Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1) Read Free

When Dar glances past us at the king, his words are low and secret. “Put her in her place. In the ground, with the lot of you beside her.”
    Behind us in the royal box, an argument between the prince and His Majesty draws my attention.  Two officials stand before the throne, each bearing a pillow. The red and orange one is empty, and upon the blue and gold one rests a single purple ring tied with a bloodstained pink ribbon. Prince Eron is contesting my mother’s Calming Pulse as an unfair advantage.
    “Under the circumstances,” His Majesty the king declares firmly, “we rule that the use of magical force was justified.” He raises his voice to the crowd as Eron crosses his arms and looks away.
    “The victor with one ring,” he declares, “is Azaeli Hammerfel, Squire of His Majesty’s Elite.” With a roar that is quickly drowned out by the crowd, Dar stomps to Dacva and grabs him by the back of his collar. He screams and cuffs the boy hard across the face with his metal gaunted fist. Dacva tries to struggle free and walk off with dignity, but Dar grips him by the back of his vest and drags him from the field in a ruthless fury.
    My victory is dampened as I watch the two of them disappear through the dark exit at the edge of the arena. Redemption takes their station seriously. Their reputation is more important to them than friendship or family. They are ranked second in the king’s favor, right behind our own guild. Where I have been brought up with encouragement to succeed and patience for my failures, Dacva obviously has not.
    “Come, Azi,” Mum says, slightly shaken as she tears her gaze from them. The horses and rings have been cleared off of the field and the second tournament is announced, pairing two guilds from the harbor borough. She guides me to the long empty bench just beside the royal booth where the rest of the winning squires and their sponsors will eventually be seated.
    I think of Dacva and Dar as I stow my helm and gloves beneath the bench and scratch at my sweaty scalp. Perhaps it might have been better to let him win just to spare him the wrath of his family. Then I realize letting him win would have meant my own death. I try to push the thoughts away and I shift closer to my mother, whose attention is not on the game, but on the doors exiting the arena. Her eyes are narrowed, and in her lap her hands are clenched into fists.
    “Mum?” I watch her for a moment and then follow her gaze to where Dacva’s form is crumpled against the wall of the exit tunnel. My father stands between him and Dar, who is obviously still enraged and inviting a fight. Da points deeper into the doorway apparently telling Dar to leave, and Dar kicks dust at Da and shoves him, but the attack doesn’t move him. My father is slightly smaller than the beast of a man, but not intimidated. He stands firm, strong and brave.
    The scuffle catches the attention of the guards, who move in cautiously. My father points again and Dar waves a furious, dismissive hand at Dacva before stomping away into the darkness. As soon as he’s gone, the guards return to their stations and my father stoops beside Dacva and gestures to another man nearby. Brother Donal, our guild’s cleric. He and my father lift Dacva up and carry him off. My mother’s eyes are tear-filled as she turns to look at me. She starts to speak, but the words catch and she shakes her head.
    “I’m proud of you,” she says on her second try. I know she wants to go and help, but it would be unheard of for either of us to leave the box until after our accolades are given. Instead I loop my arm into hers and squeeze it. The crowd roars again. The second game is finished and victors file in beside us as the next group is announced. Suddenly, I’m attacked by a flurry of brown curls and ruffles as Princess Margary bounces onto the bench beside me and dangles the winning purple ring in my face.
    “This is for you,” she grins as she lowers it into my open palm.