She sighed. For even now, forces were gathering that seemed to make that battle unavoidable. She had heard from other elves, as recently as this morning, that the enemies of Avalon were already massing at Isenwy. And that those enemies were expecting to be joined, in just a few more days, by some superior force—White Hands himself, perhaps. For that reason, the elves and their allies were planning to attack first, to dispose of their foes as quickly as possible. If successful, they could have already won an initial victory on the battlefield by the time any help for their foes could arrive. Then, if necessary, they would fight a second battle—and win a second victory. But having listened to her grandfather’s many woeful tales of battle plans gone awry, Brionna felt no surge of hope. Instead, she felt a deep emptiness down inside her chest: a gnawing fear for her people and her world.
And also for her friend Elli, who had become something akin to a sister. How she’d ever grown so attached to someone of the human race, Brionna couldn’t explain. Just as she couldn’t explain whatever it was that drew her to that ox-brained eagleman, Scree. In any case, she worried about them—more than she wanted to admit.
By now Elli should be nearing Shadowroot, thought Brionna, cringing at the thought of her friend in that darkened realm where she herself had almost died. That’s about the only place in Avalon I’d like to go even less than the place I’m going now—Belamir’s village.
The crackle of twigs underfoot told her that Lleu was approaching. She turned just as the tall, gangly priest emerged from a thick stand of spruce trees. On his shoulder sat his maryth, Catha, the silver-winged falcon whose eyes were even sharper than her talons.
“Good of you to wait for us,” panted Lleu. “I’ve never walked so fast through a forest.”
Brionna’s deep green eyes bored into him. “I’ve rarely walked so slow.”
He stepped to her side under the beech tree. For a moment, he studied her. “You’re regretting your decision to come with me to Belamir’s?”
She sighed, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “I’m regretting a great deal these days. And every step I take reminds me of something.”
She nodded at the old beech, whose smooth gray bark glistened, both on the immense trunk and on the boughs above. “Even that tree reminds me of Elna Lebram—deep roots, long memories in the elvish tongue—where we buried my grandfather.”
Lleu watched her kindly. “Tressimir was a great scholar, and a great man.”
Straightening her shoulders, she could still feel the scar from a whip, which always made her think of Granda’s final days. And her part in his death. Facing Lleu, she said somberly, “He should still be alive.”
“Maybe it’s better that he didn’t have to see what’s happening now. His whole world threatened, his people going to war—”
“And his granddaughter groveling before Belamir, whose Humanity First movement considers the elves an inferior race.”
“We’re not groveling, Brionna. We’re just going to his village to try to talk some sense into him. Make him understand that by encouraging his followers to fight against the old order at Isenwy, he’s inadvertently helping Kulwych—and the greater horror, Rhita Gawr.” His eyebrows lifted hopefully. “If we succeed, we could save a lot of lives—and maybe, if we can keep enough of Belamir’s forces from going to Isenwy, we could prevent this whole battle from ever happening.”
She sniffed. “That’s the only reason I’m willing to try this scheme. But just going to see that despicable man still feels like groveling.”
On Lleu’s shoulder, Catha released a sharp whistle of agreement.
“Look here,” said the priest, kicking a bunch of spruce needles. “Belamir’s not evil. Just woefully misguided. He’s basically just an old gardener who’s been seduced by some ideas of human superiority.”
The elf maiden’s eyes narrowed. “You can say that after what his people did at the Drumadian compound? And to Coerria?”
Lleu’s gaze faltered. In a low voice, nearly a growl, he said, “What happened at the compound will never be forgotten. Or forgiven. I’m just not convinced that Belamir knew anything about it. Llynia, who now seems to be his closest aide, hadn’t even heard about it until we told her.”
Brionna’s own voice lowered. “Some elves believe, as you do, that he’s not truly evil. But they also believe that he’s under the influence of someone else, someone who may only appear to be human.”
“You don’t mean . . .”
“Yes. A changeling.”
Just the mention of that word made Catha screech angrily. She ruffled her wings, pacing back and forth.
