The Raging Fires

  The eyes beneath the bushy brows gazed at me solemnly. “It could have been worse. Far worse.”

  I tried to swallow, but my throat felt rougher than the rowan’s bark. “I could have died, you mean. So why didn’t I? Right then?”

  His hand reached over and tapped my wrist. At first I noticed nothing. Suddenly I spied the puncture, smooth and round, in the sleeve of my tunic. A thin ring of charcoal surrounded it. Something seemed to have melted—not ripped—right through the cloth.

  “The fang,” he declared, “struck here. A finger’s width to the side and you would have died. Without question. Because even the tiniest contact with the fang of a kreelix will destroy the power, as well as the life, of any magical creature. No matter how strong, or large.”

  Pensively, he ran a hand through his mane. “That was why the ancient wizards and enchantresses tried so hard to avoid face-to-face battles. Especially with weapons that held their own magic, which simply gave the kreelixes more to dine upon.”

  “Like my sword here.”

  “Yes, or like the great sword Deepercut you rescued some time ago. One of the island’s oldest legends tells how Deepercut was hidden, buried somewhere, for more than a hundred years—just so no kreelixes could find it.” He chewed his lip. “Now you see, my boy, why I didn’t want you to wield your staff. For it carries, I suspect, more magic than a dozen Deepercuts.”

  I glanced toward the magical staff lying among the leaves. “How then did they fight the kreelixes? If they couldn’t do it face-to-face?”

  “That I don’t know. But I can promise you this: I intend to find out.” His eyes narrowed. “In case there are any more left.”

  I blanched. “So how did you stop this one?”

  He glanced gratefully at the Cobblers’ Rowan. “Thanks to your friend over there. And your talented sister.”

  All at once, I understood. “Rhia! So you did it! Using tree speech! You spoke to the tree, and it snatched the kreelix from behind.”

  She gave a nonchalant shrug. “Barely in time, too. Next time you try to get yourself killed, at least give us a little warning.”

  Despite myself, I grinned. “I’ll do my best.” Then, as I glanced at the giant, bat-like form hanging limply from the branches, the grin disappeared. “Even a tree as powerful as this one couldn’t have held any creature that could fight back with magic. So why didn’t the kreelix? Surely, if it lived on others’ magic, it must have had some of its own.”

  “Magic?” Cairpré rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Not as we normally think of it. But it did possess something. What the ancients called negatus mysterium, that strange ability to negate, or swallow up, the magic of others. That was the scarlet flash—negatus mysterium being released. If directed at you, it can numb some of your magic, at least temporarily. But it won’t kill you. That part is left to the fangs.”

  He scooped up a handful of leaves, then let them drift back to the ground. “Yet the kreelix’s own powers ended there. Leaping, Changing, Binding—all the skills you’ve been trying to develop—the beast itself couldn’t command. So it had no power to strike back once caught by the tree.”

  I indicated the corpse. “Or to keep you from using my sword to finish it off.”

  “No,” answered Rhia, her face clouded. “Before any of us could try to get the sword, it used the blade on itself.”

  Cairpré nodded. “Perhaps it feared us so much that it chose to slit its throat before we could. Or perhaps,” he added darkly, “it feared we might learn something important if it had lived.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like who has kept it alive, and in hiding, all these years.”

  I shot him a questioning look. The poet’s face, already grave, grew more somber still. He fingered the air, as if turning the pages of a book that only he could see. “In ancient times,” he half whispered, “there were people who feared anything magical—from the merest light flyer to the most powerful wizard. They saw all magic as evil. And, too often, wizards and enchantresses would abuse their powers, justifying such fears. These people formed a society—Clan Righteous, they called themselves—that met secretly, plotting to destroy magic wherever they found it. They wore an emblem, concealed most of the time, of a fist crushing a lightning bolt.”

  He drove his own fist into his palm. “Eventually, they started to breed the kreelixes, beasts as unnatural as their appetites. And to train them, as well—to attack enchanted creatures without warning, to wipe out any magical powers completely. Even if the kreelixes themselves died in the process, their victims would usually also die.”

