Nuic inhaled all the air he could hold and shouted: "Hear me, everyone! There is someone here—"
"Say no more," urged the mudmaker.
But Nuic kept going. "Who is—"
"Please," Basil pleaded, fluttering his wings anxiously. "Don't say it. Don't."
"An int—"
Nuic paused, drawing out the word. Heads on all sides turned toward him. Tree spirits clacked their branches angrily; eaglefolk raked the snow with their claws; flames of outrage sprang into the deer people's eyes. And over in the center of the ring, the wizard Merlin suddenly turned—and traded glances with the spider Grand Elusa.
"An int—" repeated Nuic, obviously pleased with himself for garnering so much attention. His skin, now radiant yellow, shone brightly. Meanwhile, the commotion swelled around him as more and more heads turned his way. As he readied himself to finish the word, he gave one final glance at Basil.
The little lizard said nothing. He merely met Nuic's gaze. Please, he thought, with such urgency that his ears trembled. Please don't.
Nuic turned away and looked straight at Merlin. Then he finished his sentence by declaring for all to hear: "An int . . . eresting person!"
Cries of puzzlement and confusion filled the air—and from the Grand Elusa, a loud grumble of dismay. More than a few onlookers (including Merlin) remarked on poor Nuic's lost sanity. But the sprite didn't seem to mind. His color, now golden yellow, showed deep satisfaction.
When he looked again at Basil, he saw only relief in the lizard's green eyes. But if Nuic felt any compassion, he didn't reveal it. He merely said, in his gruffest voice, "That'll teach you not to be so annoyingly sassy! And not to play pranks on me ever again."
Basil held back a grin. Seemingly calm, as if nothing at all had happened, he raised his nose and sniffed the air. "Say, do you smell something rotten? Goblin vulture, maybe?"
Nuic's skin color instantly darkened to beet red. "Why, you cheeky little slackbrained scalawag! I'd skin you and turn you into a handkerchief, but you're not good enough to wipe my nose."
Before Basil could reply, a sudden new sound cut across the mountaintop. It caused everyone to fall silent; even Nuic seemed unwilling to speak. Within seconds, the noises of all the wedding guests faded away. The summit was utterly quiet—except for the new sound.
Louder it grew, and louder. It was a rolling, layered hum that sounded, at once, star high and ocean deep. It vibrated in Basil's cars, his bones, and somewhere beyond his body. Like most of the wedding guests, he turned, looking for the source of this wondrous music. And when he found it, he could only gape.
That great river of sound was coming from a single creature not much bigger than himself! Shaped like a teardrop, with turquoise eyes and copper skin, it wore a translucent robe that rippled in the breeze. It sat atop an equally strange but much larger being—an immense, hunchbacked figure with woolly fur, one great leg, and dexterous fingers that could have belonged to a craftsman. Yet what was most striking about this small creature was not its colorful appearance, or its unusual companion, but its overwhelmingly beautiful music.
As the figure's humming grew ever more richly layered, Basil realized that he was hearing more than sound. This was truly magic, in the form of song. It was hope, wisdom, love, and dreams—all made into music.
"A museo," whispered Aelonnia, waving her slender arms in rhythm. As the layered humming grew ever more rich, she declared, "Announcing the wedding, it is! Arrived now has the time."
The museo's voice swelled, inspiring thoughts and feelings too numerous to name. Basil swayed a bit, feeling almost giddy, as if he'd been drinking some musical mead. Then, as abruptly as the song had started, it ceased.
A deeper kind of hush—expectant, uncertain—fell over the wedding guests. Even Merlin looked around the summit anxiously. Suddenly the silence was broken by the powerful screech of a canyon eagle, perched on Shim's enormous shoulder. The screech ripped the air, echoing hack and forth across the mountain ridges, until the whole world seemed to be answering the eagle's call.
The canyon eagle, with her sharp eyes, had been the first to see a small but regal band walking up the mountainside. Four in number, they were the very last guests to arrive. For they had come all the way from the Otherworld of the spirits.
