The warrior advanced another step, eyeing him coldly. When he stood barely a spear’s length away, he stopped and folded his wings. “I am Cuttayka, first among the Clan Sentries. And I have not come to fight you. I have come to join you.”
Even as Scree’s eyes widened, Cuttayka turned to the crowd. “Enough foolishness, I say! Did you not hear the call of this bold warrior? Did you not feel the rightness of his plan? Come on, all of you. Join him.”
He glanced at Scree, then added: “For he is our leader.”
5 • The Climb
Tamwyn glanced, one last time, at the simple earthen mound that was a grave. And at the words he had carved there, using his newly reforged dagger—words that began, Here lies the body of my father, Krystallus Eopia.
As he stood there alone, the wind of Merlin’s Knothole gusted around him, flapping the sleeves of his torn tunic. “You never made it to the stars,” he whispered into the swelling wind. “But maybe your son will.”
He reached behind his back to check the wooden pole that he’d tied to his pack strap. Finding it secure, he nodded with determination. “And I’ll carry your torch with me.”
Spinning around, Tamwyn turned toward the rocky brown cliffs that rose steeply higher, disappearing into shreds of mist. Above, the stars shone brightly—except, of course, the seven darkened stars of the Wizard’s Staff constellation. Besides that gaping hole in the sky, another prominent feature caught his attention: the wide, dark streaks that ran between him and the stars. He didn’t need to consult the special compass in his pack to know that he was gazing starward, into the heights of the Great Tree, and that those streaks were actually its vast, unexplored branches.
Where I’m going now.
He drew a deep breath, wondering whether he would ever succeed in his ultimate goal: to climb up to those branches, and the stars beyond. And not just any stars, either. He needed to reach those seven darkened stars of the Wizard’s Staff, which were now open doors to the Otherworld of the Spirits. Through those doorways on high, he knew, Rhita Gawr’s army of immortal warriors had already begun to pour. They were massing up there, even now, waiting for Rhita Gawr’s command to attack Avalon . . . a command that would come in no more than one week’s time. And so, Tamwyn’s task—so difficult that it seemed impossible—was to chase that army back through the doorways, and somehow defeat Rhita Gawr himself.
Then comes the really hard part, Tamwyn thought grimly. I’ll need to relight those stars, closing those doorways—something that no one but Merlin has ever done.
He worked his shoulders, shifting the position of the torch on his back. It was far more than an ordinary torch, he felt certain. When lit, it would not be merely a source of fire, but also of magic. He sensed, somehow, that if he could grow powerful enough—or wise enough—to light it, then he might truly have the strength to close those doorways. And to confront Rhita Gawr.
He swallowed, knowing that there was one more reason he had decided to carry the torch of his father. For as long as Krystallus had been alive, it had burned as bright as his very soul. So maybe, just maybe, if Tamwyn could find the way to light it . . .
I’d be a little closer to him.
With that, he started walking toward the cliffs that rose so steeply skyward. His bare feet, toughened by calluses, crunched on the hardpacked soil. Every step he took, gradually gaining altitude, he felt the ground hardening into rock, rough brown rock that felt appropriately like the bark of an enormous tree.
This would be, he knew, an arduous climb. Even merely to reach the lowest branch. To have any chance at all of reaching the stars before it was too late, he’d have to find some faster way to ascend—something like the Secret Stairway that had carried him all the way from Gwirion’s village of the fire angels to this hidden valley high on the trunk of the Tree. Yet what way could that be?
He started to clamber across a jumble of loose boulders, debris that had broken off from the cliffs above. Often he needed to use his hands to keep his balance—and once, when a sharp-edged boulder shifted under his weight, to keep from falling. Moving as swiftly as he could, he was soon sweating and panting from exertion. But he knew that he still wasn’t moving fast enough.
For he had very little time to do everything he must. Before long, Rhita Gawr would extinguish another star, the one known as the Heart of Pegasus. When that happened, the great horse will die, as the warlord himself had put it. And whatever else it would mean when that star’s fires went out, it would also be the signal for Rhita Gawr’s deathless warriors to attack Avalon.
