“It be somethin’ that Krystallus hisself gave to me, afore he died. Told me to take care o’ it fer him.” He cleared his throat. “An’ that I have.”
“Ethaun, are you sure?”
“Listen, lad. Do ye think I’ve got any use fer it, havin’ made this valley me home? No, yer the only one who’ll be needin’ a compass.”
A compass. Tamwyn held his breath as he took the globe from the smith’s weathered hand. Here was the very thing he had longed for!
Carefully, he examined it. Inside the globe, held by hair-thin wires, were a pair of silver arrows. One, like every compass in Avalon, rotated horizontally and always pointed westward—toward El Urien, for travelers in the root-realms. But there was also another arrow, which had been set to rotate on a vertical axis, and always pointed starward! So no matter how lost a traveler might be, or how far beneath the surface, he or she could always find the direction of the roots below and the stars above.
Eager to see if it really worked, Tamwyn carried the compass outside the notch that sheltered the gravesite. Though the wind suddenly whipped his face and tore at his tunic, he held tight to the globe as he carried it over to the farthest tip of the rim where he could stand.
Ahead of him, rising steeply higher, he could see the rugged ridges of Avalon’s upper trunk, lifting into the misty horizon. And beyond that, starkly etched against the bright afternoon sky, were the shadowed shapes of the branches—even easier to see than they had been before. They reached up into the sky, flowing like uncharted rivers, until they disappeared at last into the brightness above.
As the wind howled all around him, he peered into the globe. Sure enough, the starward arrow was pointing straight at the place where the branches faded into open sky—the realm of the stars.
Smiling with satisfaction, Tamwyn headed back, leaning to keep his balance against the wind. When he reentered the notch, and the wind abruptly stopped, he faced the broad-shouldered smith.
“What a marvelous gift,” he said gratefully.
“Jest might prove useful,” said Ethaun with a wink. “Fer a real Avalon explorer.”
“Right,” Tamwyn replied. “And now here’s another gift. For another explorer.” He slipped off his pack. Even as he stuffed the compass inside, he pulled out the lock of gray hair that had been tied around his father’s scroll. Placing it in Ethaun’s hand, he said, “You know where this came from.”
The big man blinked in surprise. “That I do, lad.”
“You should have it.”
“But . . .” the smith protested, trying to give it back, “yer his son.”
“And so, in a way, are you. So keep it. Please.”
Ethaun dragged a sooty hand across one of his eyes. Then he squeezed the lock tight, nodded farewell, and turned to go. He shambled off down the slope, looking very much like a bear going back to his den.
Tamwyn watched him go, then turned back to the grave. His gaze roamed across the mound, and to the soft dirt surrounding it. He could see his own knee’s print from where he had knelt, as well as his footprints and the marks of Ethaun’s boots. Then, to his utter astonishment, he saw something else: a footprint left by neither of them.
The footprint of a hoolah.
Tamwyn bent to look more closely. There could be no mistake. The outline was just as clear as could be. And the imprint was no more than a couple of days old.
Henni! Could he still be alive? And wandering here in the upper reaches of Avalon? With Batty Lad, too, perhaps? No, the chances of that were just too remote. He shouldn’t raise his hopes. And yet . . .
He scanned the area around the notch. There were no paths, no signs of anyone else. Ogres’ uncles, if that hoolah was really here, where had he gone?
He lifted his gaze higher, toward the branches and stars. If Henni had somehow survived, and had found his way up to the Knothole, it was at least remotely possible that he’d also found some way to climb up there, into the branches. And yet, if that were true, how could Tamwyn ever hope to catch sight of him? Those distances were simply far too vast to find anything as small as a hoolah.
An idea suddenly struck him. The vial of Dagda’s dew! What had Gwirion told him it could do? A single drop, placed on your forehead, gives a rare kind of sight—long vision over vast distances.
“Just what I need,” declared Tamwyn.
