For Tamwyn, scaling the tangled, twining veins wasn’t the most difficult part. It was keeping Henni, who was climbing behind him, from making a sport of letting go of the buttress and swinging freely from the twine. It only happened once, when they were halfway up to the ceiling—and it took all Tamwyn’s strength to hang on by his fingers and toes while the hoolah whooped and giggled below him. Only thanks to Batty Lad, who dived at the giddy creature’s head, buzzing him angrily, did Henni finally swing himself back to the buttress.
Another harrowing moment came when they crossed a place where the wood was as smooth as newly sculpted clay—and Henni thought it would be entertaining to yank on the twine as hard as he could. But the most terrifying moment of all for Tamwyn came when Batty Lad’s wing clipped his nose, making him sneeze so hard he almost fell. Somehow he managed to hold on, though only just barely. Yet at long last, they made it to the notch on the ceiling that held the dark spot.
“By the Thousand Groves!” Tamwyn hooted in delight.
For it was, in fact, a tunnel, heading diagonally upward into the Tree. But it really wasn’t much of a tunnel—more like a hole in the ceiling where a crack in the Tree’s trunk had broken through, or a trickle of water had opened a gap over time.
But that was enough for Tamwyn. He squeezed himself into the hole, showering his face with loose dirt. Then, overcoming a moment’s hesitation, he wriggled higher so that Henni could follow. Last of all, Batty Lad zipped in to join them.
Inside, everything was dark. And damp, as well. All around, they heard the sound of running water coursing inside the walls, dripping from above, percolating in hidden cracks. Tamwyn paused to let his eyes adjust, then spied a thin sliver of light far above. He started crawling higher, bracing his arms and legs so that he didn’t slide down backward. At one bend in the tunnel his head bashed into a knob of dangling roots, where a large clump of dirt exploded in his face. The bruise on his head was much easier to bear than Henni’s raucous cackles behind him. But he held his temper in check and kept on climbing.
The light, green and flickering like the fire of portals, grew stronger. The tunnel bent again, and Tamwyn had to push his way past a mesh of fingerlike roots. Suddenly he saw the source of the light—a narrow hole up ahead. Finally he reached it and climbed through, showering himself and the others with dirt. He fell onto a hard surface.
Another tunnel! But this one was much larger—and horizontal, almost like a road running through the heart of the Great Tree. Its rounded walls were ribbed with parallel grooves, and it was high enough that he could stand without hitting his head.
Tamwyn stood, shook the dirt out of his hair, and peered at the tunnel walls. For they pulsed with a light of their own, as radiant as if they were made of condensed élano. They reminded him of the crystal in the amulet of leaves worn by the Lady of the Lake, with its radiant tones of green amidst gleaming white. Like these walls, and like the flaming portals, that magical light spoke of power. Of life. And, most of all, of the Drumadians’ seventh Element, the one named Mystery.
Tamwyn debated for a moment which way to go, since left and right looked very much the same. Finally he chose left, for no better reason than the fact that his left arm had always been his strongest. They started down the tunnel, road, or whatever it was, with Tamwyn walking before Henni and Batty Lad flitting behind. Although he hadn’t the slightest clue where this passage might lead, that concerned Tamwyn less than the fact that it was completely level. At some point, he’d need to find a way to climb higher—much, much higher, to Merlin’s Knothole and beyond.
But how? Tamwyn could hardly imagine the difficulties of climbing so far upward. For now, the best he could do was to follow this passage straight through the trunk.
It wasn’t long before he noticed something else. Something strange.
The tunnel’s walls and floor kept changing in color, shape, and texture. At irregular intervals—sometimes, just a few paces apart; sometimes, half a league—the tunnel would go from bright green to reddish yellow to translucent lavender and back again to green. Meanwhile, its surface changed from grooved to knobby to so jagged that Tamwyn had to step carefully despite his thickly callused feet.
