The termites’ prey wasn’t a butterfly after all! For the first time, Tamwyn paused long enough to look at the creature he was helping, and realized that it was actually more like a winged man. His skin, dark brown, was shaggy like the bark of a tree. His muscular chest, like his rumpled wings, had been torn by many deep gashes, while both legs were badly mutilated. Silvery brown blood stained most of his body and the simple loincloth he wore around his waist.
Before Tamwyn could jump aside, the giant insect behind him pounced. It knocked him to the ground, and even as he rose again, slashed his back with sword-sharp pincers. Tamwyn shouted in pain and staggered sideways, tripping over the winged man’s body. The winged man lifted his head weakly, gazing at him with deep brown eyes. They had no time to speak, but that instant of eye contact had said enough.
Tamwyn rolled to the side, just as a termite’s immense body crashed down on the spot. He fought to stand again despite his wounded back. But every motion, like every breath, plunged daggers of pain through his chest.
With a feint, he dodged the savage pincers of one termite, then clobbered the middle of its back with the staff. Red plates splintered as the insect bellowed, arching its back in agony. Tamwyn was about to strike again when the other termite bit the flesh below his hip, tearing a huge gash. Blood spurted and Tamwyn lost his balance, sprawling on the ground.
He’d barely turned over when the termite rose up on its hind parts, preparing to come crashing down on top of him. Since the beast surely weighed more than a horse, this blow would crush his chest. And then, what little remained of him that the termites didn’t eat, that prowling wolf surely would.
He spied his staff, just out of reach. And a last, desperate idea struck him. Drawing all the strength he had left, ignoring the pain that coursed through his body, he stretched out his arm farther . . . farther . . .
Got it!
In one swift motion, he swung the staff upright, holding its pointed end high and its gnarled end on the ground. Then, even as the gargantuan beast tipped over, he held it firmly in place. The monster fell forward with an ear-splitting roar of triumph. But its cry turned suddenly to anguish as the staff pierced the base of its neck, its skull, and whatever brain sat within. Black blood gushed in all directions.
Because the termite’s writhing death throes had slightly shifted its weight, its body thudded down just to Tamwyn’s left, missing him by only a hairsbreadth. He lay next to the impaled beast, panting, his entire body stinging from his wounds. But he was alive.
He rolled over, sat up, and rose shakily to his feet. Bracing one foot against the dead termite, he tugged on his staff until it came free. Remarkably, its magical sheen kept any of the black blood from adhering to it. Ohnyalei, carried long ago by Merlin himself, shone as cleanly as ever.
Just then, Tamwyn heard something move behind him: the one remaining termite. He whirled around, though he was now too weak even to lift the staff. How could he possibly defend himself?
But the beast was fleeing! Tamwyn watched it crawl off through the shrubbery and disappear down one of the passageways. Relieved that he wouldn’t have to fight again, he turned to the broken body of the winged man.
The man’s deep brown eyes, as richly hued as honey made by brownvelvet bees, tried to focus. And, as had happened so often before, Tamwyn heard the man’s thoughts clearly. You . . . saved me, human son.
Tamwyn knelt beside him. Just don’t die now, all right?
The winged man winced. So many stories . . . yet to tell.
Tamwyn placed his hand on the worst gash he could find, in the shaggy brown flesh just below the man’s collarbone. Suddenly he drew back. This person was hot! Very hot. He’d developed a terrible fever, enough to kill anybody.
Returning his hand to the spot, Tamwyn started willing the wound to stop bleeding, just as he willed the same for his own torn flesh on his back and hip. But he’d already lost so much blood that the effort made him dizzy. He wobbled unsteadily and barely caught himself from falling over.
Waste not your strength, human son. I am . . . spent.
Not yet! Tamwyn forced his aching back to straighten. You need help, that’s all. Is your home far from here?
Too far now. All stories must . . . end at last.
Tamwyn wobbled again, his head spinning. He couldn’t even hold himself upright! How could he possibly help someone else?
