forward.
“Tell them,” she says to me quietly, “what you did. Tell them all of it.”
I start hesitantly, but after a while the words begin to flow more easily. The others’ reaction is much what I would have expected. Heated, but better than I had hoped. His Majesty’s Advisors question me extensively on the archer. The Mages question me on my Mentalism. This opens a conversation with the elves, who have known Mentalists in Ceras’lain, apparently, and offer reassuring explanations of its workings. This leads to talk of different schools of Magic, and Margary’s gifts.
I take my seat between Mya and Flitt, who seems to have mostly accepted my apology, or is at least acting as though she has, for now.
“Your Mark is gone,” she pushes to me, tapping her own neck. I reach up and feel the place where the black Mark had crept. I glance at Rian, who sits between Elliot and Uncle Gaethon, and he breaks his thoughtful stare at the two of us to offer me a half-smile.
“That was quick,” I say. Flitt grins in reply.
“That was tricky,” Rian pushes to us both. “Even for you, Flitt.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Flitt pushes.
“The Mark doesn’t work that way,” Rian scowls. “You put it on her, didn’t you?”
“Hush up, Stinky Mage,” Flitt wrinkles her nose and sticks her cherry-red tongue out at Rian across the room.
I push my plate away and a Page comes to take it. What does he mean, she put it on me? Why would she do that? I think back to the sleeping archer. To her sudden appearance. How she told me I should be upstairs, with them. Being absent from the gathering was an insult to her after all her hard work getting everyone together. Not only had I hurt her feelings by ordering her and insinuating I’d use her to replenish myself, but I made her look foolish by not showing up in the dining hall when I ought to have been by her side.
“You put the Mark on me? You made me go through all of that,” I push to her in disbelief, “just to save face?”
Flitt shrugs apologetically. “You’ve been wobbly since we came back to Cerion. Divided. I needed you to be sure, not just in the magic of the Queen’s palace, but here, in front of your own king, of how important I am to you. It was the last test, I guess you’d say. Oh, don’t look so angry. I did you a favor. Now you don’t have to worry about those Mages looking at you that way. You don’t have to worry about having to tell everyone what you can do, either. That part’s over. Everyone knows. The elves even helped!”
I try hard to compose myself. She’s right. I don’t like the way she did it, but what’s done is done. I look across the table and catch Mum’s eye. She’s smiling at me with that same pride she showed when she first saw my gold Mark.
“Paba,” Margy says quietly, and the rest of the conversation dies down as the young princess stands up.
“Yes, dear child?” His Majesty gazes at her much the same way Mum looked at me: With wonder, awe, and respect.
“Now that everyone knows of my secret, and now that you’ve been shown the path the Dawn must take, there’s little time to lose,” she offers, a little unsure.
“Quite so,” King Tirnon rises from his seat to stand beside her. “The time for merriment is done, my friends. Now we must make a plan to push back against the scourge of Sorcery and their allies, the Dusk. We must work together to aid the Dawn in claiming the lost city,” he squeezes Margy’s shoulder. “I intend to address my kingdom before the sun sets this afternoon, so I hope we can agree on our course of action by then.”
The way Margy looks up at him, with such love and admiration, makes my heart swell with pride and affection for the two of them. My king and his daughter. Together, the two will rule Cerion and Brindelier both. I can’t think of a better pair of leaders. Margy, with her kind, gentle, steady heart, and His Majesty with his open mind and level head for justice and peace. The promise of the Light between them is strong. With the fairies and the elves by their side, the path of Cerion along with the Dawn is easily set.
Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Thief
Tib
The room where Celli brings me is just like the rest of the place. Dank. Shadowed. Heavy with wards and spells. The spells in this room are old. Elvish. Twisted. Like the spirits of a thousand trees. Wild. Like a wolf pinned in a trap, the energy thrashes around us when we enter. Set in place, but nowhere to go. Osven’s ghost wavers like he’s under the surface of a pool.
Celli closes the door behind us and just stands there. She doesn’t say a word. If I concentrate, I can feel the Sorcerer’s hold gripping her. Quenson. Quenson. I glance around and step closer to her. She presses herself back against the door. I need to get out of here. Back to that room we arrived in. Back to the bottles on the pedestals.
