The Raging Fires

  With a loud whimper, she shook her head vigorously, flapping her blue, banner-like ears against her head. After the shaking ceased, however, her right ear refused to lie flat again. Unlike the left one, which hung almost down to her shoulder, it stretched out to the side like a misplaced horn. Only the gentle droop at the tip hinted that it was, in fact, an ear.

  • • •

  Deep within the smoking cavern, the gargantuan form shifted uneasily. Valdearg’s head, nearly as broad as a hill, jerked suddenly, crushing a pile of skulls long ago blackened by flames. His breath came faster and faster, roaring like a thousand waterfalls. Although his enormous eyes remained closed, his claws slashed ruthlessly at some invisible foe.

  The dragon’s tail lashed out, smashing against the charred wall of stone. He growled, less at the rocks that tumbled onto the green and orange scales of his back than at the torments of his dream—a dream that pushed him to the very edge of awakening. One of his vast wings batted the air. As the wing’s edge scraped the floor of the hollow, dozens of jeweled swords and harnesses, gilded harps and trumpets, and polished gems and pearls flew in every direction. Clouds of smoke darkened the day.

  • • •

  The creature in the egg, her nose still throbbing, flashed her eyes angrily. Feeling an ancient urge, she drew a deep breath of air, puffing out her purple chest. With a sudden snort, she exhaled, flaring her nostrils. But no flames came, nor even a thin trail of smoke. For although she was, indeed, a baby dragon, she could not yet breathe fire.

  Crestfallen, the baby dragon whimpered again. She lifted one leg to climb the rest of the way out of the shell, then halted abruptly. Hearing something, she cocked her head to one side. With one ear dangling like a thin blue flag and the other soaring skyward, she listened intently, not daring to move.

  Suddenly the hatchling drew back in fright, teetering in the remains of the egg. For she had only just noticed the dark shadow forming in the mist on the far bank of the river. Sensing danger, she huddled deeper in the shell. Yet she could not keep her one unruly ear from poking over the rim.

  After a long moment, she raised her head ever so slightly. Her heart thumped within her chest. She watched the shadow draw slowly nearer, wading through the churning water. As it approached, it started to harden into a strange, two-legged figure—carrying a curved blade that gleamed ominously. Then, with a start, she realized that the blade was lifting to strike.

  PART ONE

  1: THE LAST STRING

  Just one more.”

  Even as I spoke the words, I could scarcely believe them. I slid my hand across the scaly, gray-brown bark of the rowan tree whose massive roots encircled me, feeling the gentle slopes and curves of the living wood. In one hollow, as deep as a large bowl, sat some of the tools I had been using over the past several months: a stone hammer, a wedge of iron, three filing rods of different textures, and a carving knife no bigger than my little finger. I reached past them, past the knobbed root that served as a hanging rack for my larger saws, to the thin shelf of bark that had so recently held all eight strings.

  Eight strings. Each one cured, stretched, and finally serenaded under the full autumn moon, according to ancient tradition. Thankfully, my mentor, Cairpré, had devoted weeks before that night to helping me learn all the intricate verses and melodies. Even so, the moon had nearly set before I finally sang every one of them correctly—and in the right order. Now seven of the strings gleamed on the little instrument propped on the root before me.

  Grasping the last remaining string, the smallest of the lot, I brought it closer. As I twirled it slowly, its ends twisted and swayed—alive, almost. Like the tongue of someone on the very verge of speaking.

  Late afternoon light played on the string, making it shine as golden as the autumn leaves speckling the grass at the base of the rowan tree. It felt surprisingly heavy, given its short length, yet as flexible as the breeze itself. Gently, I draped it on a cluster of dark red berries hanging from one of the rowan’s lower boughs. Turning back to the instrument, I inserted the last two knobs, carved from the same branch of hawthorn as the others, whose month-long kiln drying had ended only yesterday. Rubbing against the oaken soundboard, the knobs squeaked ever so slightly.

  At last, I retrieved the string. After tying the seven loops of a wizard’s knot on each of the two knobs, I began twisting, one to the right and the other to the left. Gradually, the string tightened, straightening out like a windblown banner. Before it had grown too tight, I stopped. Now all that remained was to insert the bridge—and play.

