Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (33 page)

Her sudden disappearance leaves me feeling even emptier and angrier. I push past the guards without a word, through the passage, and out into Dumfrey’s small room.

“His name’s Wrett,” I toss over my shoulder at the Mage as I stalk past. I’m so angry, I could spit. Angry with Eron, with Wrett, with myself for daring to do what I just did, and most of all with Flitt for making me feel horrible about asking for her help. I know my sour mood is a direct result of the magic I used, and that fact makes me hate myself even more.

“Never again,” I say under my breath as I shade my eyes from the sudden harsh sunlight in the courtyard. “I’m through with Mentalism.”

I knew this would happen. It’s why I’ve been so careful since I learned it. It’s why I’ve refused to use it. I knew the moment I allowed myself to, it would change me. Why couldn’t I be stronger, like Rian? Why couldn’t I fight the urge? I know exactly why. Because I’m a swordswoman, not a Mage. I had no business in that man’s head. It was reckless. Changing his memories was utterly unacceptable.

“Rian,” I whisper to myself as I stand at the carved wooden doors that lead to the palace interior. More than anything, I wish he was here. I never would have been tempted if he had been by my side.

The guards at the door recognize me. They salute with their spears and nod me inside. I want to tell them they’re fools for their courtesy. I’m completely undeserving of their respect. I think of how I treated Flitt. Images of Sorcerers in the keep at Kythshire burst into my memory. They’re quickly followed by memories of pale, drained fairies in cages. If that was what I thought to do with her…what must she think of me?

Numbly, I follow a page through polished corridors and desperately fight back tears. I don’t care what anyone says. If this is a gift, I don’t want it.

I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that I nearly collide with Uncle Gaethon, who is waiting for me outside of the closed dining hall doors. The sounds that come from within are merry: lighthearted laughter and jovial conversation.

“Thank you, Nate,” Uncle says dismissively, and the Page bows and rushes away.

Uncle takes my arm and ushers me further down the corridor to a quiet alcove where he knows he won’t be overheard. With a flick of his fingers, he summons a mirror and holds it to my face. I don’t need to look to know the gold Mark has grown. I turn my chin away.

“Look at yourself,” he hisses.

Reluctantly, I flick my eyes toward the mirror. Along with the gold, there’s something else. A single tendril, blue-black, peeks up from the edge of my collar.

“How…?” I croak. I don’t know what else to say. I didn’t think it was possible to feel more miserable.

“How what?” he spits the words at me. Suddenly I’m a child again, cowering from his wrath. I refuse to let him intimidate me, though, even after what I did. I made my own choices, and I know they were wrong.

“How did you know to wait out here for me?” I ask with a more defiant tone than I intended.

His eyes narrow angrily. I feel if he could breathe fire right now, he’d do it.

“I have ways of knowing the goings-on within the palace,” he says. “Ways of seeing the influx of Arcane that passes through these walls. I am attuned to it.” He hovers over me, seething. “Do you know what I did last night after they brought you home to your bed? I spent an hour assuring His Majesty that you were under control. That you can be trusted with this power. And now, this. Do you have any idea how this looks, Azaeli?”

“You’re the one who encouraged me not to keep it secret anymore. It’s a gift to Cerion. That’s what you told His Majesty. You told me it was all right, and it’s not. It’s not all right! Do you know what I saw? I saw awful things, Uncle. I looked into the mind of a would-be killer. Do you have any idea what I did? What it caused me to do?” I think of Flitt and choke back a sob. “I don’t want this.” I look up at him pleadingly. “You can take it, can’t you? Strip it,” I whisper.

Something in my anguished tone finally strikes him. I see it plainly on his face. He recognizes what’s happening to me. His brow smoothes, his eyes grow mournful. Slowly, he shakes his head and presses his fingertips to his temple.

“It isn’t that sort of magic, my niece,” he says with a sigh. “It cannot be stripped. Not by any Mage of Cerion, at least. Indeed, no. And,” he rests a hand on my shoulder, “it is useful. Honestly, it is.”

“Useful?” I shake my head and don’t bother to wipe away the tears that roll down my cheeks and into my collar. “It’s not. I don’t want it,” I say again. “I can’t refuse the temptation. It’s too difficult.”

Uncle presses a hand to his forehead and closes his eyes. He takes a long, calming breath.

“I forget,” he whispers, “you are my niece, and I have watched you grow. I know you well, and so I forget.”

“Forget what?” I ask, and step closer to him, sniffling. The hollow feeling in my chest is deepening. It aches with such an emptiness that I don’t know how much longer I can bear it.

