Shadows on the Stars

  He looked past Tamwyn to the scorched wall, and somewhere beyond. “Years later, as you must know, the dark elves doused those lights. Then the City’s name proved apt, for it had truly Fallen. But by then my people had fallen as well. Into darkness and decline, our greatest stories all but forgotten.”

  “What happened?”

  Somberly, he ruffled his ragged wings, then whistled a few forlorn notes. “Our greatness turned to greed. We believed, sometimes correcdy but ever more intolerantly, that our ways of living were superior to others. We imposed our customs, and our will, on peoples throughout the Middle Realm. If they dared resist, we burned their homes, their crops . . . and sometimes even their children. For we told ourselves that only we knew the right; only we understood the good.”

  He sighed. “At the same time, we started thinking of the Great Tree as our land, our possession, to exploit and use however we liked. We grew wasteful, destructive, shortsighted. We burned forests to clear land for grazing our captive beasts, even if it clogged the air and sullied our streams. Then we moved on to other forests and did the same, over and over again. Always, mind you, in the name of what was right and good. Why, we even destroyed the trees that held our precious Golden Wreath, symbol of our highest destiny! In time, the Ayanowyn had turned much of the Middle Realm into a wasteland.”

  His voice lost the spark and crackle of flames and began to hiss, like embers doused with water. “The greatest wasteland of all, though, was inside ourselves.”

  He thumped his chest. “And so, in time, our soulfires burned low, then went out completely. Now we do not flame, but merely smolder. We give no light. Why, even our wings have shriveled, so we can no longer fly!”

  Sadly, he shook his head. “Today my people create no new stories through our wise choices and heroic deeds. We only repeat the tales of old glories, those we can still remember, even though we know such times will never come again. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?” Tamwyn pushed himself up onto his elbow, then slowly sat up. He faced Gwirion, peering into his deep brown eyes. “You must still have hope.”

  The winged man shrugged. “Hope is a spark that blows on the wind. If it does not soon find kindling to burn, it goes out forever.”

  “But you said unless.”

  It was a long moment before Gwirion responded. “There is a prophecy, the final vision of our people’s last seer. Her name was Mananaun, and she died just recently, a mere eighty flames ago. She prophesied that one day, the Ayanowyn will somehow regain the wisdom of our hearts and the power of our wings. On that day, we will fly out of the darkness we have made for ourselves . . . and back into the light.”

  That painting! Tamwyn recalled the striking image of Gwirion’s people soaring into a brighter sky.

  “Not only that,” continued Gwirion, “our soulfire will rekindle, and burn as bright as before. Then we will, at last, return to the stars from whence we came so long ago—and be met once again by Dagda himself. And in that meeting, he will give us a great gift.”

  “What?”

  Gwirion’s eyes gleamed. “Our people’s true name. And so would begin another great age for our people—as storied, perhaps, as Lumaria col Lir.”

  He shook himself, as if waking from a dream. “But none of this will ever happen! We have fallen too far. Our name will always be Ayanowyn, which itself is much too grand for what we have become. It means, in our tongue—”

  “Fire angels,” finished Tamwyn.

  Gwirion stared at him in surprise. “You have unusual talents, my friend. Very unusual. And something more. I feel that, in some mysterious way, you attract goodness to yourself.”

  “Ha! If only you knew the truth.”

  “I feel sure of this, quite sure. Why else did that wolf do what he did?”

  “Maybe he just wasn’t hungry.”

  “Not likely. No, you remind me of a story about Angus Oge—an explorer, and a man of unusual kindness, who lived in the early days of my people. It is said that once he trekked across a remote part of the Middle Realm, a place so lifeless that he could find no food to eat. All he had was muddy water, for tens of flames on end. He grew steadily weaker. With his last remaining strength, he used his soulfire to boil some water in his ironwood pot, hoping to find at least a sprig of herbs to make some tea. But he found nothing. He knew now that he would die. Then, at the very final moment before his story ended, a wild hare bounded over—and jumped right into his pot.”

  Tamwyn frowned. “Usually, Gwirion, it’s me who jumps into the boiling pot.”

  His friend laughed, a sound like vibrant fire crackling.