  Leaning back against the trunk of the rowan, I gazed at my handiwork. It was a psaltery, shaped something like a tiny harp but with a bowed soundboard behind all the strings. I lifted it off the root, studying it admiringly. Though it was barely as big as my open hand, it seemed to me as grand as a newborn star.

  My own instrument. Made with my own hands.

  I ran my finger along the strip of ash inlaid at the top of the frame. This would be much more than a source of music, I knew. Unless, of course, I had bungled any of the steps in making it. Or, much worse, unless . . .

  I drew a slow, unsteady breath. Unless I lacked the one thing Cairpré couldn’t teach me, the one thing he couldn’t even describe—what he could only call the essential core of a wizard. For, as he had so often reminded me, the making of a wizard’s first instrument was a sacred tradition, marking a gifted youth’s coming of age. If the process succeeded, when the time finally came to play the instrument, it would release its own music. And, simultaneously, an entirely new level of the youth’s own magic.

  And if the process did not succeed . . .

  I set down the psaltery. The strings jangled softly as the sound-board again touched the burly roots of the tree. Among these very roots, Fincayra’s most famous wielders of magic—including my legendary grandfather, Tuatha—had cobbled their own first instruments. Hence the tree’s name, written into many a ballad and tale: the Cobblers’ Rowan.

  Placing my hand over a rounded knob of bark, I listened for the pulse of life within the great tree. The slow, swelling rhythm of roots plunging deeper and branches reaching higher, of thousands of leaves melting from green to gold, of the tree itself breathing. Inhaling life, and death, and the mysterious bonds connecting both. The Cobblers’ Rowan had continued to stand through many storms, many centuries—and many wizards. Did it know even now, I wondered, whether my psaltery would really work?

  Lifting my gaze, I surveyed the hills of Druma Wood, each one as round as the back of a running deer. Autumn hues shone scarlet, orange, yellow, and brown. Brightly plumed birds lifted out of the branches, chattering and cooing, while spirals of mist rose from hidden swamps. I could hear, weaving with the breeze, the continuous tumble of a waterfall. This forest, wilder than any place I had ever known, was truly the heart of Fincayra. It was the first place I had wandered after washing ashore on the island—and the first place I had ever felt my own roots sinking deeply.

  I smiled, seeing my staff leaning against the rowan’s trunk. That, too, had been a gift of this forest, as its spicy scent of hemlock reminded me constantly. Whatever elements of real magic that I possessed—outside of a few simple skills such as my second sight, which had come to me after I lost the use of my eyes, and my sword with some magic of its own—resided within the gnarled wood of that staff.

  As did so much more. For my staff had, somehow, been touched by the power of Tuatha himself. He had reached out of the ages, out of the grave, to place his own magic within its shaft. Even with the blurred edges of my vision, I could make out the symbols carved upon it, symbols of the powers that I yearned to master fully: Leaping, between places and possibly even times; Changing, from one form into another; Binding, not just a broken bone but a broken spirit as well; and all the rest.

  Perhaps, just perhaps . . . the psaltery would take on similar powers. Was it possible? Powers that I could wield on behalf of all Fincayra’s peoples, with wisdom and grace not seen
since the days of my grandfather.

  I took a deep breath. Carefully, I lifted the little instrument in my hands, then slid the oaken bridge under the strings. A snap of my wrist—and it stood in place. I exhaled, knowing that the moment, my moment, was very near.

  2: THE ROOT CHORD

  Done,” I announced. “It’s ready to play.”

  “Done, you say?” Cairpré’s shaggy gray head poked around from behind the trunk of the great rowan. He looked frustrated, as if he couldn’t find the one remaining word he needed to complete an epic poem about tree roots. As his dark eyes focused on my little instrument, his expression clouded still more. “Hmmm. A fair piece of work, Merlin.”

  His tangled eyebrows drew together. “But it’s not done until it’s played. As I’ve said someplace or other, For the truth shall be found, Not in sight but in sound.”

