"Answer me," commanded Merlin.
Basil gulped. His wings shook uncontrollably. Finally, he admitted, "No one . . . invited . . . me."
For a timeless moment, Merlin peered at him. At last, with a decisive nod, the wizard declared: "Then, little fellow, I will invite you myself. Consider yourself my guest."
Stunned, Basil could barely open his mouth. But he did manage, somehow, to whisper, "Thanks."
Although his voice was barely audible over the surprised murmuring of the guests—and the loud snarling of the great white spider—Basil's response caught the wizard's attention. Merlin leaned closer and gave him a wink. "I'd do anything, anything at all, to keep that fellow over there"—he waved at the jester—"from singing! Why, a few notes from him would make most of our wedding guests leave. Or fall down dead."
Merlin grinned. Yet Basil's mind had locked on the wizard's final phrase. Fall down dead. In a flash, he remembered the horrible dream from long ago—a dream in which Merlin did, in fact, fall down dead.
A new spasm of panic seized him. Should he tell Merlin? Warn him? But what, exactly, was the warning? He could tell Merlin to avoid any creatures with jagged, bony wings. But wouldn't that include Basil himself?
However crazy it may sound, he decided, I must tell him. Must warn him!
But by now the wizard had turned to go. He was already several steps away when Basil cried out, "Merlin! Wait."
Too late. His words were drowned in the rising chorus of cheers, neighs, growls, and whistles that accompanied Merlin's return to the center of the crowd. For everyone sensed the ceremony was about to begin. When the wizard reached for Hallia's hand, the chorus rose to its peak.
Alone among the crowd, Basil watched glumly. He had missed his chance!
As soon as Merlin and Hallia joined hands, the powerful stag beside them stamped his hoof on the snow-covered ground. The entire summit fell silent once more. "It is time," Dagda proclaimed.
Raising his head with its massive rack of antlers, the great spirit declared: "Many are the wonders, great and small, that fill the wide universe. And many are the mysteries to be found in the stars and the spaces between them. You stand here now in a world profoundly rich in both wonder and mystery—the Great Tree of Avalon. It is a world of unfathomable beauty, a place where all creatures may learn to live in harmony, a place that has never been touched by the wickedness of Rhita Gawr."
At this, Merlin nodded. "Long may Avalon stay free of that evil spirit! We have no place here for Rhita Gawr."
Supportive murmurs, growls, hoots, and cries arose from the crowd. The hawk on Merlin's shoulder released a sharp whistle, and Rhia applauded vigorously. Virtually everyone in the ring of guests, save the flamelons and a few of the gnomes, made clear their approval.
Dagda waited for silence to return before continuing. "And yet," he said, glancing at Merlin and Hallia, "there is no greater wonder, and no deeper mystery, than the bond of true love between two people."
His words echoed a long moment, as if carried aloft on the breeze. Then, with a graceful bow to Lorilanda, the god of wisdom stepped aside. As he did so, the goddess of birth and renewal came forward.
With a flick of one hoof, she kicked at a snowdrift. As the icy flakes flew into the air, they transformed magically into rose petals. Hundreds of bright red petals, carrying the scent of spring, showered the young couple.
"May this gift remind you," the goddess said kindly, "that you share in all the powers of nature. You hold in yourselves the miracle of a seed . . . and the light of a star. You can find new morning light after long darkness. You can move from violent thunderclouds to the sweet serenity after a storm. And you can, like the spring, transform crystals of snow into petals of flowers."
Nodding, Merlin faced Hallia. "So where," he asked, "does the source of music lie?"
She smiled, remembering the riddle of the harp they had learned so long ago. Softly, she spoke the second part: "Is it in the strings themselves, or in the hands that plucked them?"
"The answer lies in both, my love," he offered. "Just as the answers to our deepest questions lie somewhere in both of us."
"Yes, young hawk. And whatever those answers might be, we will look for them together."
"Indeed you shall," declared Dagda. Glowing shreds of mist twined themselves about his antlers. "For now you enter this world as husband and wife. And wherever you may go in your mortal lives, you shall go with our everlasting blessings."