In the lead, a powerful stag and a pure white doe stepped with impossible lightness over the snow. The stag, bronze in hue, carried a great rack of antlers with seven points on each side. The doe, whose coat gleamed whiter than the snow, had eyes that were bottomless brown pools. Behind them came a silver-haired man, and, upon his shoulder, a small hawk with fierce golden eyes.
At the sight of them approaching, the crowd stirred with murmurs, gasps, and whispers, like the leaves of a tree shaken suddenly by wind. Then, all at once, they fell silent again. This was not the quiet of listening, as before, but the quiet of awe. Even the scuffling hoolahs halted their wrestling match and sat still.
"Dagda!" exclaimed the fire angel, his voice crackling like flames. "The stag is Dagda, great god of wisdom."
"And the doe," rumbled a brown bear nearby, "is Lorilanda, goddess of birth and renewal."
"Dagda and Lorilanda?" asked Basil, looking up at Aelonnia. "Really here?"
"Not the gods themselves, but their mortal forms. Come here, they have, to honor Merlin and Hallia."
Even before the group reached the ring of guests, the hawk screeched loudly and leaped into the air. Instinctively, Basil cringed, fearing the predator's sharp talons. But the hawk flew straight over to the center of the ring, where the wizard and his bride stood waiting. With a rush of air, he landed on Merlin's shoulder.
"Trouble!" The wizard reached up and gently stroked the bird's wing. Then he wrapped one finger around a talon, as two old friends might shake hands. "Trouble, it's good to see you again."
The hawk's golden eyes peered at him. And then, lifting his perilous beak toward the sky, Trouble released a triumphant whistle.
Just then, as if by silent command, the ring of onlookers parted. Together, the stag and doe, along with the man, approached the bride and groom.
Elen gasped, recognizing the tall, silver-haired man. Amazed, she put her hand over her heart. For she had never loved another person the way she loved him: the poet Cairpré.
He took both her hands in his own. "My love," he whispered. "I have ached for you—yes, constantly. But today, for this moment at least, we are together again."
She watched him, her sapphire eyes radiant. "And someday, when the moment comes, we shall be together for all time."
He squeezed her hands, but said nothing.
Basil watched intently from his perch on Aelonnia's shoulder. Even a bard, he realized, can be at a loss for words.
A breeze gusted, scattering flakes of snow onto the wedding guests. But no one seemed to notice. All eyes were on the great spirit Dagda, who stepped to Merlin's side, coming as near as his rack of antlers would allow. "You have come far, Olo Eopia, through many worlds and many times. Far indeed."
As he spoke Merlin's true name in his deep, mellifluous voice, Dagda nodded. At the same time, shreds of mist formed in the air around his antlers. Glowing mysteriously, these shreds started to weave in and out, sometimes wrapping themselves around the points, sometimes shooting upward in luminous arcs.
"Much time has passed, and no time at all, since I last saw you," Dagda continued, as the incandescent mist danced around his antlers. "On that day, you brought Fincayra's many races together, a true community at last, after centuries of suffering. And for that feat I gave your people wings."
The spirit lord paused to glance over at Rhia. With a grateful bow, she opened her translucent wings—part feathers, part air, and part starlight.
"You showed us all on that day," Dagda went on, "that one life, no matter how small, can make a difference. Just as the smallest grain of sand can tilt a scale, the weight of one person's will can lift an entire world."
His words, though said to Merlin,
reached the entire gathering. Yet they echoed strangely in Basil's mind; it almost felt as if they were being whispered to him. He shook himself, sure that the feeling came from snowflakes that had lodged in his ears.
"You have been serving those same ideals," Dagda told the wizard, "on that world of mortals called Earth. Yet you have not forgotten," he added with a tilt of his antlers toward Hallia, "where your heart truly lies."
Once more, the words echoed in Basil's mind. Even as he shook himself, he heard again and again the phrase where your heart truly lies.
Merlin, meanwhile, drew a deep breath. "As many hopes as I have for Camelot and its young king on Earth, my highest hope has long been to stand here on this mountaintop." He reached a hand toward Hallia. "With you."
Taking his hand, she stepped to his side. "Your hope," she said softly, "and my prayer."
"A prayer now answered," declared Lorilanda. She pranced closer with the grace of a deer. And to Basil's amazement, wherever her hooves touched the snow, tiny flowers—sweet woodruff, crocuses, and lilies of the valley—instantly blossomed.
