“Well, Elliryanna, looks like we made it.” His color warmed to rich pink. “And it looks like our friendly jester didn’t.” His rosy hues deepened. “I quite enjoyed seeing him plunge down into the mist, writhing uncontrollably and squealing like a baby boar.”
Elli rolled over on the cloud and propped herself on her elbow. Her arm sank into the soft, slightly moist surface. She scrutinized him closely, as if she were reading some hidden script beneath his skin.
“You knew he was a fraud all along, didn’t you?”
The sprite winked at her. “Very good! I knew you’d catch on eventually.”
“But how did you know?”
“It was easy, really. No one as mean-faced as him could really make it as a jester.”
She blew away a floating wisp of mist that had settled on her nose. “Then why did you wait so long?”
“Hmmmpff. Isn’t that obvious? Because we needed to know where that fiend Kulwych is hiding! And now, my dear, we do.”
“No, we don’t. He refused to tell you, remember?”
“Hmmmpff. So he thought! He said, if you recall, that Kulwych is somewhere even deeper than a dark elf’s grave.”
Elli shrugged. “And?”
“And that tells us he’s down deep underground—which, in Shadowroot, means one of the dark elves’ abandoned mines. Wherever the deepest mine may be, I’ll wager that’s where we’ll find Kulwych.”
Slowly, a grin spread over her face. “You really are a sly one, Nuic.”
“You’ve only now figured that out?”
“But wait,” she protested. “How are we supposed to find this old mine?”
“How should I know?” he grumbled. “I’m no explorer! You’ll just have to find a map or something.”
Elli just stared at him. “A map? Of Shadowroot? It would be easier to find a friendly dark elf somewhere and ask him for directions.”
“Hmmmpff.” Nuic folded his arms. “Do that, then. But whatever you do, be quick about it!”
She merely frowned. “The deepest mine in the darkest realm,” she muttered, her voice joyless. “That’s the kind of place people visit only in their worst nightmares. Not on purpose.”
The sprite grabbed some shreds of mist and then drummed his moist fingers on his belly, just above the Galator. “That’s true, I’m afraid. Finding it will be hard enough, especially with so little time. But something tells me that entering it will be even harder. And who knows what we’ll meet down inside?”
“A jester, perhaps.”
Lightning-quick, Elli sat up to see who had spoken. Just like Nuic beside her, she scowled to see a gray shape striding toward them through the mist rising off the cloud. She leaped to her feet, ready to fight to the death.
“Or even a bard,” said the misty figure, stepping through the vapors.
To Elli’s astonishment, not to mention relief, it was not Deth Macoll. For no master of disguise, unless he was also a changeling, could have made such a dramatic change. This fellow wore a bushy beard that stuck out on both sides, a lopsided old hat, and an extremely silly grin. And even without the hat, he stood at least a head taller than the assassin.
Even so, Elli looked at this stranger with suspicion, her fists raised. She glanced down at Nuic, standing in the vapors by her feet. Strikingly, his colors showed no concern whatsoever. His skin swirled with warm yellows and greens. She looked back at the man—and suddenly recognized him.
“You’re the bard on the hillside! The one who led us to Brionna. And who Tamwyn said he’d met before.” She almost winced, hearing herself say his name . . . for now she missed him more than she would have believed possible.
The man twirled one tip of his sideways-growing beard and bowed slightly. “Olewyn the bard, at your service.”
“Nuic the sprite at yours,” came the voice by Elli’s feet. “Or, as my friends call me—”
“Nuic the grump,” she finished. “And my name is Elliryanna Lailoken, or just Elli.”
“Hmmmpff. Just rude, if you ask me.”
The bard’s silly grin widened. “Pleased to meet you, Nuic the Grump and Elli the Rude. You never can predict who or what you’ll encounter on a passing cloud. Pure chance, you know.”
He shook himself jauntily and plopped down on the cloud, legs crossed beneath him. Then he stretched out his arms and wiggled his fingers. “Ah,” he sighed dreamily. “How nice to rest.”