At those words, Merlin and Hallia kissed. The crowd erupted. Rhia raised her arms and cheered; Elen cried. Trouble, still perched on Merlin's shoulder, whistled triumphantly.
Shim pounded his giant fist happily on the mountainside, so hard that the tremors from his blows caused a stampede among the deer people and nearly knocked over the wedding couple. As his enthusiasm swelled, he unwrapped the scarlet snake from his neck and started to swing it in the air above his head—all the while continuing to pound his fist harder than ever. Landslides crashed down the mountain's lower slopes, sending clouds of dirt and crushed rock into the air. Birds and beasts for leagues around tried to find someplace safe to hide, hoping to survive the quake.
But Shim remained unfazed. Grinning broadly as he swung the huge snake, he bellowed, "Today is a happily day! One of the bestest ever. And now . . . time for some honey! Certainly, definitely, absolutely."
Meanwhile, the sturdier guests at the wedding continued to celebrate. A trio of canyon eagles leaped skyward and screeched loudly, raking the air with their talons. By contrast, the misty sylph floated silently, spinning graceful circles above the summit. Tree spirits raised their ethereal voices in a song that, when joined by the museo, made every listener feel both the joy of spring's beauty and the sorrow of its brevity.
The fire angel flamed bright, blazing like a great winged torch. (A dramatic way to celebrate, to be sure, but not so pleasant for the guests who happened to be standing next to him when he lit up.) Aelonnia's tall brown form swayed happily to the tree spirits' song. Urnalda, the dwarf queen, danced with her murderous battle-ax. Nuic, losing all his grumpiness for a moment, turned a celebratory shade of rouge. Gwynnia's baby dragons cavorted happily. And somewhere in the snow, two hoolahs continued to wrestle as if nothing unusual had happened.
Among all the guests, however, one in particular summed up the whole affair. From deep within the crowd came a quiet, cooing voice, barely audible over all the sounds of celebration (not to mention the sound of Shim slurping down an entire vat of honey). That voice uttered just a single word:
"Mooshlovely."
15: DARK DREAMS
When your feet are most firm, when your winds are most steady, when your plans are most assured—that's when everything changes. Believe me, I know.
Following the wedding, the guests departed straightaway for their homes. And Merlin and Hallia journeyed to some secret location for their honeymoon. Basil, however, decided to stay for a few days. Why not explore Stoneroot's high peaks a little, since he was here?
Catching chilly updrafts on the mountain slopes, he floated over the ridges, snowfields, and boulder-strewn basins. While food wasn't nearly as plentiful as in his home realm of Woodroot—being limited to rock lichen, alpine herbs, and the occasional beetle or fly that landed on the boulders—he enjoyed the absence of dactylbirds and other airborne hunters. Aside from a pair of wide-winged eaglemen who soared past him one morning, and a jabbering flock of crows, he saw no other creatures who could be called predators.
Only once did he spy a pinnacle sprite's parachute. Gleaming silver in the bright starlight of midday, it rode an air current over the western flank of Hallia's Peak. Nuic? he wondered, tilting his wings to swoop closer. But before he could get near enough to tell, the parachute disappeared behind a distant ridge.
Finally, Basil decided to return to the portal. Despite its dangers, which Aelonnia had kindly explained to him before she departed, it clearly offered the best way to travel between realms. No wonder so many
creatures—including the mudmaker—preferred to move around by using portals. Whenever Basil was ready to go home, the portal would take him there in just a few seconds. By contrast, even if his small, leaf-thin wings could have carried him all the way to Woodroot, the trip would have taken him many years to complete.
"The question isn't whether to ride through that portal again," he mused aloud as he flew back to the boulder slope where he'd arrived in this realm. "No, the question is where."
Should he go right back to his treasured forestland? Where majestic trees, far higher than the stunted spruces of these ridges, covered leagues and leagues with their web of interwoven branches? Or should he venture farther? Explore the mists of Airroot or the molten lands of Fireroot? Or even . . . the endless darkness of Shadowroot?
Spotting a blue-winged fly zipping past, Basil suddenly remembered he hadn't eaten since the day before. Instantly, he veered and flicked his tail with expert precision. The knob at the end of his tail clubbed the fly straight into his open mouth. Tiny as his teeth were, they crunched down hard. Chewing contentedly, he banked to one side, resuming his flight to the portal.
