1: THREADS
This wasn’t just a familiar stroll down a wooded path. No, this was something far different: more like a flight.
Luminous threads of light wove through the loom of branches, making the forest floor sparkle. The springy turf, softened by centuries of fallen leaves, seemed to lift me higher with every step. I felt I could leap into the trees, or sail like the golden butterflies among their branches. I had taken this woodland path many times before, to be sure. But it had never seemed at once so bright and so dark, so full of clarity as well as mystery.
Hallia, her hand in mine, walked with the same lilt in her step—and something more, the added grace of a deer. She knew, with every curl of her toe and sweep of her arm, the simple glory of motion. Truly, she was motion, as fluid as the falling leaf that spun downward from the highest boughs, as gentle as the forest breeze that stroked her auburn hair.
I smiled, thinking of the many such walks we had taken in the past few months. When she had first invited me to live among her people and learn their ways, several of the elders of her clan had objected. Long councils and fierce debates ensued. I was, after all, not a member of the Mellwyn-bri-Meath. And worse, I was a man. How could they possibly trust me with some of their most precious secrets, when my kind had so often hunted and killed their own, for no better reason than hunger for a slab of venison?
Hallia, in the end, had prevailed. The tales of how I’d saved her life didn’t sway the elders, nor even the things I’d accomplished for the land of Fincayra. No, it was something far more simple, and powerful: Hallia’s love for me. Faced with that, even the most skeptical members of her clan finally gave way. And so, in the time since, I’d learned how to drink water from the rill without disturbing its flow, how to feel the ground as if it were part of my own body, and how to hear with the openness of the air itself.
Such walks we had taken! Hallia guided me through meadows where ancient trails lay hidden, through tall stands of eelgrass that could be woven into baskets or clothing, and through secret glades where many a fawn-child had been born. Often we strode upright, as we did now. Just as often, we ran side by side as doe and stag, our bodies sailing above the soil more than treading upon it.
Yet on this day and on this trail, I felt closer to her than ever before. Tonight, when we reached the far side of the forest, I would show her a secret of my own—my stargazing stone. And there I would give her the present I’d been saving. I tapped my leather satchel in anticipation, knowing that in many ways the gift belonged to her already.
Seeing a stream just ahead, I lifted my staff so it wouldn’t catch on the gooseberry brambles along the bank. Then, without a word, we leaped into the air, our four legs springing in unison as if they belonged to a single person. Beneath us, the water sparkled, its surface alive with light, even where it passed under a branch or over a moss-splattered stone. We landed gently on the opposite side and continued down the path.
I gazed about, my second sight—now sharper and truer than my lost eyesight had ever been—overwhelmed by the wide array of highlights and colors. Even the etchings on my staff seemed to glimmer with the magic surrounding us. Dew glistened on rain-washed limbs, while the forest floor shone orange, scarlet, and brown. Above our heads, a pair of squirrels, their eyes nearly as large as their bulging cheeks, scurried over a branch, chattering ceaselessly. Beech trees’ smooth bark reflected the sun like mirrors, and linden leaves trembled like running streams. Clumps of moss, deep green flecked with red, nestled among the burly roots of oaks and pines, often joined by parades of yellow toadstools.
Resins wafted everywhere—from the needles of fir trees, sweeter than honeysuckle; from rainwater cupped in palmate leaves, as rich in smells as marshland pools; and from fallen branches already more soil than wood. I could smell, not far away, the gamey scent of a fox’s den. And I knew that the fox itself could smell us approaching.
The sound of the stream behind us merged with the undulating whisper of wind among the branches. And, as always, I heard in the forest wind many distinct voices: the deep sighing of oak, the crackling of ash, the rhythmic whooshing of pine. Many voices, yes—and one above all, the unified breath of the living forest.
A place of many wonders. Those words, the first description I’d ever heard of Fincayra, never felt so true as today. Especially here, in the depths of Drama Wood. Even the harsh winds of winter, which had already brought snow and frost to much of the rest of Fincayra, seemed unable to penetrate here. Though some forest animals had retreated to their burrows and hollow logs, and many trees had changed to brown and tan, the Druma still pulsed with life.
