I hear it before I see it. The whoosh of an arrow from the rocky hillside to the northwest. Mya jumps up, turns toward the sound, and lets loose a scream that makes me clap my hands over my ears. Just before it would have pierced through the wards, the arrow slows and tumbles to the ground.
“Two! About! Shields!” General Kristan commands, and every other guard turns to face the outside. All of them raise their shields and stand their ground. They’re inside the wards, so they don’t move forward without direct orders. If they did, some of the wards would break, but there are so many that it wouldn’t make a difference to lose a few. Same with the arrow. It might have broken a ward, but there’d still be two dozen left up. It was a stupid move. Whoever shot it had to have known that.
I look toward the source. What I see makes my skin prickle with chills.
Men. Twenty at least, stationed over the rocky hillside, hidden in the darkness. Half have bows. The other half stand with their hands raised, ready to cast. Their ranks are bolstered by imps. Dozens of them. Wicked little specks of darkness sprinkled like empty stars. I feel their intentions. Kill. Destroy. End the princess. Claim Cerion. Steal back what was stolen.
“Yes,” their voices mix together like the wind, low and brutal. “Tibreseli Nullen. Dreamstalker, Steward of the Last, Knifethrower, Bearer of the Guardian, Slayer of Shadows, Liberator of Valenor, The Untouched, Key to the Skies. Give back what was taken,” they say all together. Men and imps alike, talking all at once in an eerie chorus. “Or we will ravage this land. Give that and more, and we shall leave you in peace.”
Everything goes quiet, from within the circle to the battle on the city streets. Silent. Waiting. Waiting for me, for my answer. I step closer to Margy and raise my blades defensively. Everyone inside the wards stares at me. My heart pounds so hard I can hear my pulse in my ears. I want to rush out. Charge them. Feel my blades drive through them. I want to make them hurt. Make them suffer. Show them they won’t win. They’ll never win. My hatred for them drives me. I take a step forward. I don’t care about the wards. I don’t care about anything but watching them all die.
Mya breaks the silence, humming a soft melody. At first I brush it off, but then I realize what she’s doing. I know I need what she’s offering. I let her voice affect me. Let it soothe and calm me. Rian turns. Slowly, he crosses to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. His eyes meet mine in a silent plea.
“What say you, Nullen?” the voices call. One of them stands out more than the rest. He spits my name like dragon fire. Quenson. I look up into the darkness. Into the crowd of shadows.
“I don’t bargain with SORCERERS!” I shout. My voice echoes through the wards and up across the rocky hillside. I imagine it carrying everywhere. Down the path. Past the palace. Into the city. Across the hills.
The elves swoop overhead. A shower of arrows rains down as they streak past. Two of the Dusk archers are hit and drop to their knees. I take a step backward. Away from the Dusk. Closer to Margy. Something brushes my ankles. Zeze. She slinks among the pillows in the Half-Realm and burrows into the silks covering Margy. The princess sits up slowly. Reaches for my hand. I take it and feel the charge of her touch as I pull her to her feet. When I look at her I expect to see fear. Sorrow. Instead, her lips are a thin-set line. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes fiery with anger. Rian, Mya, and I close around her, protecting her. The guards outside the low wall stand their ground.
“Say it again, thief. Whelp. Refuse us and be witness to the might of the Dusk,” the voices thunder together. “Deny us and watch Cerion fall.”
“What is they want, boy?” General Kristan scans the hillside with his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Surely whatever it is is not worth the lives of innocent people.”
“My people have courage, Kristan,” the princess says with confidence. “They have rallied and they hold their own, even now, with my aid. We will not give in to their demands. We shall stand against them, and we will triumph.”
Her voice carries over the pyre and beyond. I hear it echoing through the city, like the Sorcerers’ did. Loud. Clear. Confident.
“You can’t have it!” I yell as loud as I can. “You’ll never win this!”
“So be it,” the Dusk growls in unison, and poise themselves to attack. Sorcerers raise their hands. Bowmen nock their arrows.