He grabbed the ironwood vial out of his pack, unplugged it, and poured a single drop of glistening liquid onto his fingertip. Holding his breath in anticipation, he touched the drop to the middle of his forehead. Then, realizing that there was still a bit of Dagda’s dew left in the vial—perhaps one more drop—he quickly plugged it again and replaced it in his pack.
He stood, spear straight, looking up at the shadowy branch that seemed nearest. Waiting. Just waiting.
Nothing happened. Could the liquid have lost its magic? Or had he done something wrong?
All at once, everything in his vision shivered and blurred, as if he’d stepped into a waterfall. Images streamed before him, all stretched out of proportion. Light and colors streaked, clotted, burst apart, and streaked again.
Suddenly his vision returned. He was staring right into the face of a bizarre winged creature, as ferocious as any dragon, with spiraling tusks, jagged blue teeth, and hundreds of faceted eyes. Flying straight at him!
Tamwyn ducked, throwing his forearm across his face for protection. Then suddenly he realized the truth. That creature was hundreds of leagues away! Somewhere on one of Avalon’s branches, a monster with huge tusks and leathery wings soared. But not here.
He stood straight again, planting his feet in the soil of the gravesite, and trained his gaze skyward, toward the branch far above. Wherever that ferocious creature had gone, he couldn’t see it now. Instead, he saw a new landscape, one that looked like a great forest. Except that this forest bent and flowed like an ocean. Gigantic waves flowed through the wooded hills and valleys, lifting the trees skyward, plunging them into deep hollows, and lifting them all over again. What kind of place is that, where the land flaps like a windblown cape and never stays firm under your feet?
He shook his head in amazement, which shifted his vision. Now he was looking at a ring of purple waterfalls. They didn’t flow upward, like the Spiral Cascades, although their spray did. But the spray didn’t rise into clouds, as it would have in the root-realms. Instead, it gathered into great, sparkling spheres of lavender-colored mist. Part water, part air, and part light, these spheres twirled in the sky, before exploding into countless raindrops that then fell on the hills above the falls.
Tamwyn gasped with surprise. In the last instant before they burst apart, the misty spheres hardened into something as smooth as glass. And in that fleeting instant, varied images appeared on the glassy surface: brightly colored butterflies with eight wings apiece; a wide, red-fruited tree that seemed to be sprouting right out of a cloud; and an enormous, black dragon, whose hateful glare gave Tamwyn a shiver.
No! his inner voice exclaimed. For now he glimpsed in one of those crystalline spheres a face that he recognized. His own face! He was shouting something, pleading, something about the stars—
Then it was gone. The whole image exploded into lavender rain.
Without thinking, he turned away. Suddenly he found himself staring, close up, at a group of stars. The constellation Pegasus! There were the stars that marked the horse’s head, wings, hooves, and tail, so blazingly bright that he was forced to squint just to look at them. And there—the central star that burned brighter than all the rest, the one called the Heart of Pegasus.
Tamwyn peered at this star—and suddenly blinked in astonishment. The Heart of Pegasus seemed to be beating! He opened his eyes just a sliver more, as wide as he could stand, to look more closely. And yes, that star was indeed pulsing like the heart of a great steed. Why, I wonder, would it do that?
A lizard scurried, just then, across his foot. Tamwyn flinched in surprise. In doing so, he lost sight of the pulsing star.
He started to look for it again, but found himself gazing instead at a different constellation.
A darkened constellation.
The black hole that had once been the Wizard’s Staff.
He stared hard at the spot where those seven stars had once burned so bright, hoping to find some clue about what had really happened to them. And what all this had to do with Rhita Gawr.
Something strange caught his attention. Peering closely, he could detect vague circles of light up there. Yes . . . seven of them. And the circles—each no more than a thin, glowing thread—sat in precisely the same places as the lost stars! Could they be the stars themselves, but in another form? Or covered up somehow?
Though his whole body shook with excitement, Tamwyn fought to keep himself steady. He had to know more! To understand what this meant! The stars, or some parts of them, were still there. And if they were still there . . . they could, perhaps, be lit again.
He swallowed. Could only Merlin himself do such a thing?