  Soulfully, he gazed at me. “Their favorite targets, I’m afraid, were young enchanters like you. The ones whose powers were only just ripening. A kreelix would be assigned to watch each of them, to stay hidden until the very moment those powers began to emerge. It might have been the youth’s first Changing, first triumph in battle—or first musical instrument. At that moment, the beast would sweep down from the sky, hoping to prevent the young wizard or enchantress from ever growing up.”

  Seeing Elen’s morose expression, he grimaced. “This, truly, is Fincayra’s darkest day.”

  I cringed, as if the shadow of the kreelix had passed over me again. I knew now that whoever had sent it had done so for one particular purpose. To destroy me. To keep me from using whatever powers I possessed. Or—was such a thing possible?—to keep me from ever facing Valdearg.

  6: TWO HALVES OF TIME

  Unable to sleep, I rolled from one side to the other on the bed of pine needles. I tried crooking an arm beneath my head, bunching the tunic under my knees, or staring at the thick web of branches above me. I tried thinking about the evening mist, filtering through stands of trees at sunset; or the starlit sea, sparkling with thousands of eyes upon the waters.

  Nothing helped.

  Again I rolled over. Eh! A spiky pinecone jabbed the back of my neck. I brushed it aside, nestled my shoulder deeper into the needles, and tried once again to relax. To rest, at least a little. To move beyond the doubts, the wonderings—so vague I couldn’t even put them into words—that poked at me like a pinecone of the mind.

  I drew a deep breath. The fragrance of pine, sweet and tangy, flowed over me like an invisible blanket. Yet this blanket lacked enough warmth to ward off the chill night air. I shivered, knowing that before long the first snow would fall in this forest.

  Another deep breath. Normally the smell of pine calmed me right away. Perhaps it reminded me of the quieter days of my childhood, long before the pieces of my life began to shift like river pebbles under my feet.

  In those days I often climbed up to my mother’s table of healing herbs. Sometimes I simply watched her sifting and straining, while the wondrous aromas filled my lungs. Other times, though, I mixed my own combinations, meshing whatever colors and textures pleased me. All the while—the smells! Thyme. Beech root. Sea kelp. Peppermint (so strong that one whiff popped open my eyes and tingled my scalp). Lavender. Mustard seed, straight from the meadow. Dill—which always made me sneeze. And, of course, pine. I loved to crush the needles, so that my fingers would smell like a pine bough for hours.

  So why, tonight, did they do so little for me? They only pierced my shoulders, my back, and my legs like so many little daggers. Curling myself into a ball, I tried again to relax.

  Something nudged the middle of my back. Rhia’s foot, no doubt. Maybe she, too, was having trouble sleeping.

  The nudge came again. “Rhia,” I grumbled, not bothering to roll over. “Isn’t it enough you insisted on following me—” I paused, correcting myself before she could. “Guiding me, I mean, when it made things that much worse for our mother? You don’t have to come over here and kick me, as well.”Again—this time harder. “All right, all right,” I admitted. “I know you promised her you’d turn back at Urnalda’s lands. And, yes, I did agree to the idea! But I agreed because you could save me half a day or more. Not because you’d keep me up all night!”

  Wh
en I felt another nudge, I flipped over and angrily grabbed—

  A hedgehog. Hardly bigger than my fist, it curled itself even tighter, burying its face in a mass of bristles. Embarrassed, I grinned. Poor little creature! It was clearly frightened. Probably cold, too.

  I hefted the prickly ball. Though I couldn’t see its face, I recognized the darker markings of a male. No more than a few months old, most likely. The little fellow could have been lost, separated from his family. Or simply cold enough that he had abandoned any caution for the warmth of my back.

  Holding him in my palm, I started gently stroking along his spine. While I had learned much in the last year about the language of trees (having moved well beyond the simple swishing of beeches, I could now carry on a rudimentary chat with an elm or even an oak), I still knew practically nothing about the speech of animals. Even so, I managed to produce a piping yik-a-lik, yik-a-lik, which I had once heard a mother hedgehog sing to her brood.