As he leaned into the turn, he saw his wing at an unusual angle. Backlit by Avalon's bright sky, it seemed to glow; it loomed large before his eyes, although it was really no bigger than an oak leaf. What struck him most, though, were its bony, jagged edges, as sharply etched as dagger points.
Instantly, he remembered his dream. The wicked beast with batlike wings. The vicious attack on Merlin, The screams of anguish. The horror of it all—and the regret he felt for failing to share the dream with Merlin. To warn the wizard in whatever way possible, even if it turned out to be not a vision after all, but merely one creature's nightmare.
He shuddered, making his wings flutter in the wind. Either way, the dream remained as vivid as ever, after all this time. Why can't I forget it? Why can't I just move on ?
Eyeing the boulder slopes below, he recognized the one with the portal. Though he couldn't yet see the telltale flicker of green fire, he knew that slope—just as he knew its dangers. Yet even though he'd almost died there in a rock slide, he didn't dread returning. Why was that sight so much less frightening than the memory of a dream?
Because that rock slide was part of my past, he told himself grimly. And the dream—the dream is part of my future. I don't know why I feel that way . . . but I do.
He gazed at the rocky ridges below, rising like waves in an endless sea of stone. But at the edges of his mind lurked other shapes—darker, more jagged, more deadly. Did those wings belong to me? Or someone else?
From deep in his slender throat came a growl. The only way I'll ever find out is to discover who I really am. What I'm meant to be. The growl deepened. And the first step to doing that is to find out if there is someone—anyone—who belongs to my kind. Whatever kind that may be.
Sure, he couldn't find anyone else at Merlin's wedding who looked like himself. But what did that prove? Nothing! Even Aelonnia, who had been so struck by his unusual nature, wasn't entirely sure that he was the only member of his kind. She had said, in her lilting whisper, Possible, it is, that no one else like you exists. Yes—possible. But by no means certain.
Somewhere out there, he told himself, is someone who looks like me! Who acts like me. Who maybe even dreams like me.
A new resolve crystallized in his mind. And I'm going to find that someone. Whatever it takes.
He banked, gliding toward the slope with the portal. And so I will travel—yes, far and wide! I'll go to all seven realms if I can. And somewhere out there . . . I'll find what I need to know.
The power of this decision surged through Basil, overflowing, as if a swollen river had suddenly filled an empty channel. His eyes glowed brightly as he declared, speaking to the sky and the stone and everything in between: "I will go where I choose. Seek what I want. And find what I need!"
Even as he nodded, emphasizing his resolve, he saw a thin plume of dust rise up from the steepest part of the slope. As the plume thickened, spreading across the boulders, a grinding, roaring noise filled the air. It swelled into a rolling explosion, a gargantuan thunder.
Rock slide!
He watched, aghast, as the entire mountain seemed to tumble over itself. For a brief instant, he glimpsed a flash of green amidst the dust and blur of motion. Then it disappeared.
Bending his wings, Basil sped downward. Straight toward the spot where he'd seen the portal's flames he flew, whizzing through the air like a hawk plunging toward its prey.
By the time he neared the slope, the boulders had mostly settled again. The thunder had diminished. And the clouds of dust had started to clear. Yet despite the improved visibility, he stared harder than ever before.
The portal had vanished!
Basil swooped lower, circling the area. Again and again he flew across the cluttered slope, peering into crevasses and between boulders, searching for any sign at all of those magical flames. But he found none.
His snout furrowed. The portal . . . gone! It had disappeared under a mountain of rock—and with it, his best chance to travel to other realms. His best hope to find his own identity.
Tiny though his claws were, he squeezed them tight. I'll find it, he promised himself. I'll search every crack, every shadow, every mote of dust. For as long as it takes.
Flames of a different kind sparked within his eyes. Forever, if I must.
16: BRIGHT DREAMS
Magic is merely a tool. A strange, mysterious, powerful tool . . . but a tool nonetheless. Like a carpenter's hammer, it can be used to build a house—or to smash a skull. For peace or war. For delight or torment. The most important quality of any magic is not the power it provides, but the person who wields it.
