Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (42 page)

Tib

Something catches me by my boot. Fast. enormous. Its strong grip clamps below my knee and pulls me back over the wall. Away from the sea. Away from my chase.

“Fool kid!” Bryse growls as he tips me right-side-up and sets me on my feet. “What’re you thinking, jumping off the wall like that?”

“It was her,” I pull away from his grip on my shoulder and rush back to look, but she’s gone. There’s nothing there. Just the ocean and the wind blowing ash into it. “Celli. She’s in league with them. The Dusk. The Sorcerers.”

“Tib,” Margy’s voice is cautious from across the circle. It’s the first time she’s spoken since the Day of Silence. My name is her first word in her time of mourning. Something about that bolsters me. Calms me. I return to her side, and Rian and Master Gaethon gather close to us.

“Your Highness,” Gaethon says with some authority, “I must advise you, with all due respect to the king, to move from this place into the shelter of the palace.”

Margy shakes her head.

“I will not dishonor my father or my people by leaving the Rites, Master Gaethon,” she says firmly.

“Princess, please. You must understand—”

“I fully understand the risk, Master Mage,” she raises her chin, “but I will remain. I won’t require it of anyone else, though.” She turns to the rest of the mourners gathered. “If any of you should choose to leave, I won’t hold it against you. Go, and be safe.”

About half of them look a little hesitant, but go their way. I’m not at all surprised to notice that everyone who does go doesn’t carry the princess’s gift of light.

“Your Highness, we did not wish to frighten you before, but now I fear I must tell you. Your brother’s body, it was stolen—”

“I know,” Margy replies calmly, but Gaethon doesn’t seem to hear her.

“Since then, it has come to light that his remains are in the possession of Sorcerers—”

“I know,” Margy says again, and still he doesn’t hear.

“We fear their intentions are most foul, most reprehensible, Your Highness. We fear—”

“Master Gaethon,” Margy declares much more firmly, and Gaethon finally seems to hear her. “I
know.
”

“You…but, how could you? Your father swore us to secrecy. He said we shouldn’t speak a word of it. Not to you or your mother. Not until we could be sure.”

“Dreams,” Margy says simply. “Nightmares. Portents. Friends.”

She gestures to Twig and raises a finger, and he perches on it and offers Gaethon an apologetic shrug. Margy looks up. Into the city. “He’s coming,” she says. “They’re all coming.”

“When?” Gaethon whispers.

Margy doesn’t reply. Instead, she raises her other hand and points toward the path. In the city beyond far to the south near the gates, pillars of smoke billow into the sky.

“They’re trying to lure me away,” she says, pursing her lips. “They’re ruining Paba’s memory.”

I look around the circle. There are several mourners still here. A dozen commoners and five Mages including Rian and Gaethon. There’s also Bryse, Lisabella, Benen, Mya, Brother Donal, and two generals of the Royal Guard. Some are watching the conversation; others glance nervously toward the city. One of the generals exchanges a glance with Margy, nods, and runs off down the path. The other one, Kristan, I think, commands the guardsmen lining the wall to be ready. They seem to stand taller in the sea of Twig’s plumped-up bushes and flowers. Rian and Gaethon move to the gateway and prepare themselves to stop anyone who might try to breach the pyre.

“Be brave,” I whisper to the princess and rest a hand on her shoulder.

“Your bandolier,” she says, and points to the place where I left it in the pile of pillows and silks. I shrug into it and fasten the clasp over my white robes. I feel strange without my leather vest and bracers. Unprotected.  Margy gives me a nod of reassurance and looks back toward the smoke. Then, to my shock, she settles back onto the pillows and closes her eyes.

“Watch over me,” she murmurs, and her breath slows.

“No,” I say through my teeth, “you can’t, Margy.”

“Keep me safe,” she whispers almost silently.

I see them streak away. The cat, with Twig clinging to her black and orange fur.