And that wasn’t all that set this forest apart. Much of Fincayra still suffered from the long years of suspicion, even hatred, that divided its many races and kept them separate from one another—and especially from the race of men and women. But not here. Even during Stangmar’s Blight, when creatures in other parts of the island feared to show themselves in daylight, this place remained at peace. Here, someone’s good fortune also gave strength to others; one creature’s loss brought widespread grief. It was truly a community.
Hallia squeezed my hand, halting us both. Following her gaze, I spied an extraordinary bird perched on a branch above our heads. There was no mistaking the bright purple crest on its head, nor the flaming scarlet feathers along its tail. An alleah bird! For a breathless moment, the creature watched us in silence, cocking its head pensively. Then, with a dazzling flash of iridescence, it flew off into the forest and disappeared.
“The long-tailed alleah bird,” whispered Hallia. “A sign of good luck.”
At that instant, something slammed into my back, sending me sprawling into a stand of hip-high ferns. I tumbled through the stalks, finally smacking into a boulder. Head spinning, I crawled free of the ferns. With effort, I straightened my leather satchel, which had wrapped itself around my neck, retrieved my staff, and started to regain my feet.
“Greetings, Brother.” Rhia, dressed in a suit of tightly woven vines, placed her hands upon her hips and laughed heartily. “You’re still my favorite place to land.”
“Sure,” I groaned. “But great seasons! Need you always land so hard?”
She reached down and tugged on my arm to help me stand. “Well, you might not notice me otherwise.” She paused to give Hallia a knowing wink. “Occupied as you are with the world of romance.”
Hallia’s face flushed as red as the leaves of wild geranium by her feet. “Rhia!”
“Haka-haka-tikky-tichhh,” cackled a tiny creature who had poked his head out of the leafy pocket on Rhia’s sleeve. His small, furred head bobbed with laughter, causing his long ears to flap against the sides of his face. Meanwhile, his lopsided grin opened wide, revealing only three teeth, all of them as green as his eyes.
“Haka-haka-tichhh. Poor lover manman!” cried the beast, speaking in a rapid, squeaky voice, almost too fast for me to catch his words. “Lost his wittywits, he has. Now his balance, too! Haaa-ha-haka-tch.”
I glowered at him. “Quiet there, skinny ears! Or I’ll—”
Hallia stepped over and touched her finger to my lips. “Hush, now. He’s just a scullyrumpus, and they’re all endless pranksters. He can’t help himself, young hawk.”
Hearing her use my familiar name, I suddenly relaxed. As I looked into her wide brown eyes, as deep as magical pools, I forgot my anger. All I could think of was the woman beside me, the woman I loved. Slowly, I leaned closer, ready to . . .
“Kissiesnug! Kissiesnug!” exclaimed the beast, flapping his oversized ears. “No more words for clumsy manman. Just kissies! Haka-haka-hakakakak.”
Straightening myself, I glared at Rhia. “Why do you keep that little pest around?”
She watched me with amusement, even as she scratched his furry neck. “Scully? Oh, we have lots in common. He’s part of the forest, like me. And a tree dweller, like me.”
“And totally disrespectful,” I added.
She nodded. “Also lik
e me.”
Despite myself, I grinned. “All right. But can’t you stop landing on me like that?”
“Why? It keeps you humble.”
To my dismay, Hallia herself smiled.
“Keeps me bruised and broken!” I roared.
“Oo-cha-oooo-cha,” squeaked the beast, waving his paws in mock terror. “Now clumsy man veryveryvery angry.” To Rhia, he cried, “Better go now. Next time he fallfalls, could be on us!”
He clutched his sides, cackling so merrily he almost fell out of the pocket. “You too, deersister,” he called to Hallia. “Run away fast, ha-chhh-ha-chhh. Fast as hoofyfeet will carry you!”
This was too much for me. “Enough, Scullyrumpus.” I brandished my staff. “One more insult and I’ll turn you into the worm you really are.”
Instead of shrinking back into the pocket in fear, as I’d expected, he simply scowled back at me. “Scullyrumpus Eiber y Findalair to you,” he piped. “Think you cannycan use first name only? A cheeky little manman you are.”
