Onward they sailed through the willows, under aerial roots draped with moss and boughs arching high. In time, the growth began to thin, and the powerful trunks grew farther apart. Then, with a gust of wind that ruffled the elbrankelp sail, they emerged from the Willow Lands into the open sea.
Before them stretched the northernmost reaches of the Rainbow Seas, fading into the distant mist. To the east, a line of sheer cliffs rose out of the waves: Aquator Narrows, the land bridge connecting both halves of Waterroot. Beyond that, Brionna pointed out, there was a touch of color on the horizon, darker and deeper than the waves themselves. That, as she explained, was the very edge of the Flowering Isles, where colorful water plants bloomed all year round. The Isles stretched along the coast for quite some distance, almost to the bluffs where the Eopia College of Mapmakers had sat for centuries.
“Look!” cried Lleu, pointing his long arm at a shape on the western horizon. “Another boat like ours.”
“Not like ours,” Brionna corrected. She swung the tiller, coming about to tack westward. With a whoosh, the little sail swung over their heads, making Shim’s thin white hairs blow sideways. “That’s an elven ship, built by the famous shipwrights of Caer Serella.”
“But it does look like ours,” objected Elli. “Right down to the emblem on the sail. See it there? That boat must be no more than half a league away.”
“Try fifty leagues,” declared Brionna. She shook her head in admiration, making her spray-covered hair sparkle. “That’s one of their tall ships. It only seems to be that close because of its size. Why, it’s at least twenty times taller than ours. It has a hull lined with giant paua shells, each as big as a full-grown oak tree. And that sail must be as big as . . .”
“My appetite,” growled Nuic. He leaned against Elli, who lifted him in one arm. “What I’d give for some fresh herbs and berries right now! If these waters weren’t so deep, I’d dive in and—”
“Get eaten by a water dragon,” cautioned Brionna. “Nobody swims here, unless they’re dolphin-fast. Though we’re lucky these dragons don’t fly, they can move amazingly fast through the water.”
She stroked her braid thoughtfully, her brow furrowed. “It is strange, come to think of it, that we haven’t seen any signs of them. Not even their guard patrols.”
“They leave boats alone, don’t they?” asked Lleu. He kneeled at the bow, scanning the waves.
“Sure,” the elf maiden replied, “ever since their truce with Serella long ago. Except, of course, for the War of Storms, when even Bendegeit couldn’t contain their greed. But even in times of pcace, they’re usually all over these waters, patrolling their hunting grounds.”
She pointed south of the tall ship, at a dark, rounded ridge that lifted out of the water like the shell of an enormous sea turtle. “I’m certain their lair isn’t far from here, just around that bit of coastline. Which makes it even more strange we haven’t seen any of them.”
Elli touched the amulet of leaves, and the precious crystal within. “They know we’re here,” she declared. “They’re just making it easy for us.”
“Right,” grumbled Nuic, his colors darkening. “Too easy.”
16 • Edge of Terror
For Scree, the past three days of trekking through the Volcano Lands of Fireroot seemed more like three years. Three very long years.
Since leaving the portal in the Burnt Hills, the same place where he and Tamwyn had lost their mother years ago, he’d trekked incessantly, pausing only now and then to nap, drink, or eat a scrawny cliff hare. He’d passed through charred vales reeking of sulfurous smoke, scaled sheer cliffs where flame vents erupted without warning, and dodged fire plants whose ghoulish hands reached out to scorch his legs. Since he couldn’t just fly to his destination—a lone eagleman soaring above the peaks would be too easily spotted—he had no choice but to walk.
And to think. All of Scree’s thoughts boiled down to one goal, which burned the terrain of his mind no less than lava had often burned the slopes and crevasses of the Volcano Lands: Stop the Bram Kaie clan. He knew what this meant. He’d have to kill its leader, as well as that brutal young warrior, before he himself was killed. But if he somehow succeeded, he’d be helping Tamwyn—and Avalon—while avenging Arc-kaya’s death.
He paused, sweat glistening on his bare shoulders. Though his stamina had steadily improved, he still felt weaker than usual. His hand went to his thigh, kneading the muscles that still ached from that evil shard. Even after so many days, the strength of that leg hadn’t fully returned. Would it ever?