Startled, he noticed something else. Dark, formless shapes seemed to be crossing in front of the rings of light. Just like the shapes in the vision atop Hallia’s Peak! Always moving outward, they flowed like ominous clouds, reeking of evil. Whatever they were, they seemed to be emerging from within the circles.
What in Avalon’s name are those shapes? He was still no closer to answering that question than he’d been on the night of the vision. And now his time—Avalon’s time—was almost gone.
He sucked in his breath. I wish Elli were here right now! Together, we could figure this out.
Indeed, he wished she were here for many reasons. To help him understand those dark shapes, yes—but also to show her the harp he was making. And simply to look upon her face, her hazel green eyes.
He froze. Maybe there was a way.
It would require all the strength of his enhanced vision. And all the new power growing inside himself—power that was partly from magic, and partly from something else.
Tamwyn sat down in the dirt, leaning his back against the torch that his father had carried all the way to this place. In case its powers just might augment his own, he grasped hold of the staff. And then he did something remarkable.
He closed his eyes. For this kind of seeing, he knew in his heart, had nothing to do with normal sight.
“Elli,” he said, then fell silent.
38 • Distant Music
Elli gulped. And wrapped her fingers even more tightly around the two thin, silvery ropes, one that stretched along her left side and one along her right. A third rope ran under her feet—all that stood between her and a free fall into endless oblivion.
From the corner of her eye, she glanced downward. Swirling clouds of mist—with no shape, no boundaries, and absolutely no bottom—churned beneath her, as far as she could see. Supported by nothing except these three long ropes of tightly spun clouds, which had been strung centuries before across the airy chasm between Mudroot and Airroot, she couldn’t take another step. She couldn’t even move, except to shudder.
The Misty Bridge! How could I have been so foolhardy to try this?
As she shuddered again, the sprite Nuic wriggled anxiously on her shoulder. His color deepening into a dark azure blue, he said calmly, “It may surprise you to hear this, my dear, but you might actually get to the other side quicker if you start walking again.”
Elli didn’t answer. She just continued to squeeze the ropes of glistening cloudthread, her body frozen in place.
“Come now, Elliryanna,” coaxed Nuic. “That idiot jester is probably all the way over to the other side by now.”
“I can’t,” she said shakily. “Just . . . can’t.”
“Hmmmpff, is that so? Halfway across the bridge, and now you decide to quit? Just how do you plan to explain your change of heart to Rhia? Tamwyn? And Coerria?”
The mention of those names made her scowl. He’s right, you dolt! If you don’t start moving again, you’ve just abandoned everything.
But how could she move when these three ropes, swaying under her weight, seemed no more substantial than strands of spider’s thread?
Spider’s thread. The words reminded her of Coerria’s magnificent garb, the spider’s silk gown that had been worn by every High Priestess since Elen. She glanced down at the scrap of the dress, brought to her by the Sapphire Unicorn, that hung right now from her belt. Those threads may not look very strong, she told herself, but they’ve lasted for a thousand years.
Slowly, she drew a breath. Her fingers slid up and down the ropes on either side, feeling the silken strands. Perhaps these, too, are stronger than they seem.
“Well, Elliryanna?” came the sprite’s voice in her ear. “Are you going to start walking again or not?”
“All right, all right, you crusty old goat.” She started to move ever so cautiously, sliding one foot along the bridge. “I was just enjoying the view, you know.”
“Hmmmpff. Which is why you’re still quaking like a leaf in a hurricane.”
“That isn’t me,” she declared, taking another small step on the rope. “It’s this blasted bridge, wobbling all over the place.”
She took another step, then another, running her hands along the cloudthread railings. With each movement, the whole bridge bounced, sending waves of vibrations up and down the ropes. Mist swirled in bottomless depths below, but she tried with all her will to resist looking down again. And to keep on walking.
After two dozen more steps, she glanced back over her shoulder—hardly more comforting than looking down. She was still somewhere in the middle of the bridge, unable to see the great pillars of hardened mud that anchored the ropes behind her, and equally unable to see whatever lay ahead. All she saw in both directions were the three spindly ropes disappearing into swirls of mist.