Brionna nodded gravely. “There aren’t many changelings left in El Urien. But those who still remain are even more dangerous—and more bloodthirsty—than their ancestors, the shifting wraiths of Lost Fincayra.”
Frowning, Lleu added, “Those beasts nearly killed both Merlin and Rhia when they were young.”
“Right. So while I’m willing to go with you to meet Belamir and his advisors, my bow and arrows will be close at hand. Changelings always have some sort of telltale physical flaw, you know, something quite unnatural. And I’ll be looking for it.”
“With my blessing. Just be sure you’re right before you shoot.”
“Wood elves never kill anything unless we must,” she answered. “Which is why it’s worth trying to turn Belamir around.” She tapped her bow again. “But if we fail, I am going straight to Isenwy.”
“As am I.”
A loud crash came from the spruces. Then, in rapid succession, came a shout of pain, the sound of someone tripping over some roots, the thhhwack of a bent branch springing back and smacking someone very hard, a mumbled string of curses, and yet another crash.
Brionna and Lleu traded knowing glances, while the falcon released a glum whistle.
“Sounds like Shim has caught up with us,” said Lleu.
Shaking her head, the elf remarked, “How anyone so small can make so much noise is totally beyond me.”
Just then a dwarf-size fellow burst out of the branches. From his white mop of hair down to the bottom of his baggy leggings, he was covered with broken twigs, cones, needles, leaves, fern fronds, and at least one spiderweb. Wiping a clump of wet leaves off his potato-shaped nose, he started toward his companions—but suddenly tripped on a sapling and fell into a patch of daffodils growing under the beech tree.
“Not fairly!” he groused. “Back in the olden daylies, I could walk anywheres at all with no problem. Bigsy I was, as bigsy as the highliest tree, and no little daffodilly could trip me up.”
Brionna strode over and helped him stand again. “Thanks, Rowanna,” he told her, his eyes shining. “You’re a goodsy lass. As well as me favorite niece.”
Though she scowled at his old joke, she wasn’t offended. “I’m just glad you’re not hurt.”
“Sad for hot dirt?” He scrunched his nose at her. “That’s a confudoozedly thing to say! But I’ll tells you one nicely thing. At least I’m not hurt.”
“And your hearing’s still great,” she added wryly.
“Earrings will skate?” He studied her with concern. “Rowanna, you is speaking most funnily today. Maybily your hearing isn’t rightly?”
Before she could try again to speak, he shook his white head, spraying twigs and needles all around. “No, no, I’m sure it’s old Shim who isn’t rightly. Why did that giantly miss, Bonlog Mountain-Mouth, ever make me so smallsy and shrunkelled? Just because I ran away when she tries to give me a kiss, so disgustingly slobberly.”
Brionna placed her hand upon his shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze.
But Shim merely scowled and muttered, “That was a meanly thing for her to do! Certainly, definitely, absolutely.”
Just then Brionna heard something that sounded like the nearby hoot of an owl. She tensed, because no owl would be hunting at this time of day. Catha, too, seemed agitated, ruffling her wings.
At that instant, eight green-clad men, with bowstrings
drawn and arrows nocked, stepped out of the trees. Brionna and her companions were surrounded! Scanning the deadly arrows aimed at their chests, the elf maiden cursed herself for letting down her guard, even for an instant.
“We come in peace,” protested Lleu.
“No, ye don’t,” growled the voice of one of the men. He stood directly behind Brionna and Lleu, so they couldn’t see him, nor could they risk turning around to face him.
“It’s true,” Lleu declared. “We have come to visit Hanwan Belamir.”
“To kill him, more likely,” replied the man. “We trust nobody who comes this close to the village o’ Prosperity, ‘specially in times like this.” Behind them, he spat. “And most ‘specially if they’re travelin’ with a dirty elf and a dwarf.”
Brionna, her body as tight as one of their bowstrings, quivered with rage.
“Ye think yer kind is the best at woodland trackin’ and hunting don’t ye?” taunted her captor. “Well, looks like yer mistaken, elf-girl! Now take off yer bow and quiver, real slow and careful. I’d hate to have to carry ye back with yer body full o’ arrows.”