He slumped over, his head smacking the ground by the man’s torn wing. He could feel the blood flowing from his wounds, and with it, his remaining strength. Hard as he tried, he could not lift himself up again. Here, he suddenly knew, was the place where he would die.
Though his head swam, he saw some movement at the edge of his vision. The gray wolf! Coming in for the kill.
Tamwyn tried to lift his staff, but even that was impossible. His grip on the shaft relaxed, while a heavy fog seeped into his mind, obscuring his thoughts. Yet he managed to form one last request of the winged man: At least tell me your name.
Gwirion. And . . . yours?
But Tamwyn was too weak to reply. Or to see the hungry fire in the gray wolf’s eyes as he approached, growling, the hair on his powerful shoulders standing up in a ruff. The wolf’s lips drew back, exposing his sharp teeth, just as he started to close his jaws around Tamwyn’s neck.
25 • The Golden Wreath
When Tamwyn awoke, he wasn’t sure he was alive. Or how that could be possible.
But it was.
He twisted his neck, chafed and sore, and looked around at his strange new surroundings. He lay on his back in a small chamber, no bigger than the one-room huts of many shepherds and barley growers he’d known back in Stoneroot. Beneath him was a chipped tile floor, whose original rusty red color barely showed through the layers of black charcoal. The walls and ceiling, made of large panels of tile, were also coated with charcoal. The whole place smelled of smoke—years and years of fires.
He tried to sit up, but his mind spun wildly and he fell back, knocking his head against the floor. It took several minutes for the dizziness and nausea to subside. Finally, he forced himself to roll over, scanning this room that seemed more like a smokehouse than anybody’s home.
There was almost no furniture, just an old ironwood table with a pair of matching chairs. A burned bowl and two mugs sat on the table. And a rough-hewn frame on the wall held a tile picture that had long ago been covered with charcoal. Beneath the picture sat a shelf with pots of paint, several splattered brushes, and a small brown box.
But where was the hearth? There wasn’t even a space for a cooking fire. Surely whoever built this place didn’t just build fires right on the floor? And without fuel?
He saw, stacked in the corner, his pack and staff. At least they made it here, too, he thought with relief. But where is here?
He had no answer. All he knew was that he’d landed, somehow, in someone’s smoky hut. And, from an inner sense that couldn’t be explained, he felt sure that he was still deep within the trunk of the Great Tree.
Sadly, he thought about his two companions who hadn’t made it this far: Henni and Batty Lad. As quirky (and, in Henni’s case, downright dangerous) as they were to be around, he did miss them. Greatly. For although his quest still burned like a fire inside him, without his companions, it was a fire without warmth.
Laboriously, lifting his head as little as possible, he squirmed over to the pack. His hip throbbed in pain, so much that he couldn’t bear to move his left leg, let alone put any weight on it. But he managed to slide along, stirring clouds of black ash as he dragged across the floor.
There! He reached the pack. Weakly, he grabbed it. As he pulled it close, it jostled, making the slab of harmóna wood ring like a distant chime. Elli’s harp, he said to himself, having almost forgotten it was there. And then came a feeling he’d also nearly forgotten: I wonder where she is right now. And if she’s any better off than I am.
Opening his pack, he grabbed his leathereed flask, unplugged it, and took a drink
. As before, every sip of the sweet water from the Great Hall’s magical spring soothed his sore limbs. Gave him new strength. And revived his spirits.
Then he noticed something strange about the pack. Tooth marks! Big ones—piercing the top of the leather strap, near where his neck would be if he’d been wearing it. He reached up and touched the scrapes along one side of his neck, just under his ear. Could those scrapes have been from teeth, as well?
Images roiled in his mind: the spectacular mural in the tunnel, the rising water of the cascade, the fight to the death with those monstrous termites. Where was Gwirion? Had he lived, despite that terrible fever? And what had saved Tamwyn from the gray wolf?
He ran his finger over the pack strap, feeling the tooth marks. Could it be? No, no, that was impossible.
His gaze moved again to the tile picture on the wall. Enough streaks of color showed through the charcoal that he could almost make out the image underneath. It seemed vaguely familiar. But what was it?