“No,” I growl, but it’s too late. Zeze slips between Rian and Gaethon. Out of the wards. Down the path. Over the wall and gone, into the chaos of the city. I watch until I can’t see her anymore. My teeth are clenched so hard they might crack. I pace around her sleeping form. Mya is the only one who seems to notice the odd sight of the princess, sound asleep in the face of such a threat. It only takes her a moment. Her face drains of color. She rushes to us and takes me by the shoulders.

“Is she?” she hisses a whisper. I nod.

“Zeze,” I say. “I couldn’t stop her.”

“Who else knows?” she asks. Her green eyes flash with concern.  Behind them, I can tell her thoughts are racing.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “Azi. I think I showed her. And she showed Rian some things.”

“It’s reckless,” she sinks to her knees beside the princess and gazes out into the city.  She reaches out to touch the princess but hesitates.

“What if we wake her?” I ask.

“You can’t. She can only wake up on her own, when Zeze comes back.”

“We can’t force her?”

“Oh, no, that would be catastrophic,” she whispers. “It would split her in two, in a way. It could kill her if she’s not prepared for it.”

“What if someone out there…” I start, and swallow. “What if Zeze—?”

“If Zeze is killed, Margy won’t survive,” she says. “They’re one and the same.” Her voice is so shaken it jars me. Mya is always confident, even in the face of danger. Her voice is her weapon. If she can barely speak, she must really be scared. “I can’t believe no one knew about this. You should have told someone. We have to get her to come back.”

“How, though?” I feel the blood drain from my face. My fingers are tingling. My ears are ringing. I should have told someone. She’s right. Someone who could have protected her. Or talked her out of traveling as Zeze. If something happens to her, it’ll be my fault. If Zeze is killed, or captured—

“I have an idea,” Mya interrupts my thoughts, but then she doesn’t say anything else. Or do anything. She just closes her eyes and starts humming some strange song.  Even though she’s right next to me, the sound of fighting in the city below drowns her out. It’s moving closer. Louder. Not a fight or a skirmish. This is a war.

The elves swoop past us on their cygnets.  Their bows are readied as they stand in their saddles and order the great birds to charge. I want to run to the wall and look into the city. I want to see if it’s as bad as it seems. I can’t, though. I swore to keep Margy safe. So I sit, helpless. Watching. Waiting. Mya goes quiet. Her head is bowed. Her lips move, but no sound comes out.

A commotion at the gate grabs my attention. Elliot. He announces himself, then rushes to Mya. To the princess. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. He drops into the pillows and closes his eyes. The fox bursts from his chest and tears away. Back down the path. Back into the fight.

“He’ll find her,” Mya whispers. “Their kind can always find each other.”

She still looks worried. Actually she looks more worried, now that her husband is at risk, too. She smoothes his shaggy red hair away from his face and sits waiting. Patiently.

I can’t be patient. I can’t just sit and have faith. I pace around them both. I watch and listen. I scan and reach out and try to feel. The wards around us are strong. The protections are thick. Outside of them more imps hover, watching. Waiting. Looking for weaknesses. I concentrate toward the city with my healed eye, but it’s impossible to make anything out. It’s all light and dark, and flames and smoke. Flashes of magic burst and clash. Rian looks to Shush, who nods. In a blink, he vanishes. I have no idea why. What I do know is that now, there are no fairies up here with us. I wonder if that makes any difference. I wonder how long it’ll take for the fight to get to us, and what kind of shape Cerion will be in at that point. They’ve been peaceful for so many years. Do they even know how to fight a war?

The line of Royal Guard encircling the pyre tells me yes, they do. So does the sight of Bryse, Lisabella, and Benen, who move to stand shoulder to shoulder and shield to shield at the gateway as Rian and Gaethon back off. Their wards are as strong as they’re going to be. They’re saving the rest of their energy for what’s to come.  The pathway leading here is winding and narrow. The procession could only go two at a time, except for the litter-bearers. That means only two at a time will be able to get to us without risking a fall down the cliff side or having to climb steep, rocky terrain. I wonder whether the place was planned that way. How many ascending kings and queens have been challenged on this slab by armies of their enemies?

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.