The doe's rich voice, while not as deep as Dagda's, carried equal power. As she approached, her bottomless brown eyes gazed at Hallia. "We came here today in the form of deer, young one, in honor of you and your people."
Hallia gazed back, the breeze toying with the loose hairs of her auburn braid. "Really, you know, it's the other way around. My people long ago took the form of deer so we could share in all the grace and beauty of your creation—to run through your fields, stand in your glades, browse on your flowers."
Lorilanda nodded, then turned to Merlin. "You are well matched in wisdom, I would say."
Grinning mischievously, he replied, "And also in stubbornness."
Hallia gave him a wink. "My stubbornness is a virtue, but yours is a flaw."
"Too true," agreed Merlin, his eyes gleaming. "But at least I haven't forgotten the first rule of marriage.'"
Hallia cocked her head, curious. "Which is?"
"The bride is always right."
Hard as she tried to keep herself from grinning, she couldn't.
Dagda nodded approvingly. "That, my good lad, is why you are a wizard."
Trouble released a jovial whistle. He paced across Merlin's shoulder, ruffling his wings and piping with amusement.
Merlin himself broke into laughter. So did Hallia—along with Rhia, Cairpré, Elen, and many of the guests. But no one laughed harder than Basil.
In fact, he laughed so hard that he lost his balance, slipped on the mudmaker's smooth brown skin, and tumbled down to the snow. But before he could open his wings to fly back up to his perch, something snarled and attacked.
Something with hundreds of tiny, knife-sharp teeth.
14: PERIL AND PETALS
Answers come and go, I've found. But the questions? Those remain forever.
A baby dragon!
Even before Basil touched the snow, the terrible beast pounced. Though still only an infant, he utterly dwarfed his prey, looking like a monster by comparison. Just one of his dragon ears was bigger than Basil's whole body.
Grabbing the lizard's tail in his sturdy young jaws, he squeezed with brutal ferocity. Before Basil could even begin struggling to break free, the baby dragon started shaking his new toy wildly, trying to break its spirit—or its back.
Despite this thrashing, Basil managed to curl his body backward over his tail. With all his strength, he slashed his wing down on the dragon's nose. The sharp, bony wing tip sliced into the scarlet-colored skin that hadn't yet hardened into scales.
"Yeeeeee!" shrieked the young dragon, as a few drops of silver blood trickled down his snout. He let go, thoroughly confused: None of his playthings had ever fought back before. Then his confusion turned to rage. His orange eyes seemed to kindle into roaring flames.
Basil, too, seethed with rage. The tiny club at the tip of his tail throbbed painfully, and several of his scales had been torn. The whole tail now resembled a bent and twisted twig.
Without an instant's hesitation, he leaped into the air, flapped his wings, and flew straight at the dragon's face. "You may be a hundred times my size, you big moron, but you'll regret that attack!"
Wings whirring, he dived at his assailant, green eyes aglow. Slam! Something very hard—and very powerful—knocked him completely out of the air. He thudded into the side of the living stone and fell to the snow.
Dazed, he looked up, then weakly shook the snow off his wings and snout. Shapes and colors, all disconnected, spun before him. Suddenly, his brain put enough of them together to recognize the creature who had struck him so savagely. The mother dragon!
Gwynnia, daughter of the terrible Wings of Fire, stood before him. Her enormous body, from the tip of her sideways-jutting ear down to her perilous claws, quaked with wrath at the little green beast who had dared to harm her child. Peering down at her baby's bloody nose, her triangular eyes glowed like superheated lava. Her massive, barbed tail, which had swatted Basil to the ground, lifted to strike once again.
Most ominous of all, though, was the terrible rumble gathering in her chest. Although Basil had never seen a wrathful dragon breathe fire, he instantly guessed the meaning of that sound. He was about to be blasted by flames! And these flames, unlike the magical green fire of the portal, would incinerate him completely.
He tried to focus on flying away. But with his head still spinning, he could barely stand, let alone fly. Gwynnia's massive jaws, studded with rows upon rows of daggerlike teeth, opened wide. Basil stared down the dragon's throat, unable to move, unable to save himself. He would never survive this day—and never find out who he really was.
