The Great Tree of Avalon

  “Excellent work, my Harlech. Excellent.”

  As Harlech stood watch over the limp bodies of the slaves, the cloaked figure turned and stepped closer to the very edge of the canyon, now nearly full of white water. Here he stood, pale hands outstretched to the view before him. The vast dam, built of stone and magically strengthened mortar made from the white water itself, spanned the gorge, binding together its red rock walls. One face of the dam was covered with scaffolding, sliced from trees that once grew on the rim closest to Woodroot. The other face held back the lake full of water from the White Geyser of Crystallia. Wind whipped the lake’s surface, making waves that slammed against the barrier of stone. Far in its depths, phosphorescent flecks sparkled in the whiteness. Like a beast caged against its will, the great lake heaved and frothed, trying to break free.

  Below the dam, Prism Gorge looked as dry as a fire dragon’s throat. Only a year ago, before construction began, white water tumbled through this place, sparkling day and night with a phosphorescent glow, before separating into seven rushing rivers of different colors. But now only the dark shadow of the dam towered over the gorge. No more water, not even a trickle, ran down the seven smaller canyons. The only motion came from the many enslaved creatures who were still toiling at the base of the dam.

  Hundreds more slaves could be seen on the scaffolding, the canyon walls, and the top of dam. Horses, deer, oxen, goats, and dwarves, their legs and necks chained, hauled blocks of stone from the quarries to the barges. Ropes, boards, tools, and other lighter materials were carried by teams of haggard owls, cranes, crows, and condors. And flocks of tiny light flyers hovered in shadowy places, giving enough light for the masons to fit their stones—and the slave drivers to crack their whips. Whatever task these slaves performed, they didn’t understand the purpose of their labors. All they understood was that they had lost forever their freedom. And that their only escape from this torment of labor, hunger, and cruelty would be death.

  Beneath his hood, the cloaked figure clucked in satisfaction. The monstrous project was nearly done. Only two weeks left—three perhaps, given the sluggishness of these slaves. And then, after tapping the power of Merlin’s staff, his life’s greatest dream would become reality. With the help of Rhita Gawr, he would control Avalon, destroy his enemies, and eliminate forever the influence of Merlin. Then he would remake this world in another design—a design befitting the greatest sorcerer of all times.

  Suddenly the young elf woman coughed and rolled onto her side. Though her braid was coated with dirt and blood, it still shone with light. The cloaked figure lowered his hands and moved closer, watching her from the shadows. After more spasms of coughing, she opened her eyes.

  What she saw first nearly made her retch. Intestines, a bladder, and a shredded liver, all still bloody, were strewn across the rock ledge. Just beyond them lay the disemboweled body of a young boar—killed not for its meat, nor even for its fiery orange tusks, but for a purpose far more despicable. Entrail reading! She had heard stories of evil sorcerers on mortal Earth who practiced that art. But here in Avalon?

  Clenching her teeth, she rolled over. There lay her grandfather! As still as stone. She crawled weakly to his side and lay her head on his chest, just below his ragged white beard. “Breathe, Granda. Breathe!”

  Nothing.

  She planted her hands upon his ribs and pushed—once, twice, three times. “Breathe! Oh, please . . . breathe.”

  Still nothing.

  “Here now,” bellowed Harlech. “Yer not pushin’ hard ’nuf. Try this!”

  He kicked his heavy boot into the side of the old elf’s chest. With a sickening crack, several ribs snapped. The elf’s slim body lifted right off the ground, rolled in the air, and landed hard.

  “No! Stop!” shrieked the elf maiden, diving to catch hold of Harlech’s leg.

  Easily sidestepping her, he moved closer to the limp form of her grandfather. “Once more jest might do it.”

  Drawing back his leg, he slammed his boot again into the elf’s side. Again the old elf flew into the air, releasing a painful groan when he fell back on the ledge. A trickle of blood ran down from his mouth.

  “Stop! Stop!” his granddaughter cried, cradling his broken body in her own.

  “Jest a few more times, dearie.” Harlech stood over her, his hand on the hilt of his rapier. “Or mebbe you’d rather I try pokin’ around wid me liddle blade here.”

  “No, no, please.”

  Harlech drew his sword. His heart raced, fed by the fear he could see in her green eyes. The blade lifted, catching sparks of light from Waterroot’s stars.

  “No!” she cried.

  Harlech’s sword plunged, straight for the old elf’s ribs—

  And suddenly froze. The tip halted just above the elder’s chest. Harlech tried to move his arm—without success. He swore, twisted, and grunted with effort, but he seemed held by invisible bonds.

  A voice rasped from the shadows by the stone monolith. “There, there now, my Harlech. That’s quite enough.” A white hand waved, and the big man fell over backward, dropping his sword on the ledge. “One might think you were trying to harm the poor fellow.”

  The elf maiden, cheeks glazed with tears, turned to the cloaked figure. “Who are you?”

  “I am someone who can help you,” came the reply. “Mmmyesss.”