All the varied surfaces seemed like wood, with embedded grains of fiber. But they looked and felt like drastically different kinds of wood. There were even wooden crystals sprouting from the ever-changing walls: red cones of fragrant cedar, black cubes of gleaming ebony, brown spirals of mahogany, white crowns of ash, and green spheres of juniper. The only thing about the tunnel that remained constant was its underlying radiance, the pulse of élano within.
What’s going on here? puzzled Tamwyn as he trekked. Shouldn’t the trunk of the Great Tree be pretty much the same throughout, like the trunks of the trees he’d seen toppled by storms and avalanches? What could have caused all these stripes of different colors and kinds?
On and on the tunnel ran, without any sign that it might ever end. Or climb upward. After they had traveled for what seemed like several hours, having crossed through hundreds of changes in the tunnel walls, they paused to drink from Tamwyn’s flask. The sweet water from the Great Hall refreshed them, to be sure, filling them with the strength of a hearty meal.
But over time, as more hours passed, their bodies wearied again. This tunnel seemed endless! Tamwyn pulled the staff out of its sheath so he could lean on it now and then. Henni drooped, his oversized hands nearly brushing the floor as he walked. And Batty Lad finally gave up flying, choosing instead to ride in Tamwyn’s pocket.
The strange stripes continued, some studded with wooden crystals, some undulating with swirls of grain, and others as smooth as blown glass. Occasionally they passed smaller side tunnels, though all of them angled downward and consequently didn’t seem worth exploring. Finally, they entered a section of the tunnel that struck Tamwyn as the most unusual yet. It was black, but not the shining black of ebony. This stripe was dull and sooty, like charcoal. And it smelled of ancient fires.
Tamwyn halted. This wood has been burned. I’m sure of it.
He stepped over to the wall. Rubbing his fingertip along the surface, he studied the smudge it left on his skin. No different than the soot from his cooking fires, it seemed.
And yet something about this burned part of the tunnel made him uneasy. It felt dangerous somehow. Threatening. Almost . . . malevolent.
Why?
He bent closer, examining the wall. Unlike the other stripes of wood he’d passed through, the grains here seemed almost fluid, flowing under the surface like tiny rivulets. Dark red, they glistened like muddy streams. If only my dagger hadn’t broken back there, I’d use it to chip some of this away.
Instead, he used his fingernail. Digging into the charred wood, he ripped out a sliver. Seeing some blood on his fingertip, he shook his head at his clumsiness. How could he have cut himself on such a smooth spot?
Suddenly he stiffened. His finger wasn’t cut. The blood on his skin hadn’t come from himself. It had come from the wall!
For within this dark, smoky wood ran not grains but vessels. Vessels of blood. As Tamwyn stared, aghast, a slow red ooze dribbled down from the place he’d opened.
All at once, he realized the truth. What they’d been passing through weren’t just strange stripes of wood. No, they were the intricate markings that could be found inside any tree, markings that told the story of its struggles, experiences, gains, and losses.
They were rings.
Tree rings—but of the grandest, tallest tree of all. The tree that contains within itself all the different kinds of wood that ever existed. The Great Tree of Avalon.
Each ring was unique, telling a tale of something remarkable that had happened in a particular year. So in traveling along this tunnel, Tamwyn had passed through the Great Tree’s memories of many seasons—of cedars flourishing, cherries blossoming, and maple roots breaking ground as hard as rock. He had walked by the first oak to survive the long winter at the base of the high pea
ks. The tallest grove of mahogany trees to sprout in the jungles of Africqua. The most fragrant spring to grace Woodroot’s history, when the Forest Fairlyn was born.
And now, he realized grimly, I have entered the War of Storms. A year, stretching into an age, when forests burned in every realm, the very air smelled of death, and the rivers ran with blood.
Onward he walked, his feet shuffling across the charred wood, his staff tapping against the floor. Henni, who looked unnaturally glum, stayed as close as a shadow. For his part, Batty Lad dared only once to poke his furry head out of the tunic pocket—and then, with a whimper, dove back inside.