The elves soar over again and the arrows fly, but this time, the Sorcerers are ready for them. A streak of red light bursts from the fingertips of an unfamiliar Sorceress and strikes a cygnet. Five arrows shoot past. Three destroy her wards. Two strike her in the neck and she falls. The victory is short, though. A healer rushes to put his hands on her. She stands up again as the injured cygnet’s feathers flutter to the ground around her. Quenson plucks one out of the air. He whispers something to it and the same cygnet cries out again and plummets to the sea. His allies laugh. Like it’s a game. Like they’re just passing the time, amusing themselves until I give them what they want.
“It’s time, Twig,” Rian pushes to the fae.
“Go, quickly,” Twig replies. “The Dawn is prepared. We’ll defend this place and the princess.”
“What?” I whisper under my breath as Rian makes a quick gesture and fades away into the Half-Realm. From there, he vanishes. I can’t believe he’d leave us now, right in the middle of all of this, but there’s no time to wonder why.
At Margy’s shoulder, Twig spreads his arms wide. He closes his eyes and brings his hands together, then stretches them up to the sky. The flowering bushes at the Royal Guards’ feet begin to grow. Their strong roots crack the rock beneath them as they thicken into twisted brambles speckled with enormous flower buds, like a giant hedge between us and the outside. It grows taller and taller and stretches along the circle until we’re completely enclosed in a dome of thorny vines and white blooms as large as my head. Rather than disturb the wards, the hedge dome seems to strengthen them. The buds bloom open and cast beams of light across the gathering of Dusk so that everyone inside can see their numbers. Seventy, maybe a hundred. Including the guards between the low wall and the hedge, we have only half that.
Until the fairies begin to come. They emerge slowly at first from the glow of the blossoms. Hesitantly. Dressed in armor of bark and stone. Earth fairies. Twig’s charges, and then Shush’s, too. A soft breeze blows, and more come. Feathered and winged. Protected by carapaces and insect shells that catch the light in colorful reflections. They bear swords and spears and arrows. With them are golems of wind and wood and stone.
Quenson’s eyes glint with amusement.
“You expect us to be surprised?” he huffs and shakes his head. “You expect us to be intimidated by the fluttering of Light and flowers? You are all fools. Look, now. Behold the might of the Void. The power of obscurity. Death and darkness. Emptiness. Betrayal.”
Behind us, the fire pops and crackles. My heart sinks as I catch the glint of triumph in Quenson’s eyes. He looks past us to the pyre. Ash of the father. Son of the prince. I feel him before I can even turn to look. His presence at the pyre is strong, dark, and cruel. I take Margy’s shoulders and push her behind me. Slowly, I shift my feet to get a view of the king’s remains.
At the center of the pyre, a dark form swirls. The figure inside of it is barely visible. Black against black, silhouetted by fire. A cyclone of shadows, with tendrils that lash out from it like whips. The energy of the cyclone is mixed. Light and dark. Innocent and tainted. It spins violently, but it doesn’t disturb the ashes or flames of the pyre. It doesn’t affect the king’s remains as it moves toward us onto the stone. General Kristan spins to face it, raising his sword boldly. The rest of the Elite close in around him, ready to join the fight, but the cyclone doesn’t advance. It swirls around the form inside it, revealing it slowly. Head of curls, crowned with flames of magic. Proud black doublet flecked with swirls of gold and silver like Mage Mark. A sword to rival any other sword, made of shadow and tendrils of darkness. The cyclone swirls at his shoulders like a cloak of bla
ckest night. Like dark, cold churning ocean. Like the void. The embodiment of nothing.
His sneer is noble and haughty. Eyes filled with hunger. Eyes like hers. Like Margy’s. Her brother’s eyes.
General Kristan’s sword tip trembles. He drops to his knees. He bows his head. His weapon clatters to the ground. At first I’m furious with his disloyalty to the princess, but then I see the truth. Eron’s power is impossible for him to resist. It flows from him so forcefully that it’s overwhelming, even to me.
“I come to claim my throne. My birthright,” says the prince. Slowly, he turns to Margy and raises his sword. “Stand aside, Sister.”