Grabbing his staff, he angled it toward the picture. Though his arms shook from the effort, he rubbed the tip of the staff over the image inside the frame, knocking off several charred flakes. All at once, he recognized the image—and gasped in surprise.
A flaming man! He looked just like the ones in the mural, but for one detail: This man wore a wreath of golden leaves on his head, much like a crown. His stern mouth and angular jaw gave him a strong look of purpose—but what, Tamwyn wondered, could that purpose have been? Surrounded by orange fire that licked his brawny chest and wings, the man stared down at him with eyes as richly brown as Gwirion’s, and just as fierce as Scree’s.
But this was no eagleman. This was something entirely different.
Just then, Tamwyn heard voices outside the room. Angry voices. They quickly rose to shouts.
He didn’t like the sound of that, not at all. His eyes darted around to look for anything he might use as a weapon. But he had nothing but his staff and a broken dagger—and very little strength.
The door beside the table flew open. It slammed against the burned walls, so hard that a piece of the tile frame fell and splintered on the floor. Tamwyn lunged for one of the knifelike shards just as two men stormed inside. Men with shaggy brown skin, loincloths, and ragged wings, just like Gwirion!
Though they spoke in a tongue that crackled and spat like resinous spruce burning in a fire, Tamwyn understood them easily.
“Kill him, I say! End his story here and now.”
“No, no, Ciann. Wait until the high holy day! He’s a big beast, this one. He’ll make a perfect sacrifice.”
“Not perfect, you fool. Only the Golden Wreath is that.”
“And when was the last time we had one of those? Dagda only knows! Since before my grandmother told her first tale, at least. I say we keep him until the ceremony, then burn him alive.”
“Dead will do! Kill him now, before he gets strong enough to escape. Then—”
Just as the bark-skinned men were about to reach for Tamwyn, he forced himself to sit upright, propping his back against the wall. His head swam and his vision blurred, but he held himself there. Brandishing his piece of broken tile, he roared, “Stay away from me! Away!”
Someone struck him roughly on the shoulder. Tamwyn lashed out, swinging his makeshift blade. One of the men cried out in pain. Then a new voice bellowed, and a scuffle ensued. Something hit Tamwyn’s jaw. He slid over sideways, as the tile fell from his hand.
26 • Soulfire
Tamwyn struggled to open his eyes, the lids felt heavy, too heavy to move. Yet still he tried.
Even before he opened them, though, he knew he was still in the same room. He could smell the smoke, like the remains of a thousand ancient cooking fires. And he could feel the layers of charcoal on the tiles beneath his hands. But now, at least, he sensed those men were gone.
Who were they? And why did they want to kill him?
At last, his eyes popped open. Just in time to see a bulky, blurry shape bending over him! Coming closer . . .
With all his strength, he tried to sit up. One hand groped blindly for the knifelike shard, while the other pushed desperately against the floor. But his arms quivered and his head burst with pain. More fog obscured his vision. He fell back onto the tiles with a thud.
The shape bent closer.
He tried to lift his head, or one of his hands. But they lay on the charred floor like chunks of lead. He was helpless.
Now the shape was directly above him, staring down at him.
“Don’t try to move, human son. You’re still too weak. Though somehow you found the strength to fight again just now.”
That voice, thought Tamwyn. I know that voice. His eyes struggled to focus. “Gwirion!”
“Yes, my friend.”
“But you! I thought you were dead. Your wounds . . .”
“My people heal quickly—at least in wounds of the flesh.” His brow furrowed. “Even so, it took all the skills of my wife, Tulchinne, to revive me. And also some time: What you would call two whole days have passed since we came here.”
“Two days?”
Gwirion rubbed his hairless head. “Yes.”
“Those men,” said Tamwyn worriedly. “They wanted to—”
“Worry not,” declared Gwirion. His eyes, which looked like pools of melted chocolate, watched with compassion, while the corners of his wide mouth turned up in a grateful smile. “We stopped them—Tulchinne, my sister Fraitha, and I. But that was not nearly as difficult as what you did for me.”