The thought flashed through Brionna’s mind that she could, perhaps, get off one shot before she died—maybe in the throat of this arrogant human. But she fought back the desire, since that rash move would probably mean her friends’ deaths as well. Reluctantly, she pulled off her bow and cast it aside, then did the same with her quiver of arrows.
“Good elf. Now if ye jest do as Morrigon says, ye might even live another day er two.” The man chortled at his joke. “Now turn around,” he commanded. “And start followin’ me. We have a lovely welcome for ye back at the village.”
When Brionna turned to face him, she caught her breath. What surprised her wasn’t that he was so elderly, with scraggly white hair sprouting from his chin as well as the sides of his head above his ears. Nor that he looked so frail, as thin as a twisted old tree.
No, what surprised her was his right eye, so bloodshot that it looked pink. Unnaturally pink.
4 • The Strength of Wings
Slowly, Scree rose to his feet. He grimaced from the painful gash in his side, and also from the sight of this village surrounded by the lava-belching volcanoes of Fireroot. It was the village of the Bram Kaie eaglefolk, whose leader Scree had just killed—before discovering that the leader had also been his only son.
Tall and grim, Scree stood before the villagers crowding around him. They were young and old, male and female, slim and stout. Some, like Scree, stood in human form; others bore talons and great wings whose feathers shone with the reddish glow of the clouds above. And the crowd continued to swell. Eaglefolk were climbing down from their fortified nests, hurrying down the obsidian-paved streets, climbing the bejeweled statues of soaring eagles and poles bearing silken flags—all to view the warrior who had so boldly challenged their leader. And won.
A sulfurous wind blew over the fire-blackened ridge, dusting the villagers with black ash and bits of pumice. But they didn’t seem to notice. They pressed closer together, jostling each other, craning their necks and ruffling their wings, all the while keeping some distance from Scree. Then, as one, they fell silent, waiting for him to speak.
He scowled, rubbing his hands on his bloodstained leggings. Despite the gash in his side, he straightened up to his full height. The rust-red light of the Volcano Lands tinted his bare, muscular chest.
“I am Scree,” he declared. “And I am your new leader.”
Hushed whispers, exclamations, and hurried conversations bubbled up around him like molten lava. Wings opened and closed again anxiously, while talons scraped against the ground. Scree waited before speaking again, knowing that his bid to lead the clan was no less risky than the battle he’d just survived. Some of these villagers were bound to resist him, an outsider, trying to lead them at all—let alone in an entirely different direction from the raiding and pillaging of their past.
Yet that was his goal. Nothing less. That was the only way he could possibly help Tamwyn, Elli, and Brionna—as well as Avalon. For he knew that the fate of their world now rested on what happened in two distant places: somewhere in the stars, if Tamwyn had actually managed to stay alive; and on the Plains of Isenwy, where a great battle would soon be fought. And if Scree had his way, there would be eaglefolk from this clan at Isenwy.
He scanned the villagers surrounding him, as they slowly quieted again. Yet even as he looked at their faces, he thought about some other faces—ones he knew that he would never see again. There was Tamwyn, the brother he had finally found, only to lose once more. There was Brionna, whose strange elfish ways attracted him so strongly, even as he seemed bent on pushing her away. And there was Arc-kaya, the eaglewoman whose loving generosity hadn’t spared her from a brutal death.
And there was one more face he couldn’t forget—that of a young, golden-eyed eagleboy named Hawkeen. Although they had truly bonded in the midst of their grief, Scree wished that he could have spent more time with this lad who reminded him so much of his younger self. But he had been forced to depart straightaway, leaving Hawkeen behind.
Suddenly a burly eagleman pushed his way out of the crowd. “What makes you think you can lead us?” he demanded.
Scree gazed sternly at his questioner. Although this eagleman stood in human form, he looked ready to sprout wings and take flight at an instant’s notice. And from the many scars on his chest and the red leg band that identified him as a warrior, it was clear that he’d flown into combat several times.
The warrior thumped the end of his upright spear on the charred ground, sending up a puff of ash. “What makes you think so?” With a sneer, he added, “You’re not even a member of this clan.”