Following his lead, both Elli and Nuic sat back down. As she wriggled a bit deeper into the soft mass of vapors, Elli examined the bard. She couldn’t decide whether he was really very old or very young, rather less than he appeared or rather more. With this fellow, it was extremely hard to tell. Just as it was hard to tell whether something other than what he called pure chance had brought him here.
“A song, anyone?” offered Olewyn merrily.
“Hmmmpff,” muttered Nuic. “I’d prefer a meal.”
“Ah, we can provide that, too.” The bard nodded, as if agreeing with himself, then reached into the folds of his baggy cloak. He pulled out a dark and grainy slab that could have passed for the bark of an oak. “Here, try some of my homemade bread.”
With an arduous effort, he managed to tear the slab into rough halves. Then, still huffing from the strain, he handed a piece to each of them. Elli, who was trying not to live up to her reputation as rude, reluctantly took one. She tried a cautious nibble.
At first, as she’d expected, it tasted just like wood. After a few chews, however, it softened up remarkably, then suddenly dissolved into a tangy, minty liquid. Almost as soon as she swallowed, she felt renewed strength surging through her limbs. She took another bite, larger this time. And then another.
As the taste of fresh mint tingled on her tongue, she asked, “What is this called?”
“Ambrosia bread,” Olewyn replied. “You like it?”
“Oh yefff, vewy muff.” She swallowed. “Really, I do.”
“Good,” declared the bard. “It’s my tastiest recipe. Matter of fact, it’s my only recipe. In any case, while you and Grump the Nuic keep eating, I shall give you a song. With the help of my dearest friend, of course.”
Elli, chuckling and chewing at the same time, watched as he reached up and grabbed the brim of his lopsided hat. With dramatic flair, he lifted off the hat and revealed a small creature who was sitting atop his head. Blue-skinned with flecks of gold, shaped like a teardrop, the creature was unmistakable.
“Your museo,” she said, delighted to see—and, even more, to hear—this magical creature again. She knew just how rare museos were in Avalon: not so rare as a Sapphire Unicorn, perhaps, but still almost never seen. Certainly not as close as this.
The bard twirled one side of his beard, thinking. Then, with a knowing look, he pulled a small lute out of his cloak. He plucked it once and announced, “This ballad, though brief, is one of our favorites. Written, they say, by Rhiannon herself, when she was High Priestess.”
Elli and Nuic exchanged a glance, which bespoke their love for both Rhia and Coerria. Without thinking, Elli reached up to her amulet, feeling the crystal hidden beneath its leaves.
Just then, the museo began to hum—a rolling, layered hum that filled Elli with such a rush of emotions she felt almost giddy. She swayed, light-headed, glad that she was sitting down. As the museo’s deep, vibrating hum rolled through her, she slid farther down into the vaporous cushion of the cloud.
The humming swelled louder, while distant strains of wind harps rose to join it. And at last, the bard himself began to sing:
Sway, broad boughs of Avalon,
Shielding from the storm—
Bend so far, yet never break:
Ev’ry day newborn,
Mystery’s true form.
Rise, tall trunk of Middle Realm,
Stretching ever high—
Reach for misty, branching trails:
Stairway to the sky,
Stars are flaming nigh.
Sink, great roots of Seven Realms
,
Plunging under sleep—
old the farthest, lowest lands:
Celebrate or weep,
Wonders ever deep.
The museo kept humming for a moment longer, a low, rolling note that vibrated the very marrow of Elli’s bones. She felt as if a wave of sound and feeling had just washed over her, leaving her sadder, wiser, and richer than before. And she longed to plunge deeper into that wave, to ride its currents, to feel its swell, over and over again.
When at last the museo ceased, no one stirred or spoke for quite some time. Other than the faraway music of the Harplands and the gentle breath of the wind across the cloud, there was no sound. Yet for Elli, the memory of the museo’s hum and bard’s song was more than enough to lift her heart.
It was the bard who first spoke again. “And so, good travelers, where will you voyage next?”