  “It’s true.” Tamwyn’s expression darkened. “Back in tire rootrealms, we, too, have a prophecy. It says that one person, the child of the Dark Prophecy, will someday cause the end of Avalon. The ruin of this world.” After a long pause, he said, “And that person is me.”

  Gwirion studied him, then declared, “I do not believe this.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “No, I think not. Prophecies can be hard to interpret. Or simply wrong. Our destinies can take as many shapes as a flame, you know! For we may be given our colors and brushes by the gods, but we paint our stories ourselves.”

  He glanced over at Tamwyn’s staff that, even in this smoky room, still gave off a hint of hemlock. “You are like your staff, really. Plain to look at, perhaps, but with something very powerful inside. Yes, I can feel it! You have your own soulfire, though it cannot be seen. And I suspect that, one day, it will burn bright indeed.”

  Tamwyn looked down at his tattered tunic and leggings, so torn and bloodied. “That’s hard to believe.”

  Suddenly Gwirion started. “By the fires of Ogallad! We have been through so much, but I don’t even know your name.”

  “Tamwyn. It means—”

  “Dark Flame. I know.”

  “You, too, have unusual talents.”

  Gwirion smiled. “Not really. Your name is from the flamelon people, is it not?”

  Tamwyn nodded. “My mother was a flamelon.”

  Gwirion reached over with a muscular arm, scarred from their battle in the tunnel. He clamped his warm hand on Tamwyn’s shoulder. “Then we are cousins, you and I. For in days long past, my people and yours intermarried. That is how, I have heard, the flamelons gained the ability to hurl fire from their hands.”

  “That skill didn’t pass on to me, I’m afraid.” Tamwyn raised his hands and turned them slowly before his face. “I can’t make any magical fire. Only illusions.”

  “Perhaps one day you will,” Gwirion replied. “After all, magical fire must first be kindled in the soul.”

  Tamwyn gazed at this bark-skinned man who seemed, at once, so sad and so assured. Despite Tamwyn’s doubts, there was something in Gwirion’s words that gave him a touch of hope.

  At that moment, the winged man leaned forward. “What work do you do among your people?”

  “Whatever work I can find, mostly. My favorite job is being a wilderness guide.”

  “Ah, so you are an explorer like Angus Oge?”

  “No, not really. But my father . . .” Abruptly, he caught himself. “Gwirion. Have any other humans ever come through this realm?”

  Thoughtfully, he rubbed the shaggy skin of his neck. “Once, and only once.”

  Tamwyn’s face lit up. “Tell me!”

  “It was many flames ago. In human years, I would say, almost twenty. A man came through this village—the last survivor, he said, of his group. The rest had perished in a terrible attack by the termites, in this case scores of them. The only reason he survived, he said, was his torch.”

  Tamwyn started. He would have leaped to his feet, if he’d had the strength. “That was Krystallus,” he declared. “My father.”

  Gwirion’s brown eyes peered at him. “Yes, I see the resemblance now. Though his hair was gray and yours is black, there is a kinship in your faces. And in your soulfires. For he was very brave, and very proud. He was injured, but wo
uld not take our help. And he was on his way, he said, to the stars! I told him that was terribly dangerous, even foolhardy, though in my heart I envied his boldness.”

  Tamwyn’s heart swelled at this news. “Then you will feel the same toward me. For my quest, too, is to find the way to the stars. And to rekindle those that have been darkened.”

  Gwirion whistled in astonishment. “Your kinship to your father goes far deeper than your faces.”

  “Do you know,” the young man asked anxiously, “which way he went?”

  “Yes, and I will show you. Once you are well enough to walk, that is.”

  Tamwyn tried to push himself to his feet, but the hip that the termite had bitten exploded with pain. Groaning, he fell back on the charred tile floor. A cloud of soot rose up from the spot and settled on his torn leggings.

  Weakly, he shook his head. “I wish I could go now.”

  “Yes, my friend, I know. But you will be ready soon.” His eyes narrowed. “You must be ready soon.”

  Tamwyn cocked his head, inquiring.