  She glanced back at Harlech, who was cursing under his breath as he retrieved his sword. Then she eyed the shadowed form suspiciously. “Why don’t you show yourself?”

  “I have my reasons.” His voice lowered grimly. “Once, long ago, I walked freely under the stars. And one day soon, I will again.”

  The cloaked head turned upward, as if it were scanning the sky. Then, under his breath, the figure muttered, “Where are those ghoulacas? They are late . . . though not so late as the child of the Prophecy.”

  Something about that voice, let alone his words, made the elf maiden shudder. Yet if there was any chance at all he could save her grandfather—she had to find out. “You said you could help.”

  “Indeed I can, mmmyesss.”

  “And not the way you helped that boar over there.”

  The cloaked figure clucked his tongue. “Now, now, elf maiden. You are a pretty one... but a bit more respect would serve you well. That little boar has helped me much today. So much that I told my ghoulaca who brought it to go find the rest of its flock and bring them back to me. For now, with what I know, I do not need to wait any longer—not for the child, nor for anything else.” He made a throaty laugh. “Mmmyess, so you would like the old elf to live?”

  She pressed her cheek against Granda’s forehead. “You . . . can really save him? You have that power?”

  A sharp gust of wind wailed across the rim of the canyon. A fragment from the monolith, high above the sorcerer’s head, broke loose and fell to the ground. Then the wind suddenly shifted, blowing a great sheet of spray off the lake. A shower of water rained down on the ledge, making him clutch tight to his hood.

  When the spray finally stopped, the voice came again, now with an edge of anger. “I have that power, mmmyesss. And soon, I assure you, I will have more. Much more. Enough to turn aside the wind!”

  The voice paused for several seconds, then spoke more calmly. “That is why I have built this dam, which holds so much precious water, as well as . . . well, you needn’t hear more. All you need to know is—”

  “That you didn’t build the dam,” she interrupted, unable to hold back her temper. “Slaves built it! Free creatures—chained and whipped and beaten to do your work! Whatever you plan to do with all that water you’ve stolen, it isn’t worth that.”

  Another laugh came from the shadows. “Is it worth your grandfather’s life?”

  Her back straightened. As an elf, she’d been taught from birth to value all life—from the unfathomably huge, all-embracing boughs of the Great Tree to the tiniest little insect. And yet there was one life, one person, she valued above all others. “Yes,” s
he whispered hoarsely. “It is.”

  “Good. Then tell me your name.”

  “Brionna.” She stroked Granda’s bloody lip. Only the faintest breath, warm against her hand, told her he was still alive. “Please, whoever you are. Please save him!”

  “Certainly, Brionna. I will save him, mmmyesss. All I need, my pretty one, is a small service from you.”

  She swallowed. “What service?”

  “I need you to fetch something. Something, mmmyesss, I have long desired.”

  9 • A Dangerous Journey

  The bath’s wooden gate flew open, slamming against a tall set of shelves. Vials of oils and herbs tottered and fell—some into a thick clump of ferns, and others onto the ground with a smash of broken glass. Faeries flew up in fright, wings all abuzz, zipping through the thick clouds of steam. Fairlyn swung around, all her arms waving, her aroma now a mixture of rotten rat carcass and crushed condor egg.

  Llynia sat up sharply, spraying water and bubbles and chunks of mud paste everywhere. Some mud fell into the swirling pool, whose waters turned dark green for an instant before returning to pink. Her exposed cheek and brow (along with some of her once-blond hair) shone a pale green color, which seemed to deepen by the second. And though she didn’t know about her new skin tone, she did know that someone had rudely disturbed her bath.

  “In the name of Elen the Founder!” she thundered, the veins in her greenish temples pounding with rage. “Who dares to interrupt the bath of the next High Priestess?”

  “Merely one of Elen’s disciples,” answered a quiet voice from the billowing mist.

  Llynia, recognizing the voice, gasped in surprise. She lurched backward, splashing more water over the lush moss of the rim. More of her mud mask broke off, so that now she had only splotches left, including one large chunk that clung to her chin like a scrawny beard.

  “High Priestess Coerria,” she said apologetically.

  “That’s right,” declared the elderly woman, her long white hair falling over her shoulders. “The current High Priestess.”

  Hastily, Llynia tried to stand, but slipped and fell into the pool with a resounding splat. Again she stood, aided this time by one of Fairlyn’s outstretched arms. Then she grabbed a wet towel, shook off the frightened faeries who had landed there, and wrapped it around herself as a robe.

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” she said, trying to speak calmly. “I wasn’t . . . er, expecting you.”

  “No,” replied Coerria, “I suppose you weren’t.”

  From the waterfall on the far side of the Baths, Elli leaned forward to see better. She watched Coerria step out of the steam to the edge of the pool, her silken gown rippling gracefully. Then, as the Elder turned, Elli noticed something new: Just behind her head hovered a small, flying creature that resembled a bumblebee—and was busily braiding her hair, strand by strand.