Unless I can stop them somehow, Tamwyn told himself. Yet even as that thought formed in his mind, he sighed. That’s an awfully tall order for a lone wilderness guide, even one who dabbles in magic.
The boulder beneath him suddenly slid sideways. Tamwyn lurched, then managed to leap over to another one. Fortunately, the new boulder held steady. But his ankle scraped as he landed, and blood dribbled down his foot.
Too busy even to notice, he continued to clamber. At last, he reached the end of the boulder field—and the beginning of the cliffs. He checked the torch again, as well as the staff he had placed in the sheath that he’d woven of willow bark. Allowing himself one swig of the sweet, nourishing water from the Great Hall of the Heartwood, he stowed his flask. And then he started to climb.
Hand over hand he hoisted himself higher, moving like a lopsided spider up the cliffs. He grabbed whatever handholds he could find, while his feet wedged into niches or cracks no wider than his little toe. Whenever crumbled bits of rock rained down on his face, which was often, he couldn’t release his grip to brush himself off.
Tamwyn moved slowly upward, edging higher and higher. Yet more rocky cliffs always towered above him.
Hours later, they still towered. Though his arms and legs now felt as heavy as rock themselves, he continued to climb. Sweat from his brow dribbled into his eyes as he reached his hand up to a knob, one more handhold on one more ledge. Quaking, he pulled himself onto the lip of stone. When at last he lifted his chest, then one leg, then the other, over the edge—he collapsed there, flat on his back, breathing hard.
He closed his eyes, which were still stinging from perspiration. But he knew that it would only make them worse to wipe them with his dirty hands or tunic. Besides, what was there to see? For quite some time now, he’d been ascending through thick, swirling mist that obscured any view in any direction. Even the stars themselves were only visible as pale, ghostly spots within the vapors.
It’s really a good thing, he thought glumly as he lay on the ledge, panting. If I could see what’s ahead, it would only be cliffs stretching up forever. And stars too high to reach.
He rolled a bit to the side in order to stretch his back. The movement shook the small quartz bell on his hip. As it jingled in the misty air, he thought of Stoneroot, the land of bells. How he missed that familiar terrain! Now that the terrible drought had ended, spring should be just emerging there now, filling the air with the scent of honeygrass sprinkled with dew, moonberries plump and juicy, and those first pungent shafts of skunkweed that made a surprisingly tasty brew of tea.
Would he ever experience those aromas and flavors again? There was no way to tell.
Feeling the handle of his dagger digging into his hip, he shifted again, this time jostling his pack. From inside it came a new sound, softer and deeper than that of his bell. He knew well that sound. It came from his slab of harmóna wood, partly carved into the shape of a harp.
The harp he was making for Elli. As he listened to the low, quivering note, it seemed to vibrate within every bone of his body . . . along with the memory of their shared dream, and their one brief kiss.
Would they see each other again? Without quests to survive, or worlds to save? Again, there was no way to tell.
Just as he could only wonder about his other friends. As he sat up, blinking his sore eyes in the mist, he thought about Scree, whose wounds from Hallia’s Peak would surely have healed by n
ow. And Gwirion, who must have found the Golden Wreath that Tamwyn had left for him. But had Gwirion also found his people’s true destiny, and the courage to lead them there?
Then he thought of Henni and Batty Lad, the two companions he had lost when they plunged into the upward-flowing Spiral Cascades. Did that footprint near his father’s grave mean that Henni, the wacky hoolah, had somehow survived? And was it possible that Batty Lad’s mindless chatter really meant more than Tamwyn had ever understood? Did that chatter provide some sort of clue to the nagging mystery of what sort of creature Batty Lad really was?