  “In just thirteen flames—less than a week by your way of counting time—is our high holy day, what we call Wynerria, or Fires of Faith. It marks the day when Ogallad first arrived in this realm.”

  He paused, a wistful look on his face. “In ancient times, when the glory of my people was as great as our numbers, Wynerria was the grandest celebration of the year. Bonfires burned in every cavern, in giant ironwood hearths so the Great Tree would not be harmed. Stories were told, paintings were crafted, and music was shared by all. At the height of festivities, a Golden Wreath—still plentiful in our forests—was cast into the flames as an emblem of Dagda’s ever-bright splendor.”

  “And does this celebration still happen?”

  “Only in a burned-out ember of itself, I fear. Today, our numbers have declined, so much that only this miserable little village is left. Instead of the great celebration we once had, all that remains are meaningless rituals. And since the last Golden Wreath disappeared, some villagers—let by that fool, Ciann, who attacked you—have taken to burning living creatures as a sacrifice to Dagda. So the whole meaning of the day has been utterly lost. The Dagda I believe in wants life, not death, to honor him! We have gone from fire angels . . . to fallen angels.”

  Tamwyn swallowed, but he could no longer taste the sweetness of his magical water. The smell of charcoal in this hut seemed to grow stronger. “So they wanted to use me as the sacrifice.”

  Glumly, Gwirion nodded. “That is why you must leave as soon as you are well enough to walk. Before the holy day, in any case. The nearer to that day we get, the more dangerous for you. If Ciann and his allies are in a frenzy for sacrifice, I probably won’t be able to hold them off again—not even with the help of my wife and sister.”

  He glanced at the door. “They should be returning very soon, by the way, with the supplies that we need.”

  “Good. I look forward to meeting them when I’m not fighting for my life.”

  Tamwyn’s gaze moved slowly around the blackened walls of the room, coming to rest on the picture of Ogallad aflame. For some time he examined the Golden Wreath that Ogallad wore upon his head. At last, he said, “Mistletoe. It looks like mistletoe.”

  Seeing Gwirion’s puzzled expression, he explained, “A plant that grows in my homeland. I’ve seen it often in the wilderness. People sometimes call it the golden bough. And our bards will tell you that, back in the days of Avalon’s birth, those golden leaves were believed to hold some sort of special power. Though what that power might have been has long been forgotten.”

  His friend smiled sadly. “It is always a kind of death when a story is forgotten. But I am glad to know that those leaves still grow somewhere.”

  Tamwyn tapped the warm skin of the man’s forearm. “So tell me, Gwirion. What kind of work do you do? Are you, too, an explorer?”

  “No, human son. I am an artist—a storypainter, as we say. Mostly I do not paint new murals, but just restore the old ones. They are everywhere in the Middle Realm, in tunnels carved by water, gnawed by termites, or opened by the flows of élano.”

  “I saw one,” Tamwyn recalled, his voice full of wonder. “In a tunnel lower down, near the cascades. It was so full of life, and colors.”

  “And stories.” Gwirion waved at his shelf of paint pots and brushes. “I was out looking for some leaves of the fomorra plant, which I need for all my blues and purples, when those giant termites attacked me.” He turned back to Tamwyn. “And if you hadn’t appeared, that would have been the end of my story.”

  “Gwirion, do your people have any stories about the stars? About what they really are? Why they burn . . . or sometimes go dark?”

  “No,” he said solemnly. “Though I have often wished we did. I think those tales—those times—are just too far away. They have passed out of our minds, I fear, because we can no longer understand them. And how can we tell stories if we have not the words? How can we paint them if we have forgotten the colors?”

  Gwirion’s gaze moved to the charred picture on the wall. “Stories are a people’s memories, you see. They can be disturbing, encouraging, and sometimes . . . inspiring. They hold all our losses, gains, sufferings, glories, and longings. But before we can have the story, we must have the meaning.”

  “I understand,” agreed Tamwyn. “Stories are like a mirror we hold up to ourselves.”

  “That’s right. But they are more than just the mirror, and the image we see in it. They are also whatever invisible truth lies behind.”

  Tamwyn squeezed Gwirion’s arm. “I am glad we met, you and I.”