He turned his eagle-sharp eyes on the jagged crater on the ridge ahead, whose jutting stones reminded him of the Crater of the Crooked Teeth where he’d spent so much of his youth. In hiding. Only once had he left the safety of that place for long—and that was enough to come just a feather’s width away from losing both the staff of Merlin and his own life.
Thanks to her.
“I can still see you, my Queen,” he said in his rough, raspy whisper. “Just as I’ve seen you in my memory hundreds of times.”
His powerful fists clenched, making muscles flex all the way up his arm. Rows of feathery hairs, which covered his skin from his wrists up to his shoulders, stiffened like bristles. “But you didn’t really want me, did you? You never wanted me. All you wanted was the staff.”
The large, yellow-rimmed eyes narrowed. “It’s me you’re going to get in the end, though, Queen. I’ll be a present for you.” He saw, in his memory, the face of Arc-kaya, as she lay dying in his arms, and he added: “And for that murdering warrior of yours.”
Suddenly a flame vent blasted out of the rust-colored rocks by his feet. He leaped to the side, just in time to avoid being scorched by crackling yellow flames. But even as a plume of black, sulfurous smoke belched out of the vent, he caught sight of a small furry body darting between two rocks.
Rolling over with an eagleman’s agility, he shot out one leg so fast that his toes grasped the animal’s tail. Scree lay there, back against the rocks, and bent his leg to see just what he’d caught. His stomach rumbled hungrily; it had been more than a day since his last cliff hare.
There, dangling before him was a strange combination of a furry marmot, a scaly snake, and a long-tailed mouse. It writhed madly, squeaking with rage. It had a black tail as long as its slender body, grayish brown fur, and six feet covered with tiny orange scales that flashed like fire.
“You’re an ugly little something, aren’t you?” Scree peered into its angry eyes as the animal squirmed before him. “Can’t say I’ve seen your kind before. Or eaten anything like you.”
The creature bent itself double, trying to snap at Scree’s foot with its toothy snout. But it couldn’t quite reach high enough. All its snapping was useless.
Scree shook his foot. “I’ll bet you’d taste pretty good, roasted over that flame vent with a pinch of char-lichen to spice you up.” He licked his dry lower lip. “Pretty good indeed.”
He frowned. “But I won’t find out today, I guess. For all I know, you could be the last of your kind.”
Abruptly, he rolled over and released his grip. The surprised creature hesitated for an instant, then scurried to dive into a crack underneath a rock.
Scree bounced back to his feet. With a squeeze to his weak thigh, he started off again. He trekked up the ridge, following the trail of a now-dry sulfur spring. Puffs of yellow dust rose into the air with every step.
He veered to the side to avoid a bubbling pit of ash, whose frothy gray fluid gurgled and belched. Then, topping the ridge, he slid down a thin chute of obsidian, as smooth as black glass. Landing on his feet at the bottom, he gazed up at the next ridge ahead. Dark with fire-blackened rocks, it loomed as large as a fire dragon’s back, but with an added edge of terror.
For behind that ridge, Scree knew, were the people of the Bram Kaie clan. He’d be greatly outnumbered, that was certain. He needed to surprise them. And even then, he’d have but one chance to succeed.
All
of a sudden he heard a distant screech that echoed over the volcanic peaks. He ducked into the shadow of a charred boulder just as a cadre of four warriors, all with black-tipped wings and red leg bands, sailed out of an ashen cloud. They cried triumphantly and then plunged toward the blackened ridge. But not before Scree glimpsed what they were carrying—an object so large that it took two of them to carry it in their talons.
It was a corpse, smeared with blood from the tips of its battered wings to the stubs of its severed legs. The corpse of an eaglewoman.
A plume of fetid smoke blew past, searing Scree’s eyes. He waved it away, trying to get a better look. By the time the air cleared, though, the warriors had vanished behind the ridge. But he’d already seen enough.
Angrily, his hand raked the air. And then, every muscle tensed, he started to climb. He kept to the shadows, moving with utmost stealth. For he was going to the place where Quenaykha ruled, the place where he’d fight what would most likely be the last battle of his life.