  From behind him, on the brow of the knoll, came a hearty laugh. “Never mind that your poem referred to a meadowlark instead of a harp.”

  Cairpré and I swung our heads toward my mother as she stepped lightly over the grass. Her dark blue robe fluttered in the breeze that smelled so strongly of autumn, while her hair draped her shoulders like a mantle of sunlight. It was her eyes, though, that drew my attention. Eyes more blue than sapphires.

  Watching her approach, the poet straightened his smudged white tunic. “Elen,” he grumbled. “I should have guessed you’d return just in time to correct me.”

  Her eyes seemed to smile. “Somebody has to now and then.”

  “Impossible.” Cairpré did his best to look gruff, but could not hide his own fleeting smile. “Besides, it’s not a harp the boy has made. It’s a psaltery, though a small one, after the Greek psalterion. Did no one ever teach you about the Greeks, young lady?”

  “Yes.” My mother stifled another laugh. “You did.”

  “Then you have no excuse whatsoever.”

  “Here,” she said to me, pouring some plump, purple berries into the hollow in the root holding my tools. “Rivertang berries, from the rill across the way. I brought a handful for you.” With a sidelong glance at Cairpré, she flicked a single berry at him. “And one for you, for agreeing to give me a tutorial on Grecian music.”

  The poet grunted. “If I have time.”

  I listened, curious, to their bantering. Whatever the reason, their conversations often took such turns lately. And this puzzled me, since their words themselves didn’t seem to be what mattered. No, their bantering was really about something else, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  Watching them, I popped a few berries into my mouth, tasting the zesty flavor. Here they were, talking as if Cairpré thought he knew everything, more perhaps than the great spirit Dagda himself. Yet my mother realized, I felt sure, that he had never lost sight of how little he really did know. As much as he had taught me during the past year about the mysteries of magic, he never began one of our tutoring sessions without reminding me of his own limitations. He had even confessed that, while he knew that I must follow a series of intricate steps in making my first instrument, he wasn’t at all certain of their meaning. Throughout the process—from choosing the proper instrument to shaping the wood to firing the kiln—he had behaved as much like my fellow student as my mentor.

  Suddenly something nipped the back of my neck. I cried out, brushing away whatever insect had taken me for a meal. But the culprit had already fled.

  My mother’s blue eyes gazed down at me. “What’s wrong?”

  Still rubbing the back of my neck, I rose and stepped free of the burly roots. In the process, I almost tripped over my scabbard and sword that lay in the grass. “I don’t know. Something bit me, I think.”

  She cocked her head questioningly. “It’s too late for biting flies. The first frost came weeks ago.”

  “That reminds me,” said Cairpré with a wink at her, “of an ancient Abyssinian poem about flies.”

  Even as she started to laugh, I felt another sharp nip on my neck. Whirling around, I glimpsed a small, red berry bouncing down the grass of the knoll. My eyes narrowed. “I’ve found the biting fly.”

  “Really?” asked my mother. “Where?”

  I spun to face the old rowan. Raising my arm, I pointed to the boughs arching above us. There, virtually invisible among the curtains of green and brown leaves, crouched a figure wearing a suit of woven vines.

  “Rhia,” I growled. “Why can’t you just say hello like other people?”

  The leafy figure stirred, stretching her arms. “Because this way is much more fun, of course.” Seeing my grimace, she added, “Brothers can be so humorless at times.” Then, with the agility of a snake gliding across a branch, she slid down the twisted trunk and bounded over to us.

  Elen watched her with amusement. “You are every bit a tree girl, you are.”

  Rhia beamed. Spying the berries in the hollow, she scooped up most of what remained. “Mmmm, rivertang. A bit tart, though.” Then, turning to me, she indicated the tiny instrument in my hand. “So when are you going to play that for us?”

  “When I’m ready. You’re lucky I let you climb down that tree on your own power.”

  Surprised, she shook her brown curls. “You honestly expect me to believe that you could have lifted me out of the tree by magic?”

  Tempted though I was to say yes, I knew it wasn’t true. Not yet, at least. Besides, I could feel the deep pools of Cairpré’s eyes boring into me.