Elli started to answer, then caught herself. Having learned her lesson, she wasn’t sure it was wise to reveal to anyone—even a friendly bard—where they were going. That was why she looked so surprised when Nuic raised his voice.
“To Shadowroot,” the sprite declared. “By whatever route we can. And as fast as we can! We have work to do there—important work, that could mean the life or death of Avalon.”
The bard raised his thick eyebrows.
Sensing his doubt, Nuic growled, “Can’t you understand what I’m saying? All the wonders of this world, all the places where you roam, all the people you care about—will be lost if we don’t succeed.”
The sprite blew a frustrated breath as his colors darkened. “And where are we now? Stuck on this cloud, drifting through Airroot! And even if, by some miracle, we ride it all the way to a portal, we’re still a good way from our goal, since no portal can take us into Shadowroot. So however you look at it, we have a long ride—and a longer trek—ahead of us.”
Glumly, Elli added, “And almost no time.”
Olewyn’s brow, already lined, wrinkled some more. “There is, you know, a faster way.”
“What?” demanded both of them at once.
He leaned forward as a shred of mist wrapped around his beard. In a whisper, he said, “You could ride the wind.”
“What?” exclaimed Elli. “You don’t expect us to believe that, do you?”
“That’s up to you,” said the bard. “It’s not easy, mind you, and it requires the greatest concentration you can muster—even more than riding through a portal. Not to mention a fair bit of courage.”
Suddenly, his face contorted. “How foolish of me! The only people who can ride the wind are those who carry a magical object of great power. That is why, I am told, Merlin could do it in days long past. Not by his own magic, but by that of his staff, Ohnyalei. So unless you have something of that nature, I’m afraid this idea won’t help you.”
Elli and Nuic shared a glance—uncertain but intrigued. After all, they did possess two of the most powerful magical objects in Avalon.
“How exactly does it work?” asked Nuic. “If it really does work, that is.”
“Well,” began the bard with a wave at the air beyond the cloud, “it’s quite simple, really. You stand at the edge of a cloud, hold tight to your source of magic, and think hard about where you want the wind to carry you. And then . . .”
His expression turned somewhat sheepish. “Then you jump.”
Elli’s eyes opened to their widest. “You can’t be serious.”
“Well now, how do you suppose I ever got to this cloud in the first place?”
She frowned skeptically. “Where’s your magical object, then?”
He rolled his eyes upward. Perfectly on cue, the teardrop-shaped creature on his head took a bow, making its translucent robe shimmer in the misty starlight.
“Your museo?”
“Of course. For a bard, there can be no greater magic.”
She shook her head. “I still don’t believe you.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “You look quite tired, my dear. Perhaps you’d feel differently after some rest.”
“Of course I’m tired,” she retorted. “But I don’t see how some rest will change the fact you think we should jump off a cloud!”
The bard answered by strumming a chord on his lute.
Before Elli could say another word, the museo began to hum again. This time, its magical music wrapped around her like a blanket, warming her deeply. She tried to protest, but instead she could only yawn.
As the vibrating voice swelled louder, all the gathered exhaustion of the journey welled up inside her. Even if she’d wanted to resist, she didn’t have the strength. Her eyelids drooped heavily. Before she knew it, she was settling down into a welcoming bed that seemed every bit as soft as a cloud.
So quickly did she fall asleep that she barely even heard the bard begin his ballad:
Fair Avalon, the Tree of Life
That ev’ry creature knows—
A world part Heaven and part Earth
And part what wind that blows.
40 • The Thousand Groves
Elli dreamed, not surprisingly, that she was floating on a cloud. She sat up to view her surroundings, turning her head slowly as she took in the vista. Mist swirled and vapors billowed overhead, the air was moist against her cheeks, and a fluttering breeze tousled her curls. All around, wispy clouds drifted through the hazy air, glowing as they passed through slanted beams of starlight.
Yet this was clearly a different cloud than the one where she’d been lulled to sleep by magical music. For this cloud held no bard, no museo, and no Nuic. She was utterly alone.
Then she heard footsteps.