  Very slowly, while I continued stroking, the ball began to uncurl. First came the leathery pads of the rear feet, each no bigger than my thumbnail. Then came the front feet. Then the belly, swelling like a dark bubble in a peat bog. At last an eye emerged, then the other, blacker than the shadows of night surrounding us. Finally came the nose, sniffing the skin of my thumb. As I stroked more vigorously, he released a tiny, throaty sigh.

  Rhia would enjoy this little creature. Even if it meant waking her—and admitting my own folly. I could already hear her bell-like laugh when I told her that I had mistaken him for her foot.

  Sitting upright on the bed of needles, I turned my second sight toward the cluster of fern where she had fallen asleep. Suddenly my heart froze. She was gone!

  Setting down the hedgehog, I ignored his plaintive whimpers as I clambered to my feet. My second sight stretched to its fullest, peering through the shadowy branches and dark trunks of the grove. Where had she gone? Having trekked with her so often, I was accustomed to her daytime roamings, whether to forage for food, follow a deer’s tracks, or plunge into the cool water of a tarn. But she had never before left camp at night. Had something sparked her curiosity? Or . . . brought her harm?

  I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Rhia!”

  No reply.

  “Rhia!”

  Nothing. The forest seemed unusually quiet. No branches clacked or groaned; no wings fluttered. Only the continuing whimpers of the hedgehog broke the silence.

  Then, from somewhere beyond the ferns, came a familiar voice. “Do you need to be so loud? You’ll wake every living thing in the forest.”

  “Rhia!” I grabbed my staff, sword, and leather satchel. “Where in Dagda’s name are you?”

  “Out here, of course. Where else did you expect me to watch the stars?”

  Buckling the belt of my sword, I hurried through the mass of ferns. As often as I ducked to avoid the pine boughs, a jagged limb would clutch at my tunic. All of a sudden, the trees parted. A chill breeze splashed my face. I stood at the edge of a small, rock-strewn meadow.

  To my left, a spring bubbled out of the ground, forming a pool enclosed by reeds. Beside it rested a flat slab of moss-rimmed stone. There, her arms wrapped around her shins and her face turned skyward, sat Rhia.

  As I approached, whatever frustration I harbored melted away. She seemed so at peace, so at home. How could I blame her? I leaned my staff against the stone, sat down beside her—and gazed.

  Stars, an immense swath of them, arched above us. Like singers in a grand, celestial chorus, they marched across the sky, linked through outstretched arms of light. It reminded me of the phrase, carved into the wall of the great tree that was Rhia’s home—as well as my own memory: The great and glorious Song of the Stars.

  Rhia continued scanning the sky, her curls sparkling with starlight. “So you couldn’t sleep? Neither could I.”

  “You found a better way to spend the night than I did, though. I was just tossing around on pine needles.”

  “Look there,” she cried, pointing to a plummeting star. Brightly it burned for an instant, then swiftly vanished. “I’ve often wondered,” she said wistfully, “whether a star like that one falls somewhere in our world, or in someone else’s.”

  “Or into a river beyond,” I offered. “A great, round river that carries the light of all the stars, flowing endlessly into itself.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “And maybe that river is also the seam binding the two halves of time. You remember that story? One half always beginning, the other half always ending.”

  Propping my elbows on the stone, I leaned farther back. “How could I forget? You told it to me on the same night you showed me how to find constellations not just in the stars themselves, but in the spaces between them.”

  “And you told me about that horse—what was his name?”

  “Pegasus.”

  “Pegasus! A winged steed, prancing from star to star. With you hugging his back.” She laughed, a bell pealing in the forest. “How I’d love to fly like that myself!”

  I grinned. “It reminds me of the thrill—the freedom—of my first time on horseback.”

  “Really?” For the first time since my arrival, she turned from the glittering vista. “When did you ever ride horseback?”

  “Long ago. So long ago! It was a great black stallion, belonging to our . . . father.” I didn’t say the rest: before Rhita Gawr corrupted him, filling him with the wicked spirit’s lust to control Fincayra. Those words still left such a hateful taste in my mouth. “I don’t remember much about that horse, except that I loved to ride him—with someone holding me, of course. I was so small . . . but I loved the sound of his hooves beneath me, pounding, pounding. And the warm breath from his nostrils! Every time I visited him at the castle stable, I brought him an apple, just so I could feel his warm breath on my hand.”