  “No,” I admitted. “But the time will come, believe me.”

  “Oh, sure. And the time will come that the dragon Valdearg will finally wake up and swallow us all in a single bite. Of course, that could be a thousand years from now.”

  “Or it could be today.”

  “Please, you two.” Cairpré tugged on the sleeve of my tunic. “Stop your battle of wits.”

  Rhia shrugged. “I never battle with someone who is unarmed.” Smirking, she added, “Unless they boast about magic they can’t really use.”

  This was too much. I extended my empty hand toward my staff resting against the trunk of the rowan. I concentrated my thoughts on its gnarled top, its carved shaft, its fragrant wood that carried so much power. Out through my fingers I sent the command. Come to me. Leap to me.

  The staff quivered slightly, rubbing against the bark. Then, suddenly, it stood erect on the grass. An instant later it flew through the air, right into my waiting hand.

  “Not bad.” Rhia bent her leaf-draped body in a slight bow. “You’ve been practicing.”

  “Yes,” agreed my mother. “You’ve learned a lot about controlling your power.”

  Cairpré wagged his shaggy mane. “And much less, I’m afraid, about controlling your pride.”

  I glanced at him bashfully as I slid the staff into my belt. But before I could speak, Rhia chimed in. “Come now, Merlin. Play something for us on that little whatever-it-is.”

  My mother nodded. “Yes, do.”

  Cairpré allowed himself a grin. “Perhaps you could sing with him, Elen.”

  “Sing? No, not now.”

  “Why not?” He regarded me thoughtfully, his face both anxious and hopeful. “If he can, indeed, make the psaltery play, it will be true cause for celebration.” For some reason, his expression seemed to darken. “No one knows that better than I.”

  “Please,” urged Rhia. “If there’s any celebrating to do, there’s no better way to do it than with one of your songs.”

  My mother’s cheeks flushed. Turning toward the rippling leaves of the rowan, she pondered for a moment. “Well . . . all right.” She opened her hands to the three of us. “I shall sing. Yes, a joyful song.” Her eyes darted to the poet. “For the many joys of the past year.”

  Cairpré brightened. “And of the years to come,” he added in a whisper.

  Again my mother blushed. Just why didn’t concern me, for I, too, shared her joy. Here I stood, with family, with friends, increasingly at home on this island—all of which would have seemed utterly imp
ossible just over one year ago. I was now fourteen years old, living in this forest, a place as peaceful as the autumn leaves I could see drifting downward. I wanted nothing more than to stay in this very place, with these very people. And, one day, to master the skills of a wizard. Of a true mage—like my grandfather.

  My fingers squeezed the psaltery’s frame. If only it would not fail me!

  I drew a deep breath of the crisp air buffeting the hilltop. “I am ready.”

  My mother, hearing the tautness in my voice, brushed her finger against my cheek—the same cheek that, long ago, had been scarred by a fire of my own making. “Are you all right, my son?”

  I did my best to force a grin. “I’m just imagining how my strumming is going to compare to your singing, that’s all.”

  Although I could tell she didn’t believe me, her face relaxed slightly. After a moment, she asked, “Can you play in the Ionian mode? If you will just strike the root chord, and play for a while, I can fit my song to your melody.”

  “I can try.”

  “Good!” Rhia leaped up to catch hold of the rowan’s lowest branch. She swung to and fro, releasing a belllike laugh as golden leaves rained down on us. “I love to hear a harp, even a tiny one like yours. It reminds me of the sound of rain dancing on the summer grass.”

  “Well, the summer has passed,” I declared. “Yet if anything can bring it back, it will be Mother’s voice, not my playing.” I turned to Cairpré. “Is it time, then? For the incantation?”

  Even as the poet cleared his throat, his expression darkened again—this time more deeply, as if a strange, contorted shadow had fallen across his thoughts. “First there is something I must tell you.” He hesitated, selecting his words. “Since time beyond memory, any Fincayran boy or girl with the promise of deep magic has left home for an apprenticeship similar to yours. With a real wizard or enchantress, preferably, but if none could be found, with a scholar or bard.”