“It takes years, Azaeli. Years of training for a Mage to become attuned to the balance of give and take. Years of conditioning. It is much like swordplay,” he explains. “Were you to begin now, an untrained woman with a two-handed broadsword like the one you carry, could you bear the weight of it? Could you swing it with as much skill as you do? Of course not. You would lose control. You might injure yourself with the blade, or strain muscles which have not been trained and strengthened for that purpose. Magic is much the same, Azaeli, and yours was thrust upon you. To make matters worse, you chose to bottle it up within yourself. To keep it secret and hidden.”

I shake my head and swallow my tears. “I was weak,” I say. “I did something awful.”

“You were untrained,” he offers gently. “And I apologize for not intervening sooner. I should have anticipated this. In time, you will learn to wield it just as expertly as you do your sword. And as long as I breathe on this plane, I shall do my best to guide you. But I cannot, nor would I, take it from you.”

The laughter from inside grows louder. Mya is singing some lighthearted song, and through the door the elves’ voices mix with her song. I glance that way and Uncle sighs.

“I cannot permit you to go in, looking as you do,” he says. “It would cause an uproar, especially with the elves.”

This causes the tears to start flowing again, but I don’t argue. He’s right. I simply nod in agreement.

“I have to go find Flitt anyway,” I say hoarsely. “I owe her an apology.”

“She is within,” Uncle says with a sigh. “Though she seems quite upset.”

“I need to speak with her,” I say, swallowing my tears. “Is there any way, Uncle? It’s important.”

“A way to remove the Mark?” he scowls with deep disapproval.

“No, no,” I say. “I understand that I’m meant to bear it for now, until it fades on its own. But could you talk to her for me?”

He shakes his head slightly.

“She is only just warming up to me, my dear. I do not wish to jeopardize that.”

“I understand,” I whisper.

“Go and redeem yourself,” Uncle takes my shoulders and kisses me on the forehead. “A small, heartfelt deed should cause the Mark to fade. I must go back in. Be vigilant, Azaeli. I would wager that, at least for now, you won’t allow yourself to be enticed again.”

“No, sir,” I whisper and lower my head.

Uncle excuses himself and slips back inside, where Margy’s voice sounds like perfect bells against the low strum of the lute. As soon as he’s gone, I bury my face in my hands and try hard to compose myself.

“I’ll go in,” Saesa’s voice echoes down the corridor, startling me.

“Saesa! How long have you been there?” I straighten, wipe my face and try to catch my breath. A squire needs her Knight to be strong. I try hard to keep that facade for her sake.

“I only just came in when I couldn’t find you in the dungeons,” she replies. “You told me to find you there, Lady Knight.”

“Yes,” I say, clearing my throat. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough, My Lady,” Saesa replies. Her eyes trace the Mark on my cheek. “If you’d like,” she says softly, “I’ll talk to her for you.”

Celli

Quenson.
My heart beats his name. Quenson. My lord. My master. My everything.

“Get up,” Sybel orders, and I push myself out of bed. She isn’t him, but he told me to listen to her, so I do. “Something’s happened,” she whispers to me. “Your master needs you.”

My heart jumps to my throat. If he needs me, why didn’t he come for me himself?

“Was he hurt? Who did it? I’ll kill them,” I snarl.

“Foolish girl,” Sybel warns and mutters something impatient about having to be a nursemaid. “Why is your first thought that he must be hurt? You should have more faith in him, Celli.”

“You’re right,” I say, ashamed. I hope she doesn’t tell him.

“Quite,” Sybel scoffs. “Come.”

Shame gives way to different emotions as Sybel leads me through the maze of passages. Excitement. Quenson needs me. He needs me. Something else. Anger. His, not mine. His anger. Our excitement. My skin tingles just thinking about it. Something’s happened. Something big. Something that changes the plan.

The closer we get to him, the stronger our connection is. I wonder if he feels it, too. I wonder whether he longs for me the way I do him. It’s as though being too far away weakens me. Like I could never reach my full potential unless I’m beside him.

She pushes a door open and I gasp to see him there, handsome as ever in robes of red so deep they’re nearly black. His hood is down, his dark hair swept back. Torchlight writhes across the raised swirls of the Mark on his high cheekbones. We go in, and Sybel locks the door behind us and whispers wards.

“Ah, Celli,” he says. When he smiles, his appreciation of me strikes me like a spear to my heart. My legs give way, and I fall to my knees.

“A little much, Quenson,” Sybel mutters under her breath. She slinks past me to him and traces a finger across his shoulder. “Don’t you think?”

Don’t touch him. He’s mine
, I want to scream.
Mine
. I won’t, though. He told me not to speak and so I hold my tongue. Instead I glare at her as ferociously as I can.