“Cheeky!” I exclaimed, my temples pounding. “You dare call me cheeky?”
Rhia raised her hand. “Hold, Merlin.” She glanced down at the beast on her sleeve. “And you, Scully. It’s too lovely a day for this.” To emphasize the point, she gave her head a shake, tossing her brown curls. “Come now, Brother. You can join me.”
“Join you?”
“Yes. I’m learning to fly.”
I glared at her. “You’ll have to sprout wings first.”
“Not that way, you fool.” She rubbed her hands on her leafy thighs, wiping away any moisture. Then she secured to her belt the small orange globe that sometimes, as now, showed no light, but other times glowed without any warning: the Orb of Fire. Her care, I knew, was justified, for like the other legendary Treasures of Fincayra, the Orb held great power—and even greater mystery. Ready at last, she reached for one of the thick vines dangling nearby. Then she announced, with great confidence, “This way.”
Her furry companion nodded, ears flapping. At the same time, he shrank deeper into the pocket.
Wrapping her hands and feet around the vine, Rhia uttered something in the low, rustling tongue of a hemlock. Instantly, the tree behind her straightened its trunk, lifting the vine and her with it. Again she spoke a command, and the vine whipped suddenly, hurling her through the canopy of branches. Hallia and I gasped in unison as she let go, spun twice through the air, then grabbed hold of another vine. This time she swung a wide arc, showering us with needles and twigs. Again she released, flipped over, and spread her arms outward like a pair of wings. For a split second, she hung there, resting on nothing but air.
Hallia clutched my arm. “She’s going to fall!”
I stiffened, my mind racing. Should I make a gust of wind? Another vine?
Before I could do anything, the hemlock tree swept itself around. A long, wide-limbed branch reached out and caught Rhia bodily, bouncing with her weight. Swiftly, the tree lowered her. Just above the ground, she rolled free, twirled in the air, and landed gently on her feet, smiling broadly. She stood before us, stroking the bulge on her sleeve where Scullyrumpus had withdrawn.
Hallia sighed. “Rhia, you are truly a herd of one.”
“Thanks,” she replied, working back into her hair the dressing of leaves that had come loose. “Care to try?”
Hallia’s round eyes shone with amusement. “No, no. Unlike those of you who crave those wings you lost so long ago, we deer-folk have no need to fly.”
“Once you took a ride on the back of your dragon friend,” Rhia reminded her.
“That was Gwynnia’s idea, not mine! I jumped off the first instant I could.”
Rhia faced me. “How about you then, Merlin? Are you willing to try?” Sensing my hesitation, she added, “Or will that stubble on your chin have to grow into a full-length beard before you have enough courage?”
Hallia glanced at me worriedly. “Don’t, young hawk.”
“I’ve no lack of courage,” I declared, rubbing my chin.
“Justjust intelligence,” said a muffled voice in Rhia’s sleeve.
“Quiet, now,” barked Rhia. “Let him try.” Turning back to me, she said, “Now, here’s how you—”
Ignoring her, I tossed aside my staff, unbuckled my sword, and reached for the vine. Brusquely, I spoke my own rustling phrase. To my own surprise, the vine jumped upward, carrying me aloft. Wind rushed by my face, streaming my black locks of hair, fluttering the sleeves of my tunic. Feeling my confidence swell, I spoke again, and the vine swung around the hemlock’s trunk, slicing graceful curves through the air. Over limbs and under I sailed, as free as a soaring hawk.
Flush with the joy of flight, I called once more to the tree. A new vine whipped to my side. At the highest point of my arc, I cast the old vine aside and leaped to grasp the new one. For several heartbeats I floated high above the ground, feeling like a creature of the wind itself. Even as I reached for the vine, its supple length wrapped around my hands and feet.
Holding tight to the vine, I plummeted downward, ready for the sudden tensing that I knew would hurl me high into the boughs again. Lack of courage, indeed! Rhia should know better by now. Down, down, down, I sped, watching the whirl of green and brown.
Craaack! My back rammed into a spiky lower branch, snapping it off completely. A rustling howl arose from the tree. My vine jerked violently, shaking me loose. I hurtled through open air, flying straight into the same patch of ferns where I’d landed when Rhia first arrived. With a thud, I hit the ground, rolling through the ferns and smacking into the boulder again.