Chapter Forty-Five: Kythshire’s Gift
Azi
All the joys of my life, all the wonderful moments that warmed my heart are collected in this instance. The calm love of my mother, the courage and strength of my father, the friendship of the Elite. Rian’s passion, Flitt’s bright cheerfulness. They cloak me and bolster me. They nurture me and prepare me. They encourage and reassure me. They fold around me like the wings of a mother bird. Wings. Wings. Wings.
Whispers of a wish course through me excitedly. Like Midwinter’s Feast Day. Mouli’s sweet rolls. Gifts from my family, given and received. Every happiness, every delight. Every promise of victory. Every swing of my sword in the name of honor and right. Defend the princess. Defend the light. Defend all that is good. Save Cerion.
The magic of the Wellspring gathers around me, forcing me upward and away. Out of the pool. Out of the copse of trees and into the sky. Flying. As I reach the clouds, I feel no fear. The sensation is exhilarating. Freedom, pure and perfect. Nothing can hold me. No one can stop me. I have the blessing of Kythshire and the power of light within me. It radiates from me like a beacon of elation. Joy. Joy. Joy.
My wish, my hope, my right. Everyone’s right. To be free. To be happy. To be safe.
I soar over treetops and ocean, beaming with such glee that I can’t help but laugh. The moon is bright silvery blue. It casts its glittering light across the dark water, and I spin and dance and shoot away from it, to the east. Toward my people and my home, to do what I was meant to do. Bring light, have courage. Save Cerion.
Flitt giggles at my ear suddenly. Her voice is bright and amused. “Whoa, Azi! Look at you!” she squeaks. It takes me a moment to realize who she is, and that she’s talking to me. Azi. I was so bathed in the glow of the Wellspring, I had forgotten myself. I grin at her as the ground blurs beneath us.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“Home,” I say.
“But you can just go through the Half-Realm,” she darts around me as I climb and dive.
“This way is better,” I reply.
“Why is it better?” she dives for my pauldron and takes hold.
“It’s my turn for a question, if we’re playing,” I grin.
“Oh,” Flitt groans. “No, we’re not playing. Just answer.”
“Just answer!” I raise a brow at her. “Since when do you shirk the rules?”
“Ha! You asked a question. Since now. So, answer me. Why is this way better?”
“Because,” I reply, “this way, I can bring hope.”
I do a barrel roll and then spread my arms wide. Something bright catches my eye and I turn to look over my shoulder.
“Are those?” I gasp.
“Uh huh,” Flitt giggles. “Wings. Not real, of course, and not permanent. But yours, for when you need them. For times like now. Dark times. Times when you need to inspire. Made of light and magic from the Wellspring.”
The mountains streak past far below me and I push myself faster toward the east. Rian, my family; my need to see them and be held by them speeds me.
“I don’t want to be a fairy, Flitt,” I say to her. “I like being human.”
“Ha!” Flitt laughs into my ear. “You can’t be a fairy, you oaf! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Good, because—Oh no!” I yelp, and Flitt squeaks. “Saesa! I left her there!”
“You scared me!” she shoves at my face with her little hands. “Don’t do that!”
“Flitt!”
“All right,” she grumbles. “You get to Cerion. I’ll go back to Kythshire and bring Saesa to you. But be careful. Oh, and Azi?”
“Hm?”
“The offering is in your belt pouch. Don’t lose it!”
“I won’t lose it, Flitt,” I laugh and twirl and push my wings faster.
“You say that, but you lost my diamond—”
“That was two years ago, and it wasn’t my fault!”
“Just be careful. See you in Cerion.” She pecks my cheek with her tiny lips and vanishes, but the tingling sensation left behind by her kiss remains. It warms my cheeks, fills my heart to bursting, and propels me even faster than the wind. It lingers even after the pillars of smoke over Cerion emerge in the distance, and it lights my way even as the overcast sky goes dark and blots out the stars. I think of Mercy and my sword leaps to my hands as I bolt forward unflinchingly.