  The bark-skinned man grinned. “In gladder times, I would have considered it a sign of forgiveness from Dagda.” Then, as quick as a torch blown out by the wind, the grin disappeared. “But the sign we really need is a Golden Wreath.”

  He looked glumly at his companion. “There is one more part of Mananaun’s prophecy, something I didn’t tell you before. She said that we will know our time of rebirth has truly arrived when a Golden Wreath suddenly appears.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes. It will appear, she said, not in the lands around our village, as in days of old—but magically, on the door of one person’s home. And that person will be the new leader of our fallen people, the one to lead us back into the firelight. In other words—the next Ogallad.”

  Tamwyn glanced up at the picture. “It could happen, I suppose.”

  “No, my friend. As much as I wish that were so, my people have fallen too far.”

  “But it’s possible.”

  “No, it is not.” Gwirion’s wide mouth turned down. “By the Thousand Flames, it is not.”

  27 • Gwirion’s Gift

  Over the next several days, Gwirion did whatever he could to help Tamwyn heal. For time was disappearing faster than a candle’s dying flame.

  Aided by his wife, Tulchinne, and his sister, Fraitha, the bark-skinned man worked hard to bind wounds and stem infections. All this was made more difficult by how deeply the termite’s pincers had penetrated Tamwyn’s hip, and how badly the muscles and skin had been torn. But after plenty of bandages, repeated cleansings, and many hearty meals of lauva—a creamy, charred grain spiced with something like nutmeg that Tulchinne served in an ironwood bowl—Tamwyn’s strength began to return.

  “I do love this stuff,” he mumbled, his mouth full of lauva, from his resting place on the floor. This was the third bowl he had downed that morning. “It’s the best porridge I’ve ever tasted.”

  “But of course, Tamwyn,” answered Fraitha. She was seated at the table, repairing a hole in her shawl with some sturdy red threads of a vine called hurlyen. “It was made by my sister-in-law, famous for her cooking throughout the Middle Realm.”

  Tulchinne looked up from where she was kneeling, near Gwirion’s shelf of paint pots, grinding grain with her mortar and pestle. “Don’t be absurd! If I’m famous for my cooking, it’s just in this little hut. And only then becau
se you hate to cook, and Gwirion doesn’t know a jar of spice from a den of mice.”

  Gwirion, who was whistling softly as he mixed some dark green paint at the table, didn’t respond.

  Fraitha, however, burst out laughing. The sound reminded Tamwyn of resins popping in a fire. Then she turned her head—which was, like those of all her people, completely hairless—toward their human guest. “You do seem stronger, Tamwyn.”

  “Hungrier, anyway,” he replied as he shoveled some more lauva into his mouth.

  “That’s a start,” commented Tulchinne. She paused in her work long enough to draw her own shawl higher on her shoulders. As the traditional garb of Ayanowyn women, the heavy shawls helped to retain their body heat. This one covered Tulchinne’s back as well as her crumpled wings.

  Gwirion abruptly stopped whistling. “You’ll need to do better than that, Tamwyn.” His voice, like his expression, was grim. In that moment he looked almost as stern as the tile picture of Ogallad on the wall behind him. “We’re running out of time.”

  Tamwyn set down his food. His own face turned grim, for he knew that he was also losing valuable time on his quest. My ultimate triumph, the vision of Rhita Gawr had boasted, is but a few weeks away. However many more days he’d need before he was well enough to walk again, it was too many!

  “I’ll try standing on my own today,” he announced to them all. “Really, I think I’m strong enough.”

  “Good,” replied Gwirion. “Then tomorrow, if you’re able, you can begin walking around.”

  “Outside?” asked Tamwyn, motioning toward the door of the hut.

  “No, my friend.” Gwirion’s scowl deepened. “Why risk enraging Ciann and his followers any more than they already are?”

  Reluctantly, Tamwyn nodded. Even now, he could hear the sounds of people chanting and drums pounding beyond the door. As the high holy day approached, the village was growing increasingly restless.

  “I must try again to talk with Ciann,” declared Gwirion with resolve. “To convince him that his whole way of thinking is wrong. And that you are not just some beast to be sacrificed, but a friend to be helped on your way.”