Padding softly across the moist, squishy surface of the cloud, someone drew nearer. And nearer. She spun around to face the source of the sound, but saw nothing beyond the veils of rising mist.
She leaped to her feet, which slapped on the surface. Still she could see no one else on the cloud. Yet the footsteps only grew louder.
Suddenly she noticed rays of green light, striping her forearms and the front of her robe. They were coming from her crystal of élano! Astounded, she reached her fingers toward the amulet that hung around her neck. As she gently parted the oak, ash, and hawthorn leaves, more rays, blindingly bright, shot forth. Unlike the crystal’s normal color—white with hints of green and blue—this time it was entirely green.
Just then she saw a matching green in the mist just in front of her. It looked like—could it be? Tamwyn’s staff, glowing green along its full length.
Then a hand materialized out of the vapors, grabbing hold of the staff. An arm followed, a sturdy shoulder, some loose black hair . . .
Tamwyn! He stood there on the cloud, facing her. His coal black eyes glittered.
“Hello, Elli.”
It took a few seconds for her to speak. “Tamwyn?”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “It’s me.”
She shook her curls, thicker than a tangle of newly sprouted ferns. “Is this . . . a dream?”
“Mmm, well—yes and no. We’re somewhere that’s not quite real, but not quite a dream, either. It’s a place in between. And I’ve come to you by magic. My own magic.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow.
He nodded, swishing his locks against his shoulders. “I’m not afraid of it anymore, Elli! That’s what scared me so much, back at the Stargazing Stone. Why, I thought it might . . .”
“Might what?”
“Hurt you.” His tone softened. “And that was the last thing I wanted.”
She studied him for a moment. “My guess is that you were scared of more than just your magic, Tamwyn. But this does help explain why you acted like such—”
“A dolt,” he finished.
“An idiot, I was going to say.” She nodded for emphasis. “And, you know, being an idiot is your specialty! Really, I wouldn’t recognize you if you weren’t like that some of the time.”
“Much of the time,” he said, suddenly wondering whether he had mad
e a big mistake in coming here. “If you’re going to berate me,” he said resignedly, “I guess that’s what I deserve.”
She cocked her head. “I’m not going to berate you, Tamwyn.” Her voice dropped to a bare whisper. “But I am going to say . . . I’ve missed you.”
“You have?” He swallowed. “Well, you know, I—well . . .”
“What?”
He gathered himself. “I’ve missed you, too.”
She burst out laughing, and around her shoulders, thin shreds of mist shimmered and spun.
He took her hand. “Elli, I’ve seen some terrible things. And some wonderful things, too.”
“So have I.”
“Where are you now?”
“In Airroot, about to . . .” She caught herself before telling him the outlandish idea the bard had proposed. “About to go to Shadowroot. Then down a deep mine—to destroy Kulwych’s crystal.”
He grimaced. “Which is also Rhita Gawr’s crystal.”
Worry filled her face. “Tamwyn, they’ve corrupted it somehow. Made it evil. Rhia gave me this,” she added, pointing at her amulet, “so at least I might have a chance.”
He blew a long breath, scattering the rising strands of mist from the cloud. “A deep mine in Shadowroot. Just the sort of place White Hands and his master would hide themselves—until they’re finally ready to attack.” He shook his head. “How will you find them, though? How will you know where to go in that perpetual darkness?”
Her gaze fell. “I don’t know. What we really need, as Nuic says, is a map. But that’s impossible.”
Tamwyn squeezed her hand. “Wait, now. I just remembered something! You see, I have a new friend, who healed my wounds after a battle.”
She stiffened, recalling the scene in the Galator. “Who is she?”
“He,” Tamwyn corrected, not noticing that she relaxed again. “His name is Gwirion. A really good man—and a born leader. Just the right person to save his people, I think.”
Her hazel eyes sparkled. “Like you.”
He blushed, shaking his head. “No, not like me.” Then, remembering what he’d wanted to say, he explained, “Gwirion told me something about the Lost City of Light—Dianarra, they called it long ago. He said there was a great library there, a place to hold books, and also maps.”