17 • Memories of Avalon
Before he’d read the scroll from his father, Tamwyn could taste only the wondrously sweet water from the spring that bubbled forth in the Great Hall. Now, though, he tasted something else—something much more bitter.
He smoothed the crumpled paper and rolled it up again. Then, retrieving the lock of his father’s hair, he tied it around the scroll and shoved them deep inside his pack. As he did so, his finger brushed against the slab of harmóna. Even so gentle a touch made the magical wood hum in response, as if he’d plucked the strings of an arboreal harp. Its grains sang for several seconds, and the sound was so resonant that the tiny quartz bell on his hip vibrated, echoing the note.
Tamwyn merely scowled, closing the flap of his pack. The harp’s yearning note made him think of Elli, and the confusion of feelings she stirred inside him. And the bell made him think of Scree—the years he’d searched for him in the wilds of Stoneroot, the thrill of finding each other at last, and now the sting of being separated again.
He ran a hand through his black hair. Looks like I can’t keep anyone near me for long. Not Elli, not Scree, not my mother. He studied the small wooden box that had held the buried scroll. And not my father.
He reached over to Batty Lad, who was sitting in the emerald green moss by the spring. With one finger, he scratched the creature’s head, still dripping wet from being plunged into the sweet water. Right away, the cupped ears swiveled, while the green eyes glowed brightly. In a whisper, Tamwyn asked, “What about you, my little friend? How long will you stick around with the child of the Dark Prophecy?”
Batty Lad stiffened. “Whatsa this crazy babble-wabble?” He peered doubtfully up at Tamwyn, cocking his mouselike face to one side. “Sometimes you actsa very odd! Absolooteyootly.”
Despite himself, Tamwyn grinned. “Good thing I’ve got you to keep me sane.”
“And me,” piped up Henni, sitting up from blowing bubbles into the pool under the spring. Water droplets glistened on his circular eyebrows. “You’ve got me to keep you crazy.”
Tamwyn nodded, swishing his hair across his shoulders. “So far you’re doing great at that.”
Henni clapped his big hands together. “Good! So where do you want to go next?”
The young man’s brow furrowed. “To a place called Merlin’s Knothole. And, from there, to the stars. If that’s even possible!” He rubbed his chin, reflecting on his chances. “Truth is, I don’t even know if it can be done at all. Can a mere man—”
“A clumsy man,” corrected Henni.
“Hush,” snapped Tamwyn. “What I’m wondering is whether any man—or any mortal creature—can climb all the way to the stars.”
“Probably not,” said the hoolah cheerily. “Do you know anything else?”
“Nothing useful. Just that we might meet some sort of horse on the way.” He thought back to the words on Krystallus’ scroll. “And that the journey to the Knothole will be somehow dizzying.”
“Eehee, oohoohoohoo, that could be a fun ride.”
“Or it could be a death trap.”
The hoolah scratched one of his circular eyebrows. “Haven’t I told you before, oohoo eehee? Death traps are the spice of life.”
Tamwyn, who wasn’t so sure, started to scan their surroundings. Just how was he supposed to find this Knothole, anyway? He studied the wall of green flames that rose so high above them, filling the gap between two root buttresses. It crackled and churned with the fires of élano—the only portal in the Great Hall of the Heartwood. Could that be the way?
No, he knew better. All the lore he’d heard from bards said that this portal led to the root-realms, as well as back to the Swaying Sea, but no higher on the Tree. And besides, hadn’t Krystallus written, I shall seek out another way?
There was still a chance, of course, that this portal could carry him upward, in some way that had eluded his father. But jumping into any portal was risky business. Even if Tamwyn had his mind completely focused on his destination, the portal could take him instead to someplace far distant. Or back to the living stones he’d just barely escaped.
He turned from the crackling curtain of flames to survey the vast cavern. All around them, great roots rose up from the dirt floor, arching high overhead, twisting and branching until they spread across the ceiling. Veins crossed and recrossed, creating an intricate web of shadowy niches far above their heads. But Tamwyn saw no sign of any exit up there.
And yet . . . his father must have found some way to leave the Great Hall, since no one from his expedition ever returned to the Seven Realms. Just where did they go, though? If they went any higher inside the Tree, they must have found a passageway.