“Who made this bridge, anyway?” she asked, trying to think about something besides falling to her death.
Without warning—her foot slipped sideways off the bottom rope. She gasped, teetering, and seized the railings with all her strength. A few seconds later, her foot was back where it should have been. But her heart continued to gallop.
Nuic, clinging tightly to her shoulder, sounded slightly breathless as he answered her question. “Sylphs built it. No surprise there, since they simply love to float around, busying themselves with inane projects.” With a hint of pride, he added, “This bridge, one of their more practical ideas, was organized by my old friend Le-fen-flaith.”
Thin lines of silver seeped into his azure blue skin. “When it was all done, in the Year of Avalon 702, Rhiannon and I were the first to cross it. Le-fen-flaith himself guided us, and then took us across Y Swylarna, all the way to the sacred birthplace of the sylphs.”
Elli continued edging forward, moving toe by toe across the chasm. “And your friend also named it?”
“He did,” scoffed Nuic. “But great architect that he was, naming things was not exactly his strength. Called it Trishila o Mageloo, which means something syrupy like the air sighs sweetly.” His color shifted to barf brown. “Thankfully, in time, travelers came to call it the Misty Bridge.”
Elli grinned, knowing full well that Nuic was doing his best to distract her, hoping to keep her mind off the danger of slipping again and plunging into nothingness. “I like the idea of air sighing sweetly. Could make a good song.”
“Hmmmpff. Watch out, or I might sing it to you.”
“Fine. Just warn me first, so I can—” She caught herself, glimpsing something more solid than the mist ahead. “The other side! We’re almost there.”
“About time,” Nuic grumbled, his color settling back to silvery blue.
In just a few more steps, they would reach the Airroot side of the bridge. Even as she moved closer, Elli studied how the structure was anchored. Instead of mud pillars to hold the ropes, twin columns of what looked like frozen clouds rose out of a platform made of the same material. A layer of curling mist rose off the platform, making it resemble a flat-bottomed c
loud.
“That’s cloudcake,” Nuic explained, anticipating Elli’s question. “The closest thing to stone in Y Swylarna, found only near the Air Falls of Silmannon. And yes, it’s hard enough to stand on, as you can tell from that fool who’s waiting there now.”
The jester stepped toward them through the chest-high swirls of mist. When he reached the edge of the platform, he made the mistake of leaning on his cane, which immediately sank halfway down into the cloudcake due to its narrow point. He nearly fell over, then waved his arms wildly to regain his balance. Finally, with a loud grunt, he pulled his cane free.
“Look there,” Elli said, feeling almost giddy with relief to be nearly off the bridge. “He’s even clumsier than Tamwyn.”
“Tamwyn’s more likeable, though. In a, hmmmpff, repulsive sort of way.”
Elli glanced at her bracelet, braided from the yellow stems of astral flowers, but said nothing. She knew that Nuic understood she’d been thinking often about Tamwyn. Just not how often.
With one final step, she left the bridge. It took a moment for her still-swaying body to realize that she was, at last, standing on something more solid—and steady—than cloud thread rope. And another moment to realize that she’d actually crossed over the Misty Bridge. She felt a gentle tap against her ear: a congratulatory pat from Nuic.
She turned around slowly, scanning this new landscape. Or, more accurately, cloudscape. Clouds of distinctive shapes and sizes hovered or drifted nearby: some flat and smooth as ax blades, others high and lumpy as spruce trees; some nearly as solid as fortified castles, others more wispy than dandelion seeds. Although several clouds moved freely, vaporous bridges, ladders, and walkways connected many of them. A large group, stacked on top of each other like floating platforms, were connected by intricate webs of silver cloudthread—the work, it appeared, of a clan of giant spiders.
Her gaze then turned to the cloud that supported them now. Beyond the platform, it looked fairly dense—maybe even thick enough to walk on. The narrow cloud tilted gradually upward, so that it resembled a long, rising ridge.