“She delights me so,” he laughs softly. I feel a little better when he brushes her away. “Come, my dear,” he says to me. I push past the butterflies in my stomach and force myself back to my feet.

He rests a cool, beautifully black-Marked hand on my shoulder. “Look around, Celli,” he whispers, and I tear my gaze from the elegant curving lines on his fingers to take in the rest of the room.

It’s a medium-sized chamber with three large windows stained with strange designs. Nude women pouring different colored liquid from pitchers into pools. All around them are creatures I’ve never seen before. Scaly, winged ones that look like fairies, but black. Horses with cracked leathery skin instead of hair. Dragons. Hairy men with tails pointed like arrow tips and horns sprouting from their heads.

Disturbed, I look around the rest of the room. It’s like Quenson’s, but bigger. There’s a neat, highly polished desk of dark wood, shelves lined with books and jars, and endless rows of potion bottles. Fine chairs. A fireplace. A long table carved with writing I can’t read. The room is rich and well-kept, except for a half-dozen wooden chests carved with elven writing that seem to have been pulled out from under the desk and away from the walls. Quenson guides me to them. Sybel hovers nearby.

“Osven,” he explains to me in a hushed tone, “has met his well-deserved end. We of the Circle have an agreement. As he was working with me, what’s his becomes mine, as long as I stake my claim before anyone else.” His stunning robes pool around him as crouches beside a chest and traces his fingers across the carved wood.

“I need you,” he says, his voice growing deeper, “to open these.” He hands me a roll of leather. Inside is a set of locksmith tools.  When I take it from him, he moves away to stand across the room and watch.

“Perhaps we should leave,” Sybel whispers to him.

“Certainly not. The effects wouldn’t reach this far,” he murmurs.

I don’t think about what they’re saying. It doesn’t concern me. His command takes hold of me and fills me with desperation.
I need you
, he’d said.
I need you
. I don’t think about why. Why doesn’t matter. My fingers are steady as I work the tools into the intricate lock. I focus on my task and the lock clicks open easily.

“Well done,” he calls from across the room. “Now, open the lid.”

I push it open to reveal thick folds of very fine silks and velvets. Robes and cloaks. Gloves. Across the room, the two Sorcerers sigh with relief. “Open the next,” he commands, and his rush of anticipation mingles with my own.

The next four chests hold a variety of items. One of them is filled with silver and gold coin. One holds neat stacks of books and scrolls. Another, smaller one is filled with fine jewelry wrapped carefully in bundles of silk or leather. The fourth holds strange, finely carved stone statuettes.

With each creak of a lid, I feel Quenson grow more disappointed and enraged. He needs something he thought would be here. I’m desperate to find it for him.

Someone makes a noise in the corridor outside, and Sybel and Quenson snap their attention to the door.

“Quickly,” Quenson hisses at me. “Quietly.”

I barely notice the smoke-like, greenish threads that wind around my hands as my fingers work the next lock. They seep into my skin and make my hands burn, but I ignore the pain and twist the awl until I feel the familiar, satisfying click. I reach for the lid and push it open.

Immediately, a force lifts me up and throws me hard across the room. Pain cracks across my back as I crash into the wall. Quenson and Sybel start to cast something. All I can think of is quiet. Master said we had to be quiet. I stumble to my feet and turn to look, ready to charge whatever it was that attacked me. Ready to silence it.

Floating above the chest is a figure all in black. A shimmer of shadow radiates around him. An aura, evil and ruthless. An apparition. A ghost. Osven.

“You dare,” he shrieks and raises a bony finger to point at my master. I don’t wait for his spell. I charge the chest and slam the lid down. My actions have no effect on Osven’s spirit, though, except to cause him to laugh mockingly.

“Move away, Celli,” Quenson says, and I obey. I move to stand in front of him, to guard him.

“I’m not at all surprised by your lack of decency to simply depart this plane, Osven,” my master says.

“My work is incomplete,” Osven says.

“Ah,” Quenson raises a slender, perfect finger. “Our work, which is now, upon your death, mine alone. But do not fret, my ally, for we have made arrangements which will allow you, rather, require you, to continue. Sybel?”

The Sorceress scowls. I can tell whatever she’s about to do is something she’s reluctant about. She reaches into a pouch at her belt and produces a simple silver bangle. Around the outside, it’s inlaid with polished stone. Half of the stone looks like it could have been carved from the cliffs of Cerion, and the other half has a grain to it, like light-colored wood.

“Cerion and Ceras’lain,” Sybel’s plump lips curve into a smile. “A simple native binding.”