How long it took to pass through this section of the tunnel, Tamwyn couldn’t guess. But when, at last, the blackened walls gave way to gray, then to rippling lines of yellow and tan, then to the green of newly sprouted ferns, his heart leaped. Though he couldn’t forget the feel of that ancient blood, nor the sooty smell of smoke, he knew that in the memory of Avalon, a time of renewal—the Age of Ripening—had begun.
Though he couldn’t be sure, the tunnel now seemed to veer gradually to the right. Not all at once, but over time, even with the occasional brief swing to the left. Or was he just imagining that? It was hard to tell.
Worse yet, he was starting to feel utterly disoriented. Just where, in the whole vast space of the trunk, am I? he wondered. Walking here was completely different from his many treks across the surface of the root-realms. In those places, even if he were lost, he could find landmarks to help him chart his course. There was always a ridge line, a mountain peak, or a lone tree in the distance. And of course, at night, he could orient himself by the stars.
Here, though, deep inside the Tree, there were no such landmarks. Where he really was, he could only guess. All he could tell was that he wasn’t, at the moment, going up or down. But even that wasn’t wholly certain: Maybe the tunnel had actually been sloping, but so very subtly that he just couldn’t tell.
If only I had some sort of compass, he mused, continuing to stride along. Not a traditional compass, but one that could work inside the Great Tree. That could place him, wherever he happened to be. That could tell him his position vertically, as well as horizontally!
Now, that would be something useful. But of course, it was nothing more than an idea. And a bizarre one, at that.
In any case, right now he could only wonder where, inside the Tree’s trunk, he really was. And whether, years ago, his father might have traveled down this same tunnel—seeking the same destination.
Just then his keen hearing picked up something in the distance, a vague whispering sound. It ebbed and surged, whooshing like gusts of wind. Yet it seemed somehow more than wind, deeper and sturdier.
They came to a smooth section of wall, flecked with gleaming silver. Tamwyn was reminded suddenly of the stars. He wondered whether this ring marked the moment, centuries before, when Merlin rekindled the stars of the Wizard’s Staff after they had gone dark for the first time. And he also wondered whether, without Merlin around to help, he or anyone else could ever hope to light them again.
Meanwhile, the whispering sound grew louder. Now it seemed more like a rushing river, seething and coursing on its way to the sea. Tamwyn, followed by Henni, started to walk faster to find the source of the sound.
All at once, they stopped.
“Oohoo,” said Henni. “A painting.”
“More like a thousand paintings,” corrected Tamwyn. “And all so beautiful.”
Indeed, the entire tunnel, including ceiling and floor, had been decorated in bright colors and extraordinary detail. It was one vast mural, stretching hundreds of paces! Painted on the silvery surface were intricate scenes of every season in every realm, along with many scenes that Tamwyn couldn’t even begin to identify. There were trees that grew upside down, mountains that seemed to float upon the air, clouds that carried purple-hued cities, rivers that ran with something like honey, and even the spectacle of a strange yellow star rising over the horizon. And so much more—places beyond description, worlds beyond count.
There was even a scene that consisted mainly of darkness. A great city loomed in the background, where a few frail lights still burned, although night deepened all around. Dark figures crouched in the shadows, clearly afraid. Could that have been, Tamwyn wondered, Shadowroot? Maybe the Lost City of Light that he’d heard described by bards?
Most of the painted scenes overflowed with creatures. Some of them Tamwyn knew well, such as mist and moss faeries, gobsken, dwarves, elves, eaglefolk, humans, and light fliers. Even the Sapphire Unicorn had been painted, bending her graceful neck to drink from a starlit pool.
And there were some beings that he’d never seen before—including one especially striking creature who resembled a winged man or woman, completely surrounded by orange flames. There were several of them, sprinkled throughout the mural. Always, they were pictured in dramatic, even heroic, circumstances: rescuing other creatures, making beautiful buildings, or soaring high over the world below.