His woodsman’s gaze roamed around the room. Suddenly, on the rim of the ceiling, he caught sight of an especially dark spot that he hadn’t noticed before. Set in the notch between two tributary veins, it could have been just another shadow, or a shallow pit. Or something more. He stood, pulled his staff from its sheath, and walked to where he could get a better view. Leaning on the staff, he stared upward.
Some kind of tunnel? he wondered. But even if it is, how can I possibly get up there? Flipping fire dragons, if only I could fly!
At that instant, one of the symbols carved into the wood of his staff caught his eye. It seemed to be glowing, though dimly. Was it just the reflected flames of the portal? No, he felt certain. The staff itself was alight.
Startled, Tamwyn sucked in his breath. He recognized that symbol: It was the star within a circle, symbol of the power of Leaping. Whether the legendary staff, Ohnyalei, had been touched by some of his own untamed magic, or whether it had responded to the power of Leaping being invoked by someone far away, Tamwyn had no idea. All he could do was look, amazed, at the glowing symbol.
Then, to his even greater amazement, his bare feet started lifting off the floor!
Higher and higher he rose, flailing arms and legs to keep his balance. He floated steadily upward, while both Henni and Batty Lad stared at him in astonishment. Soon he was more than his own height off the ground. He held tight to the staff, even when the magic that was lifting him tilted him way over to one side so that he was floating nearly horizontal in the air. No matter how hard he kicked, he couldn’t turn himself upright again.
“Eehee, eehee, that looks like fun,” crowed Henni. He rubbed his hands gleefully and rushed over to stand under Tamwyn. Then, jumping as high as he could, he tried to grab hold of his foot.
“Stop that, you bung-brained idiot!” shouted Tamwyn, flailing desperately.
“Take me with you,” pleaded Henni. “I want a ride, too.”
Tamwyn fought—unsuccessfully—to keep himself from rolling over in the air. “This isn’t a ride, you fool! This is some kind of magic I can’t control. It could vanish just as fast as it—”
All at once, the light disappeared from the staff. Tamwyn spun around and then plunged down—right on top of Henni. The staff clattered on the chamber floor, the hoolah shrieked, an
d Tamwyn howled. And over by the bubbling spring, little Batty Lad shook his furry head.
“Silwilly creatures,”‘ he muttered, straightening his crumpled wings. “Theya should know theya can’t really fly, yessa yessa ya ya ya.”
It took several seconds (and several kicks and punches) for Tamwyn and Henni to untangle themselves. At last, both of them lay back on the floor, panting heavily. Tamwyn’s vision finally steadied, and he looked again at the dark spot on the ceiling.
“I’ve got to get up there,” he muttered. “If only—” He caught himself, having learned anew the dangers of making wishes. Especially with whatever powers were burgeoning inside himself, powers he still couldn’t control. For a while after he’d used them to save Scree’s life, he’d felt better about having them. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure. It was almost as if he held a whole new person down inside, different in every way from his former self, struggling to burst free.
But was that something he really wanted?
Tamwyn shook his head, rubbing it into the reddish brown dirt. Turning to the thin fellow sprawled beside him, he asked, “You’re still crazier than a catnip faery, you know that?”
“Sure. And you’re still stupider than a headless troll.”
“All right then, we understand each other. Now tell me, Henni.” He pointed up at the ceiling. “Do you think you could climb to that dark place up there?”
The hoolah’s brow crinkled. “Looks pretty difficult. Impossible, maybe. Foolish even to try.” He grinned broadly. “Just my kind of thing.”
“Good,” declared Tamwyn. “Here’s the plan, if you can remember it.”
He sat up and tugged at the length of twine that he always wore around his waist, equipment he’d found helpful more than once as a wilderness guide. As he unwrapped the twine and securely tied one end around his waist and the other around Henni’s, he explained that this might save someone’s life in case of a fall. Though Henni protested, saying that falling was part of the fun, he eventually relented. A moment later, they were roped together. With Tamwyn’s staff back in its sheath, and a disturbingly gleeful grin on Henni’s face, they began to climb up the nearest buttress. As they moved higher, Batty Lad circled them, chattering anxiously all the time.