Scree’s yellow-rimmed eyes narrowed. “That is true. But I am born of this same realm of fire and rock. And I also belong to this same people—your people, the eaglefolk of Avalon.”
The warrior looked at him skeptically, rubbing his angular jaw. “Still, what do you know of the Bram Kaie clan?”
“I know that you have lost more than your leadership. You have lost your way as eaglefolk. By your murderous actions, you have disgraced yourselves—and the rest of your kind.”
The warrior stiffened, his shoulders flexed. Behind him, villagers stirred, murmuring and arguing among themselves. Someone shouted, “Kill him for that!” while a woman’s voice called out, “He’s right. We have flown astray.”
Just then a pair of young eaglemen near Scree started shoving each other roughly. “You’re a traitor to side with him!” shouted one.
“And you’re just a thieving coward,” retorted the other.
All at once, they transformed into their winged forms. One of them suddenly whirled, striking the other’s face with the bony edge of his wing. Blood flowed from a gash in the youth’s cheek. They raised their talons, just about to tear into each other—when Scree stepped boldly between them. He grabbed each of them by the shoulder and held them apart.
“Wait,” he commanded. His voice rang with such authority, echoing over the fire-blackened ridge, that the young men slowly lowered their talons. Although they remained in their eagle forms, glaring at each other angrily, they did not try to break free.
“Fighting among yourselves isn’t the answer,” he intoned. “I ask you, can two wings of the same bird fly in opposite directions? No! And two clans of the same people are no different. If they try to fly in opposite ways, they will succeed only in tearing themselves apart. For we are all, every one of us, part of the same body, borne by the same wings.”
As several eaglefolk nodded their heads, Scree released the young men. After pausing to make sure they wouldn’t attack each other again, he continued speaking. “This clan, under Quenaykha, has gained great wealth.”
He turned, waving at the obsidian avenues between the nests, the gilded statues, the spiraling stairways of oak and mahogany, and all the spoils of plunder that lay strewn about like discarded feathers. “But you have also gained,” he de
clared, “far greater shame.”
There were angry murmurs again. Yet now it seemed as if more people were listening, cocking their heads thoughtfully as he continued.
“You are eaglefolk, after all. The fiercest, proudest people in all of Avalon! Does it make you feel true to your glorious traditions—and to your ancestors, who have flown higher than any creatures in the Seven Realms—to stoop to murder and thievery? To soar not on the strength of your own wings, but on the wings of those you have robbed?”
He lowered his voice. “I said that you were lost. But I also say to you, people of the Bram Kaie, that you can find your way again.”
He glanced at the scarred warrior, whose expression was now graver than ever. Then he announced, “Very soon a battle will erupt in Mudroot, on the Plains of Isenwy. If the army of sorcery, gobsken, and wicked men prevails, then free Avalon will be lost. But if the other side—the side of eaglefolk—prevails, then Avalon will be saved.”
Scree lifted his arms over his head as if they were great wings. “I myself am going there to fight. And yes, to die, if I must. Will you join me? Will you fight alongside the rest of your people? Will you do your part to redeem your clan, and save our world?”
Hushed silence enveloped the crowd. An eaglefeather, blown out of one of the nests, drifted lazily over the people’s heads. But no one answered Scree. Not a single person answered his call.
At that moment, a lone eagleboy stepped through the villagers and strode to his side. Scree turned toward the lad, then gasped. It was Hawkeen, the golden-eyed boy from Arc-kaya’s home!
Hawkeen’s bright eyes glinted. “I followed you here,” he declared. “And I will follow you into battle for Avalon.”
Scree spoke no words, but gazed at the eagleboy.
“Enough foolishness,” bellowed the gruff voice of the scarred warrior. He tossed aside his spear, which clattered on the blackened ridge. At the same time, he changed into eagle form, stretching his mighty wings. He advanced toward Scree, feathers bristling.
Seeing this, Scree also transformed. His wings sprouted, and he opened them wide, ready to leap skyward at any instant. He clenched his jaw, wondering whether he had enough strength to prevail in yet another battle to the death. As he dragged his sharp talons across the ground, he said, “Fight me if you will. But I have spoken only the truth.”