Tamwyn exhaled slowly, scattering the mist before him. All those people—and others, such as Rhia—had proven themselves to be true friends. They had stayed by his side, despite all his foolishness and clumsiness. And despite his bizarre fate to be the person who might actually save Avalon—and also the person who would bring its ultimate ruin. How could he be both at once? No one, not even Rhia herself, had been able to explain that to him.
In some distant part of his mind, he heard again the ringing words of the Dark Prophecy. They had haunted him all through the seventeen years of his life. Yet they had first truly come alive for him when he’d heard them sung by that strange old bard with the sideways-growing beard:
A year shall come when star so dark,
And faith will fail anon—
For born shall be a child who spells
The end of Avalon.
The only hope beneath the stars
To save that world so fair
Will be the Merlin then alive:
The wizard’s own true heir.
What shall become of Avalon,
Our dream, our deepest need?
What glory or despair shall sprout
From Merlin’s magic seed?
Exhausted in spirit as well as in body, Tamwyn forced himself to stand upright on the ledge. Yet another rocky cliff rose above him, though not quite as steeply as some that he had climbed. The pervasive mist seemed to thin a bit, shredding itself like morning haze in the day’s first light.
That was when he saw something new—something that made him rock backward, so much that he nearly fell right off the ledge. A splash of green, as well as a hint of lavender, gleamed through the vapors. And even more striking than the colors themselves was their position: They seemed to stretch not so much upward, like the formidable cliffs, but more outward, reaching to the side for a great distance, as far as he could see.
Tamwyn licked his salty, dirty lips. Could it be? He might actually have made it to the first branch.
6 • Wood Chips
Tamwyn scaled the cliff, climbing hand over hand with renewed vigor. Sweat dribbled down his brow, streaking his face with dirt, but he didn’t mind. He was thinking about just one thing: topping this rise.
As he pulled himself up the final ledge, a new landscape opened up before him. His grimy lips lifted in a grin, for he could see enough beyond the shredding mist to know that he had, indeed, reached the first branch.
And what a landscape it was! Sharp, steeply cut valleys, running right beside each other, stretched in long green rows as far as he could see. From where he stood now, atop one of the parallel ridges that divided the valleys, he could make out three or four of the green swaths on each side. And each of those valleys, like the ridges that divided them, ran straight to the hazy horizon. The look of these slim ridges reminded him of something, though he wasn’t sure what.
Tamwyn peered down into one of the valleys below. Thick, lush grasses rippled in the buffeting breeze like the hides of galloping horses. It almost seemed as if the land itself were loping.
Adjusting the pack strap on his shoulder, he walked down from the ridge to explore the upper rim of the valley. Soft grasses soon replaced rough rock under his feet. Ahead, he could see several deep gullies that ribbed the slope. Within them, dense rows of lavender-colored bushes lined cascading streams where water sparkled in the starlight.
He smacked his dry lips. A drink from a fresh water stream would taste wonderful right now.
As he reached the first gulley, he pushed his way through the bushes toward the stream. A sharp chirp from a nest hidden in the shrubbery made him halt. Seeing a sudden flash of brilliance from the nest, he realized that it held a fledgling prism bird, whose wingfeathers would someday catch the light as it soared, painting the clouds with radiant color.
He sat down on the muddy bank of the stream, peeled off his pack and the torch, and plunged his whole head into the water. He lifted his head, black locks dripping wet—and then plunged his head back into the stream again. Finally, cooled and rinsed, he cupped his hands and took several long, lovely sips.
At last, he sat cross-legged on the bank. Curious, he broke off a lavender leaf and chewed it to see if it had any flavor. Instantly he spat it out on the mud. For it had a flavor, all right, one that came perilously close to goat dung.
Scanning the ridgeline above him, he followed it down the full length of the valley. He spied several steaming pits, deep green in color, that dotted the rim. Sniffing the air, he caught the sharp, sweet aroma of resins, much like he would have found in a forest of pine and spruce. Could those be boiling pits of sap, bubbling up from below?