  Softly, she touched my shoulder. “You really loved that horse.”

  I sighed. “It’s all so blurry now. Maybe I was just too young. I can’t even remember his name.”

  “Maybe it will come back to you in a dream. That happens sometimes. Dreams can bring back the past.”

  My teeth clenched, as I thought about the only dream that brought back the past for me. Over and over and over again. How I hated that dream! It struck at unpredictable times—but always carried me to the same place. Beyond the swirling mists surrounding Fincayra, across the sea, to a ragged village in the land called Gwynedd. There, a powerful boy—Dinatius by name—attacked me. In my rage I called upon my hidden powers and caused a fire, a fire that exploded out of the very air. The blaze! It scorched my face, searing the skin of my cheeks and brow. I lost my own eyes in those flames—while Dinatius, I fear, lost his life.

  The dream always ended in the same way: Dinatius, shrieking in mortal agony, his arms crushed beneath the blazing branch of a tree. I always woke up the same way, as well. Sobbing, clutching at my sightless eyes. Feeling the pain of those flames. And what made the dream worse was that it was true.

  Even as I shuddered, Rhia twirled one of her fingers around my own. “I’m sorry, Merlin. I didn’t mean to upset you. Were you thinking about . . . the dragon?”

  “No, no. Just dragons of my own.”

  She released my finger and ran her hand across the stone’s rough surface. “The worst kind.”

  I swallowed. “The very worst.”

  “Sometimes those dragons are different from what they seem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She faced me squarely. “The Galator. You know it could help you defeat Valdearg. Why, it could be your only chance! So why aren’t you going after it first? Before you have to face him?”

  My cheeks grew hot. “Because there’s no time! Why, you heard—”

  “Is that all?” she interrupted. “Your only reason?”

  “Of course it is!”

  “Really?”

  “Of course!” I pounded the stone with my fist. “You don’t think I’m doing this because I’m scared of
. . .”

  “Yes?” she asked gently.

  “Of Domnu.” I stared at her, amazed. How could she have known? Just the thought of that treacherous old hag made me shudder. “Cairpré was right. You really do know how to see under someone else’s skin.”

  “Maybe,” she replied. “Sometimes it’s easier to see someone else’s dragons than your own, that’s all. As to this one, I don’t know whether you should go right to Urnalda’s lands, or not. Time is short, as you said. But I do know that you’re scared of Domnu. Very scared. And you need to know it’s affecting your thinking. And, more than likely, your sleeping.”

  I couldn’t help but grin. “You’re a lot of trouble, you know. But every once in a while . . . you’re almost worth it.”

  “Thanks,” she said, returning the grin.

  My brow furrowed. “I think, though, I still should go straight to Urnalda. There’s my promise to her—and she needs the help now. Remember her words? My people be attacked, this very day, as never before.”

  “If you do manage to help her somehow, she doesn’t seem the kind of person who’s going to give you any thanks.”

  “Oh, she would—in her own way. She’s crusty, all right. And easily angered. But you can trust her, at least. Not like Domnu! All Urnalda really wants is to keep her people safe.” I reflected for a moment. “Even if I could regain the Galator, I couldn’t possibly do it in time to help her. On top of that, I never did find out how it works. So even if I found some way to get it back from Domnu, how much better off would I be?”

  I glanced at the sea of stars above us. “There’s also this: Maybe Urnalda knows something about the dragon that could help. In the same way the Galator helped win the last battle. She is, after all, an enchantress.”

  My gaze met Rhia’s. “And, finally, there’s one more thing.” I took a long, slow breath. “I’m scared of Domnu. Just as much as I am of that dragon.”

  Sparks danced on her head as she nodded sympathetically. “Her name—what does it mean?”

  “Dark Fate. That’s all anyone needs to know about her! She calls on magic so ancient that even the most powerful spirits—Rhita Gawr, or Dagda himself—just leave her alone. And as much as I’d like to see her humbled, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”