In one starkly painted scene, the left half of the sky was intensely bright, while the right half was deeply shadowed. A group of the flaming people were pictured flying toward the left—from night into day. Or perhaps . . . out of the darkness and into the light.
For some time, Tamwyn peered at this painting. Could these people, he wondered, be flying to the stars? And if that was so, did it mean that some mortal creatures had actually made the journey successfully? Or was this painting not about what they had done, but about what they, like Tamwyn, longed to do?
Looking closely at the scene, he examined the people—their wings, their orange flames. Just who were they?
Ayanowyn. From nowhere he could explain, the word simply popped into his mind. And then, just as mysteriously, he understood its meaning. Fire angels.
He knocked his skull with the heel of his hand. Fire angels? Don’t be absurd! First, nobody here was speaking, so how could he hear any words? And second, no creature, however bizarre, could live long consumed by such flames. Even the salamanders that he and Scree used to chase in Fireroot, who loved to bathe in flame vents, had to cool off regularly or they would roast.
His eye glimpsed a new painted figure, one that made him catch his breath. For he’d seen this figure before, many times, in his dreams. It was a man, tall and rugged, with a wild mane of gray hair that blew behind his shoulders. And in his hand, he held a flaming torch.
Krystallus! So whoever painted this mural had heard of him. Or maybe even had known him.
He turned a slow circle, tapping the top of his staff pensively as he studied the rows of paintings. In a flash, he understood. This mural was really a story, just like the rings of the Great Tree. The story of Avalon! But instead of telling the story of the world from the Tree’s perspective, this mural told it from the painter’s perspective.
Who was the painter? How long ago did she or he live? As part of what people? Where in the vastness of Avalon did they live? Had they made this tunnel, as well as the mural?
He shook his head. There were no answers to those questions. At least none that he could find.
Just then he spotted a new scene, painted on the ceiling. At first he thought it was just a tall, vertical column, colored rich brown with occasional streaks of green. But when he saw, at the very top, what looked like the beginnings of branches, along with some stars gleaming through mist, he knew what it really was. The trunk of the Tree!
Catching his breath, he spied something else about the painting. On one side of the trunk, near the top, there was a bump that bulged outward like a burl. In its center sat a deep, bowl-shaped valley that faced the branches above. Perfectly round, the valley reminded him of the craters he’d seen in Fireroot, except for its vivid green color. Suddenly he recalled his father’s description of Merlin’s Knothole: From there, one could view the very branches of the Great Tree, leading to the stars.
He nodded in wonder. Merlin’s Knothole.
Then he noticed som
ething odd. A thin, silver ribbon dropped down from the Knothole, plunging toward the lower reaches of the trunk. Painted with light, nearly transparent strokes, it was hard to tell whether it actually represented something deep inside the trunk, far beneath the bark. Whatever it was, it sloped steeply, like a near-vertical stairway.
Could that be a stairway to the Knothole? And if so, how do I find it?
His brow furrowed. More questions!
Once again, he became aware of that peculiar sound, coming from farther down the tunnel. Now it whispered, now it whooshed, now it pounded like a distant drum. By the wizard’s beard, what is that?
He turned toward the sound, determined that at least one of his questions should be answered.
18 • Spirals
The sound grew steadily louder, rumbling like endless thunder in the distance. As Tamwyn and his friends passed the end of the brightly painted mural, they entered a section where the tunnel’s walls and ceiling were draped with moss, as rich and luxuriant as any in the misty forests of El Urien.
Indeed, the air itself became heavy with mist. Beads of water formed on the bridge of Tamwyn’s nose, trickled down his staff, and shook from his ankles with every step.
Meanwhile, the sound swelled and swelled, echoing in the tunnel. Henni tugged on Tamwyn’s sleeve and said something, while Batty Lad mouthed a comment from the lip of the pocket, but it was impossible to hear. Just then the tunnel swung to the left and opened onto a mossy ledge—and the most astonishing view that any of them had ever witnessed.