She breathed a dreadful blast. Directed right at Basil, the fire exploded on top of the spot where he'd been standing. Sizzling hot flames licked the snow, instantly melting it down to the bare rock of the summit. Burning the very air, the fire crackled angrily. As the last flames trembled on the wet rocks, then vanished, the dragon snorted in triumph.
Abruptly, she started, making her horizontal blue ear slap against her jaw. For Basil had completely disappeared. Not a single charred bone, nor even a smoking heap of ashes, remained.
Suspicious, she stretched her long neck, which glistened with purple and scarlet scales, toward the spot. All at once she saw him—not on the ground, but resting in one of the slender arms of the mudmaker. For Aelonnia, seeing his danger, had snatched him up just in time.
Gwynnia faced the mudmaker, another rumble swelling in her armored chest. But the tall, gracious being stood fast. Cradling Basil, she spoke firmly to the wrathful dragon.
"Revenge seek you not," she declared. "A wedding this is, not a battlefield."
Gwynnia hesitated, and her orange eyes narrowed a bit. Then her baby whimpered, pressing his sore nose against her leg. Instantly, her anger flared again. The threatening rumble grew stronger.
"Stop!" shouted a commanding voice.
Gwynnia, along with Basil and Aelonnia, turned to see Merlin striding toward them. Trouble, the silver-plumed hawk, gripped his shoulder tightly. Hands raised, Merlin surveyed the group, then looked squarely at the irascible mother dragon.
"No one gets eaten today," he declared.
Gwynnia bared her terrible teeth at this outlandish idea, but Merlin continued, "Just as no one gets scorched. Or pounded. Or torn to shreds. So put aside your grudge against that—" He halted, waving toward Basil. "That . . . well, whatever it is."
Basil cringed. So even a powerful wizard has no idea what I am.
Merlin, sensing the dragon might disobey his command, leaned toward her gargantuan head. Trails of black smoke curled from her nostrils. Quietly, he said, "I'm asking you not for me, Gwynnia, but for Hallia. Your old friend who took care of you when you were no bigger than your child."
The dragon's eyes flicked toward Hallia. She was still standing between the great doe and stag, a plaintive look upon her face. Reluctantly, Gwynnia sighed, exhaling a blast of hot air that melted all
the remaining snow around the living stone. Gathering her infant in the cupped edge of her wing, she turned to go and rejoin her other offspring—but not before she cast a withering glance at the little lizard who had caused so much trouble.
As their eyes met, something strange occurred. While they started out glaring at each other, both creatures suddenly tilted their heads. For both of them had sensed something unexpected. A new look transformed Basil's expression, a look that Gwynnia shared.
It was a look of surprise, mixed with confusion. As if . . . their destinies, so utterly different, were actually somehow connected.
Gwynnia snorted loudly, sending up a cloud of smoke, as she banished such an impossible, insulting notion. She turned to depart without giving Basil another glance. Even her child, wrapped in her wing, pointedly looked away.
The object of Gwynnia's ire, though, continued to stare after her. What was that about? Basil wondered. Probably just that knock on my head, that's all.
Merlin himself started to go, but paused to give a respectful bow of his head to Aelonnia the mudmaker. As she did the same in return, the wizard's gaze fell again on the peculiar little creature she now held. A look of puzzlement creased his brow, and he asked, "Do I know you, little fellow?"
"N-no," stammered Basil, thumping his tail nervously against the mudmaker's arm.
The wizard's bushy eyebrows lifted. More sternly this time, he asked, "Did Hallia or I invite you to this wedding?" His voice lowered. "Or are you . . . an intruder?"
Basil's heart pounded wildly within his chest. Yet he was less aware of his own rising panic than of the harsh scrutiny by the wizard—and by others. Above, on the branch of a willow spirit, Nuic clucked his tongue knowingly. Off to one side, the jester with the floppy hat lined with bells started clearing his throat to sing. And nearby, the Grand Elusa perked up, gnashing her immense jaws—so vigorously that the shredded remains of a living stone, caught between her teeth, flew off and hit one of the hoolahs, who howled in pain.