It was all I could do to lift my head, and then only for a moment. I slumped back into the stalks. My entire body ached, especially the tender spot between my shoulder blades. With supreme effort, I tried to stand, but a new spell of dizziness struck and I collapsed again.
Hallia and Rhia rushed over. Together, they dragged me out of the ferns and helped me stretch out on the soft turf of the path. Pulling a mass of torn fronds from my mouth, I could only sputter, “What . . . happened?”
Hallia merely shook her head. Rhia, for once, said nothing. Even the little terror in her pocket remained silent, probably because he knew he was within my reach.
“I guess flying,” I said groggily, “takes more than courage.”
At that, the hemlock twitched abruptly. From high among its branches, a single cone fell, plunking me on the forehead.
As I groaned, Rhia bobbed her head. “Right,” she agreed. “Much more.”
2: TREASURES
When at last I felt steady enough to rise, I stumbled over to a nearby stream and plunged in my whole head. The frigid water slapped my cheeks and chilled my tongue, and soon I felt revived. Even then, it took me several minutes before I could walk without tripping over roots or branches. And several more before I could find my leather satchel, torn off during my attempt to ride the vines.
It was Rhia who spied it. High above our heads, it dangled in the arching branches of the hemlock. She made a sharp, creaking sound, and the tree stirred. The satchel broke loose, but snagged on a lower branch. This time it tipped upside down, dropping its contents to the forest floor. Down came my supply of healing herbs—mostly willowroot, rosemary, sprite’s balm, and the white-tipped mushroom called Loth’s bane—along with three more precious items: a seed, a string, and a feather.
The seed, no bigger than a rounded pebble, hit the ground first, bouncing on the springy turf and rolling to a stop not far from my feet. I picked it up, holding the little sphere in the palm of my hand. As I had many times before, I felt its magical pulsing, almost like a beating heart. And I recalled the words that had been spoken when it was entrusted to my care: If you succeed in finding just the right place for the planting, this seed will bear fruit more magnificent than you can possibly guess.
My brow furrowed. Just the right place for the planting . . . Where could that be? How would I know?
Then, draped over a root covered with pu
rple moss, I saw my piece of string, charred and twisted by fire. As I reached for it, Hallia’s gaze met mine, and the understanding in her doelike eyes cheered me. For she knew, as did I, that this tarnished old string was all that remained of a musical instrument—the psaltery I’d made myself at the fabled tree called the Cobbler’s Rowan. And she also knew, as did I, that it held a surprising power.
As I gathered up the string, I scanned the area, searching for any sign of my third small treasure. Finding none on the ground, I looked upward, following the shafts of light across the hemlock’s tangled boughs. There it was! My feather rested lightly on a branch just beneath my satchel. Streaked with silver and brown, it reminded me of its original owner: the feisty hawk, Trouble, who had given his life to spare my own.
A gentle waft of wind caught the feather, dislodging it. Gracefully it drifted downward, playing with the currents, spinning and weaving even as Trouble himself had once so enjoyed doing. At last, the feather approached, brushing softly against my shoulder before falling into my open hand.
“Nice catchycatch, clumsy man,” Scullyrumpus rasped, poking out of his niche on Rhia’s sleeve. “Too bad your sacksack still up there! Maybe try ride again on viny rope? Haka, haka-hachhhh-hach-ch-ch.” He clutched the ends of his ears, laughing mirthfully.
Clumsy man. He said it so fast it sounded like a single word. My anger rose, but I didn’t let it show. With a slight turn of my wrist, I beckoned to the satchel. Instantly, it started quivering. The branch shook, sprinkling us with needles, as the leather cord gracefully unwound, untangling itself. A few seconds later, the satchel pulled free, sailed around several more limbs, and dropped to the ground beside me.
The beast’s eyes narrowed considerably, and he released a squeaky version of a growl.
I retrieved the satchel. “No viny ropes necessary.”
Another growl, louder this time.
“Be fair, now,” admonished Rhia, planting a finger on her companion’s tiny black nose. “That was nicely done.” She considered me. “You’ve honed your Leaping skills, haven’t you?”