YEAR OF AVALON 30
Relentlessly, Basil searched. Scouring the slope with his gaze, he flew above it every day, heedless of rain or hail or snow. Between flights, he explored the mass of boulders, crawling between them and wriggling under them. Not a single stone on that slope escaped his scrutiny.
Yet he found nothing. No sign whatsoever of the magical green fire that could transport him off this mountainside . . . and into the future. A future that would reveal, at last, who he really was—and what he could become.
Even so, he persisted. Often, he started each day before the morning's first light, when the stars of Avalon were still dim, probing the darkened gaps between boulders. Just as often, he ended the day in the same fashion, searching among the evening shadows.
And so . . . three years passed in Stoneroot.
One chilly autumn morning, Basil crept slowly through the brittle fringe of moss that lined the bottom of a gulley. In the spring, this path would hold a splashing rivulet, a vein of melted snow from the ridges above. Now, though, it held nothing but moss and bronze-colored stones that had been rounded by centuries of wind and water. And one thing more: a chubby little gnat who had caught Basil's eye. Or really, his stomach, since he hadn't eaten for three days.
Slowly, stealthily, he wriggled through the moss. His prey, seated on a bronze-colored stone, was too busy caressing its own feet to notice. Just to make sure, though, Basil sent into the air a whiff of mountain sage—a fragrance so sweet that it overpowered other smells, including his own.
Closer he crawled, hidden from both sight and smell. Finally, he crept up to the edge of the stone. The gnat stirred, buzzed nervously for a few seconds, then went back to cleaning its feet. Meanwhile, Basil readied himself to pounce. Holding his breath, he braced his feet and judged the exact distance.
Now.
Just as he was about to leap, a thunderous boom shook the slope. Though it came from somewhere distant, it rattled the mountain's bones from foothills to summit. Pebbles shifted and scattered; boulders wobbled, threatening to slide. The gnat, startled, took flight. Basil jumped into the air in pursuit, but even as he started to fly, the bronze stone rolled and struck his outstretched wing. The blow flipped him over, and he slammed into the grou
nd.
As he lay in the gulley, head spinning, the booming sound came again. And again. And again. Each time it grew louder—and, Basil suddenly realized, closer.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
All at once, he knew what it was. Footsteps! The footsteps of a giant.
Sure enough, over the ridge came a huge, hulking figure. All Basil could see, at first, was a great silhouette, rising above the ridge like a shadowy mountain and growing bigger by the second. Then, as the silhouette turned, he saw a wild mane of hair, a big bulbous nose, and a lopsided grin he knew all too well.
Shim! Strangely, the giant wore several cart wheels, tied together with ropes, from one of his gargantuan ears. With every explosive step, the lone earring jangled loudly, making a sound about as melodious as toppled trees snapping off and thwacking the ground.
Stranger still was what sat on Shim's other ear, instead of an earring. Nestled comfortably above his earlobe were passengers. And not just any passengers.
Basil scurried up to the edge of the gulley for a closer look. "Ogres' eyeballs!" he exclaimed, astonished. "That's Merlin!"
He squinted, peering closely. No doubt about it. And in Merlin 's arms—why, it's his son! The boy I've been hearing about from the crows for months. Still not quite believing his eyes, he watched as the giant carried them closer. I knew that Merlin wanders all over Avalon. But for him to come right here—to this very slope—I'd never have thought that could happen. And with his son, too!
Evidently out for an autumn stroll with his father and his favorite giant, the young boy seemed to be enjoying himself greatly. Squeals of high-pitched laughter came between each of the giant's pounding strides. Basil had heard that young Krystallus, as his parents had named him, liked nothing better than to travel. And what better way to travel than on the ear of a giant?
Topping the ridge just a stone's throw from Basil, Shim finally paused. He wiped his immense brow, then exhaled so forcefully that a flock of geese soaring over the peak were blown all the way to the Dun Tara snowfields. Amidst the drifting feathers, he wearily declared, "I is all puffily, master Krystallus. Time for a sitly rest."