“But . . . what about that huge gray wolf? Why didn’t he just eat us?”
The smile flickered like a wavering candle on Gwirion’s face. “He could have, true, and normally would not have hesitated. For here wolves often dine on the termites’ leftovers. But wolves are also beasts of rare honor, and deep dignity. When he saw what you did—what courage you showed—he decided to spare us both. So he dragged us here, to my village, just as he’d carry a couple of his own pups. And when Tulchinne found us, he departed.”
Tamwyn glanced over at the pack strap, and the tooth marks it bore. “Honor lives in surprising places.”
“Indeed it does,” Gwirion replied, looking not at the pack strap, but at Tamwyn himself. He bent lower and placed the palm of his hand on the young man’s brow.
Suddenly Tamwyn shook his head. “Your hand—so hot! You have that fever again.”
Gwirion drew back his hand. His wide mouth twisted in such a way that he seemed to be amused and sorrowful at the same time. “Fever? No, this is my normal temperature, though it is much cooler than it should be.”
“Cooler? I don’t understand.”
Gwirion scratched the shaggy, barklike skin of his brow. “You see, human son, our fires have long burned low.”
“Fires?”
“The fires of my people, the Ayanowyn.”
That word again! Tamwyn remembered how it had popped into his head, from some magical insight, at the painted mural. He started to speak, but before he could, Gwirion held up both his brown hands.
“Be silent, my friend. It is time, I can tell, for a story. One of the few remaining skills of my people.”
He whistled to himself thoughtfully, as if deciding where to begin—a series of low, wandering notes. At last, he shifted his loincloth and sat down on the floor, legs folded. He was so close that Tamwyn could feel the heat emanating from his skin. Yet all that warmth didn’t seem to trouble Gwirion in the least. Rather, it was the tale of his own people that made him scowl as he spoke. Despite the glory of his words, there was none at all in his face.
“Many thousands of flames ago, even as the first streams of élano stirred inside the trunk of the Great Tree—what we call the Middle Realm—our people arrived in this world. Led by Ogallad the Worthy, we flew down to these lands, our bodies burning every bit as bright as our destiny.”
Tamwyn stirred. “Flew down? Your people came from the branches?”
“No, human son. We came fro
m the stars.”
Tamwyn sucked in his breath. From the stars. “And when you say your people were burning . . .”
“I mean we burned with fire that springs from the soul—llalowyn in our language, the hottest fire known to mortal beings. And when we passed into Avalon, Dagda himself greeted us. He told us that we would be masters of the Middle Realm for many generations, and that our people would inspire many wondrous stories which would long outlive us—whether in the songs of bards or in the murals of painters. For stories, he said, are as immortal as the gods. Dagda then crowned Ogallad with a Golden Wreath to signify our glorious future.”
Suddenly Tamwyn understood. Gwirion’s people were the same ones he’d seen pictured! Fire angels—though somehow their fires had been extinguished. So they were real, after all.
He indicated the charred image on the wall. “Is that him? Your first leader?”
Gwirion looked both pained and proud. “That is Ogallad, his soulfire burning bright.” He peered at Tamwyn. “And now, I expect, you want to know what happened to our flames.”
The young man nodded.
“In the days of Lumaria col Lir—the Age of Great Light—my people flourished. We built magnificent cities of colorful tile, made with the heat of our own flames, in the caverns of Avalon’s trunk. We ventured far from the Middle Realm, both starward and rootward, though mostly down into the root-realms. Why, it was my people who brought the first light ever to shine in Shadowroot.”
Despite the pain, Tamwyn lifted his head. “Not the Lost City of Light?”
“Indeed.” A distant fire kindled in Gwirion’s eyes. “We gave light to the land, placing torches by the thousands on the streets and in the buildings. And we also gave light to the hearts of the people there, by sharing all the stories we knew, and teaching them to do the same. We even built them a great library just to hold all their books and maps.”
He paused, savoring the image of that city. “Dianarra, we named it. City of Fallen Stars, for it seemed that we had brought the light from high above to the darkest depths below.”