What I saw in the pool and what Rian and Tib showed me in Kythshire me culminate in my mind. Memories, visions, and portents. This battle was foreseen by many. This is a war that must be fought in order to win Brindelier for the Light. I push harder and fly faster, unafraid. Unwavering. Prepared for the battle ahead. Determined to face the enemy and secure my princess’s kingdom. Ready for the victory that already swells through me, waiting to be claimed.
I can see the pyre as I near, at the highest point of land past the palace. The orange glow of His Majesty’s flames makes my breath catch in my throat. I realize what it means. I’ve been gone too long. I missed the Day of Silence. I missed the procession and the viewing. My heart races with sudden regret, but I push it away. I was doing what I had to do for the princess. For Cerion and the Dawn. I was doing my duty as a Champion of Light, and with the king’s blessing, I remind myself. I was ensuring the safety of the princess by securing the offering.
My wings fold around me as I spiral downward toward the city and glide over rooftops. In the streets, the common folk have armed themselves with everything they can. They charge side by side with the King’s army against sentries like the ones we battled in Kythshire. Skeletons, animated by necromancy. Mages in Academy robes stand with the defenders, aiming spells at Sorcerers who lurk in shadows. Two Mages, three Sorcerers. One of them is so hidden I can only see him by Mercy’s light. I dive at him before he notices me, and the light of my blade skewers him before he has a chance to react. A dozen skeletons crumple as their master’s spell ends with his life. The battle pauses as everyone stares up at me.
“Keep fighting,” I shout, “for Cerion!” I glide away, leaving our fallen enemies behind, proud to see that even without me Cerion has the upper hand.
The same is true throughout the city: Mages, guards, and commoners fighting Sorcerers, imps, and skeletons. Not only those. There is another enemy. A flag I haven’t seen in years. Orange and red, just like Tib said. Redemption and the banished they’ve rallied from the Outlands flood through the streets. Their attacks are ruthless and filled with hate, but those loyal to Cerion don’t back down. They fight, and as I fly past I feel them bolstered by the light of my wings and my sword. Their cheers rise up and drown out the horrid war cries of the Dusk. Margy’s gift of light glows from many of those fighting, and my own light melds with theirs and gives them strength. Every battle I pass through pauses for just a moment, just long enough to give my allies the upper hand and the opportunity to cut down their enemies.
I soar toward the palace along the line of the cliffs, watching for other small battles to aid, but I find this area strangely quiet.
“Azi,” Shush’s voice rings through my mind. “In here.” I slow my flight and look around, trying to get a sense of where he is, and I’m surprised to find myself right outside of the Academy. Strangely, the place is completely abandoned. “Quickly!”
His urgency and the eerie silence of the building make me pause. I
lower myself slowly to the cobbles and try to get a sense of what I’m hearing in my mind and what I’m seeing. Is it really Shush, or a Sorcerer’s trick? A warning seems to flare out from the walls of the school, telling me to run away. Commanding me to leave. I take a step back.
“It’s really me!” he shouts from a window far above, and his voice is carried on a harsh wind that threatens to push me back. “Fight through the wards, I need you!”
His words force a change in my perspective. Of course. Wards. That’s why the place is abandoned, to protect it. The mention of them brings them to my attention. The Academy is always lightly warded against outsiders, but tonight its protections are so strong they seem to be staving off even its own students from entry.
With a quick look over my shoulder, I push off from the stones and dart through the open window where Shush hovers waiting for me. My heart sinks in disappointment when I realize he’s alone. I thought for certain if he was here, Rian would be, too.
“He’s up at the pyre,” he whispers to me, obviously noting the disappointment in my eyes. “He’s safe, but something’s happened up there. Eron.”
“Eron?” I growl and tighten my grip on Mercy’s hilt as I spin toward the window again.
“Azi, no, not yet. We need to—”
“The princess?”
“She’s up there too, but no! Azi!” he darts in front of me and shouts, and the wind of his breath pushes me back into the room. “Twig, Rian, and Tib are all there. They have help. Mya and your parents are up there. They can hold their own. They’ll protect her. We have other business to tend to,” his voice fades to a whisper again toward the last of his words.
Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) Page 45