Quenson’s hand on my back gives me chills. He guides me closer to Osven. Sybel follows, her grin widening at the sight of the ghostly Sorcerer, who shrinks back at our approach.

“Fools,” he says. “Do you think me simple? I have placed bindings and woven protections upon this chest, and you have opened it with your own hands. The wards are set. You can never own me. No Sorcerer can.”

“Indeed,” Quenson’s tone is low and pleased. Like the purr of a cat who’s cornered a mouse. “No Sorcerer can. Celli, give me your hand.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Osven’s growl terrifies me, but Quenson’s hand around mine is a comfort. “Even you are not so low.”

“Oh, I think it quite fitting,” Quenson says as he takes the bracelet from Sybel. “You will be thrall of my thrall.”

“Be reasonable, Quenson,” Osven’s voice is weak, like a hint of a thought. “Have mercy.”

“Mercy?” Quenson huffs. “Celli, do you think I ought to be merciful to him?”

I don’t have to think. Whenever I close my eyes, I can still smell my own cooked insides and feel the agony of Osven’s lightning crackling though me. I don’t know what this is about, but I don’t care. If Quenson wants him to suffer, I do, too.

“No, Master,” I reply.

“Quite right,” Quenson says, and slips the bracelet onto my wrist. “A gift to you, my dear,” he whispers, and I close my eyes as the thrill courses through me. It starts at my wrist: A soft, tingling energy that snakes into my bones and up. It travels to my shoulders, into my chest, up into my head, across my left arm, down into my legs, to my toes. It changes my insides.

Right away, I understand. He’s mine now. He belongs to me. Osven. I know him. Everything he knew, everything he was. This is Necromancy. Spirit binding. I kneel at the chest again and push it open. Inside is a miniature obelisk, no bigger than my arm. It’s carved from a stack of polished stones fused together. This was his soul stone, meant to hold and protect his spirit in the event of his death. No Sorcerer could have opened the chest. There were too many protections.

He didn’t think about me, though. Didn’t even give me second thought. Celli. The throwaway girl from Cerion. He thought me a mindless, worthless slave. He didn’t understand the bond Quenson and I have. He didn’t expect it. When Master suggested seeking Tib out in his home, Osven rushed to do it without thinking. He wanted to be the one to finally get Tib. He wanted to steal the credit for it from my master.

I feel his rage, but it’s distant. Far away. Outside of me. Not like how I feel Quenson’s emotions. We’re closer, me and Quenson. Almost one. Osven would never understand that, and that’s why they were able to trick him. Now he belongs to me, and I belong to Quenson, so, by rights, he belongs to Quenson.

I open my eyes and look into the face of my brilliant master. No one else could have planned something so perfect. Now, we have him. Now Osven belongs to us.

“This reward for your service, my dear, is just the beginning,” he places his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes. My mind is a swirl of memories. Osven’s memories and my own. But when I look into Quenson’s eyes, my focus changes. He guides me away from those thoughts with a single, steady gaze.

“Your retrieval of the son has impressed me. Your skills are fair enough, but I wish to help you grow. I have decided to train you in the Arcane. You shall learn the ways of Necromancy, so that you may tap into the power Osven holds. But first,” he leans in close until I can feel his cool breath, “you will bring me Tib. Do not fail me in this, Celli. It is essential to our plan that we have him. Dub is waiting for you at the dais. Go now.”

***

I never thought much about the realm of death. Not even after we lost Hew. Mum said it was the place spirits go. There are some dabblers in Cerion if you look hard enough, who say they can talk to the dead. Some of the kids used to tell stories about people, wicked people, Necromancers, who could pull you out of the spirit realm and control you even after you were dead. I never really believed in any of that. Now, here I am, slunk in the shadows with Osven hovering nearby. Next to me, Dub is silent. Brooding.

The shack is small. One room, dirt floor. A hatch in the center of the room. We locked the door behind us. We’re in the open, other than the darkness. No wards, no magic. I don’t even bother with my cloak. He’ll feel it and know we’re here. Dub’s so angry I can almost hear his teeth grinding. He doesn’t like this place. He’s got something personal against it. I don’t care, as long as he’s quiet and does his job.

Now, there’s nothing to do but wait.

“What’s down there?” I whisper, pointing at the hatch.

“A pit,” Dub says. “He’s working on something down there. Rumors all over the city about it.”

“What is it?” I ask him. “Maybe we can use it.”

“Not in our orders,” Dub grunts. “We can look into it later. Now shut up and wait. He’s bound to come in sooner or later.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I hiss at him. “I’m in charge now, remember?”