Then, near a jagged outcropping of stone that resembled an uplifted hand with fingerlike spires, he noticed some movement. Creatures! Gigantic in size, with hunched, hairy backs, they looked almost as gnarled and weathered as the rocks themselves. Brawny arms hung from their massive shoulders, while their heads tapered into long snouts. And, if he was seeing accurately, each creature stood on just one leg. Then, to his amazement, the creatures clasped hands and started circling the stone, hopping in unison.
They are dancing, he thought, blinking his eyes in disbelief. Each one of them must have stood twice his height, yet they moved with the fluidity of blowing clouds, hopping and bowing in their strange, silent dance.
For an instant, he wondered whether he should use his last drop of Dagda’s dew, Gwirion’s parting gift, to study them more closely. But no—better to save that magical drop for later, when it might be more needed.
Watching the ring of huge, hunchbacked creatures, he reminded himself they could be dangerous. Better stay right here in the bushes until they’re gone. Just in case.
Then he noticed a stand of tall, gangly trees just beyond the hunchbacked creatures. Drumalings! He shuddered, thinking of those walking trees that had nearly crushed the life out of him back in Merlin’s Knothole. Were it not for Ethaun, the affable blacksmith who stood as broad as a bear, they would have surely killed him.
Tamwyn shook his head, spraying the bushes with water droplets. No, he did not want to encounter drumalings again. When it came time to climb back up the slope, and to find the best route higher on the Tree, he would take extra care to avoid whatever beasts might live among these parallel ridges.
All at once, he realized why these ridges, with their steep-sided valleys, had reminded him of something. They looked like rows of bark! More than that, they were rows of bark, running the length of this enormous branch.
This is a whole new realm, he reflected. And to think that it is only one of many! Every single branch of the Great Tree is an unexplored region. And they could be as different from each other as Fireroot is from Airroot or Waterroot.
He lowered his gaze. Or Shadowroot, where Elli is heading now.
Feeling a pang of worry, and maybe something more, he pulled out the slab of harmóna wood. He unsheathed his dagger, grateful that Ethaun had reforged it. But he didn’t take time to examine the ancient, mysterious words engraved on the side of the blade—words that spoke of Merlin’s heir . . . and Rhita Gawr. He just placed the slab on his lap and started to carve.
As the first curling chip of wood fell to the ground, it hummed ever so subtly. Meanwhile, the magical slab itself made a soft, breathy music, its orange-streaked grain helping to guide Tamwyn’s every slice. Slowly, the sound box grew more clearly defined, and the i
nstrument began to take shape.
Something about whittling wood always consoled Tamwyn. The gentle sweep of a blade, the warmth of wood in his hands, made him feel more firmly planted in the present moment. And also more confident about the future. Yet today he couldn’t seem to banish his doubts. Why, he didn’t even know where he was going to find the strings for this harp! So how could he possibly hope to do his part to save Avalon?
He continued to carve. Wood chips piled up on the muddy bank, accumulating with his concerns. I am, after all, just one person—and certainly no great wizard. Then, unexpectedly, he remembered Ethaun’s words, spoken in the blacksmith’s rough whisper:
Ye know, the legends from Old Fincayra are mighty strange at times. But one o’ the strangest says that a young wizard only came into power when he carved his first musical instrument.
For a brief moment, Tamwyn believed. Or wanted so much to believe that it felt like conviction itself. Then the knife blade slipped, nicking his thigh. He groaned, cursing his own clumsiness.
Full of doubts again, he raised his gaze toward the sky. It blazed with stars so bright that he needed to shield his eyes from the most radiant clusters. What am I thinking? I don’t even know how to begin to get up there!
Then, for the first time, he noticed something odd. Very odd. A vague line of light, so dim that he could only barely perceive it, ran across the middle of the sky. Like a luminous crack, or a seam in the fabric of day, it ran through the realm of the stars.
Tamwyn stared at the line of light, blinking. What was it? Maybe just a trick of the remaining wisps of mist. Yet it seemed more real than that. Perhaps it had always been there, but he needed to have climbed this high on the Great Tree before he could actually see it.