I look Celli over cautiously. She doesn’t react. She’s content. She’s done what she was told. Brought me here. Kept me here.
“What did they do to you, Celli?” I ask her. “You’re like a slave.”
“I’m not a slave,” she narrows her eyes. “My master honors me.”
“That’s what I mean. Your master? Since when?” I edge closer. “These are Sorcerers, Celli. They’re wicked. Dangerous.”
“My master strengthens and protects me,” she replies, like she’s bragging about it.
I sigh and turn away. Look around the room. It’s been ransacked. Books from shelves lay open, scattered across the desk, their pages torn out. Chests are tipped over, their contents spilled across the carpet. I cross to a chest and kneel beside it. There was magic on it. Wards and poisons. They’ve been spent, though. Now it’s just an ordinary, tipped over chest. No, not ordinary. Something’s inside. I see it. Feel it. Bundled up in an old robe. A creature. Something sleeping.
“Don’t touch anything,” Celli barks at me.
I don’t listen. I pinch the fine red silk between my fingertips and pull it aside. One of the black, leathery fairies lies sleeping there, curled into itself. It’s not as black as the other three I’ve seen. It’s less solid, somehow. Less here. This one has a different face, too. When I pull the last of the robe off of it, it startles awake and hisses at me.
“What are you doing here?” Celli demands angrily. She stalks close to the creature and crouches. “No one is to be in this room aside from my Master. These things are his now.”
“Master,” the creature whimpers. Its voice is strangely female. It eyes Celli’s wrist. The bracelet. I understand right away. That’s what’s keeping Osven’s ghost held to her.
The creature lunges and clings to Celli’s wrist, trying desperately to pull the bracelet free. Celli cruelly flings her across the room and then chases after her as she smacks the wall. Before I can reach them, she starts kicking the thing brutally, repeatedly.
“Celli!” I shout and try to push her away from the pathetic, whimpering creature.
“I am nothing, I am nothing,” the black fae whimpers. “Without him, nothing. Kill me. Let her kill me. If she doesn’t, they will.”
Celli fights against me, trying hard to land another kick. I shove her back.
“Is this how you treat a guest, Celli?” I ask, my voice strained with the effort. Her wild eyes flash. “That’s what your master said, wasn’t it? Treat me as a guest. I’m asking you, as a guest, stop. Stop it.”
“She hates me. She knows, she knows. When her master dies, she’ll be the same as me. Nothing, nothing,” the pathetic creature curls up again and starts sobbing.
“Water, Celli?” I ask her. “I’m thirsty, and I need to wash my wound.” I point to the shallow cut that Dub had left with his knife.
“Dub did that. You won’t tell my lord, will you?” Celli asks, momentarily distracted from the simpering ball of scales and black fur.
“I won’t, if you go and get me some water,” I say, rubbing my neck.
“I shouldn’t leave you,” she replies.
“That’s not what he said,” I say slowly. “He said treat me as a guest, and he made me agree to behave like one. You heard me. I agreed. Right? Where am I going to go anyway, Celli? This place is too well protected.”
“That doesn’t matter to you,” she says, pursing her lips. “Their spells can’t stop you. You got away before. You tricked my master.”
“Celli…” I sigh and scowl. “It’s just water. Should a guest be made to beg?”
Her gaze flicks from me to the creature and back again. I can see the conflict in her. She despises that thing, that example of what might become of her. She wants to forget it. To snuff it out.
I cough dramatically and rub my throat. Celli narrows her eyes and glares at me.
“Fine,” she says reluctantly. “You’d better not move from that spot, though.”
I drop to the floor and sit cross legged. At my knee, the creature shivers.
“I swear,” I say to Celli.
“I’ll be right back,” she says, and then, reluctantly, she slips out of the room.
“You should have let her end me,” the creature whimpers. “I am nothing now. Master is gone. Stolen from me. I cannot reach him. Only through my own death. Into darkness. Do me this mercy. End me. I am nothing. Worthless.”
I stare at the thing, ugly and mangled and spent. Her leathery wings are twisted and torn. The hair on her head is a shag of charred black moss. The rest of her is almost nothing, like she says. Bone and scales.
Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) Page 38