  Elli smiled. Was that tiny little creature her maryth? No wonder Elli hadn’t noticed before.

  The old woman’s eyes, as blue as an alpine tarn, studied Llynia. “I hadn’t planned to disturb you, my child. But . . .” She paused, her expression concerned. “Are you feeling all right? You look a bit . . . green.”

  Within the spray of the waterfall, Nuic made a sound like a pig snorting.

  Meanwhile, Fairlyn bent closer to Llynia and swept a blossom-rimmed arm across her cheek. The smell of rat carcass grew suddenly stronger. What few faeries remained near the pool buzzed off to the far corners of the Baths, or out into the night.

  Still disoriented, Llynia blustered, “No, no, I’m fine. Fine.” Then she brushed aside Fairlyn’s arm and snapped, “Foolish maryth! Stop smelling like that, will you? Or you will make me sick.”

  Fairlyn withdrew, as a new scent—something akin to bruised melons—wafted through the steam.

  The Elder seemed, for an instant, thoughtful. Then her face turned gravely serious. “As I said, I hadn’t planned to disturb you. But something has happened.”

  “What?” demanded Llynia, her old haughtiness returning. “What could possibly be important enough to make you barge in here like this?”

  “That.” Coerria raised her thin arm toward the night sky. Countless stars, shimmering through the rising mist, shone overhead. It was one of those nights that inspired poetry and songs about the vastness—and mystery—of Avalon’s stars.

  But Coerria was pointing to one particular constellation—a line of seven stars. Only now, one of those stars had gone dark.

  Llynia sucked in her breath. “The Wizard’s Staff . . .”

  “That’s right,” said the High Priestess somberly. “It’s lost a star.” Under her breath, she added, “Now, in the seventeenth year of the Dark child.”

  At those words, the remaining faeries, wherever they were hiding, panicked. All at once they flew into the misty air and buzzed around, shrieking, swooping, and bumping into each other in their frenzy. It took all of Fairlyn’s many arms to shoo them over the wooden fence surrounding the Baths.

  Elli, for her part, was so stunned, she stepped backward—right into the waterfall. The harp on her back banged against a stone and jangled loudly, while Nuic cried out in surprise.

  Llynia spun around, the muddy beard on her chin quaking with rage. “Get out of here, you little—” Catching a reproachful look from the High Priestess, she abruptly changed her tone. “Little . . . little one.”

  Llynia swept an arm toward the gate, clipping the wing of a red-suited faery who was flying past. As the faery plunged into the pink bubbles of the pool, Llynia kept her eyes fixed on Elli. “Now go!”

  Frowning, Elli glanced at Nuic, who had hidden himself in the spray of the waterfall. She shook the water off her arms, making the strings of her harp twang. Then, head down, she strode past the two priestesses—although she did peek up at Llynia’s face, which was looking decidedly green.

  Just as she reached the wooden gate, however, she hesitated by the tall set of shelves. With a swift step to the side, she ducked behind them. Llynia, who was looking again at the night sky, didn’t notice. Nor did Fairlyn, who was helping the poor faery who had nearly drowned in the bubbles. But High Priestess Coerria, whose old eyes missed very little, gave a flicker of a grin.

  Llynia shook her wet head in disbelief. “When did it happen?”

  “Just now, only minutes ago.” Coerria sat down on an oaken stool and motioned for Llynia to sit as well. “The seven stars—symbols of the glowing runes on Merlin’s own staff, which stood for the Seven Songs of his youth—are now only six.”

  Llynia, who had seated herself on the mossy edge of her pool, moved her feet through the water. “That’s what happened before.”

  “Yes, in the Year of Avalon 284—the onset of the Age of Storms. First one star in the Wizard’s Staff went dark, then another, and another . . . until all of them were gone. The whole thing took just three weeks. Three weeks! And then all sorts of wickedness erupted.”

  “Which didn’t stop,” Llynia added, “until centuries later, when Merlin came back to Avalon.”

  “And restored the peace that began the Age of Ripening.” Coerria sighed, gazing at a flickering candle that was set in the hollow of a stone. The beelike creature that had been braiding her white hair stopped, buzzed over to her cheek, and stroked her skin with long, feathery antennae. But the Elder didn’t seem to notice. It was a long moment before she spoke again.

  “Before Merlin left Avalon again, this time for good, he magically rekindled those stars—all seven of them, somehow. And so, for over three hundred years, with the sole exception of the Year of Darkness, the Staff has burned bright in our sky, and Drumadian peace has flourished in the realms.”

  She looked straight at Llynia. “What this means, no one knows. Not I. Not Hywel. Not even Ruthyn, who studies the stars day and night.” She peered closely at the Chosen One. “Not you . . . unless you’ve had another vision.”

  Llynia bridled. Did Coerria suspect the truth? Could she know how rare—and unreliable—her visions
had become? No, she told herself. More likely the old twig just wants to make me stumble. Humiliate myself somehow. Well, it won’t happen.

  She shook her head, dripping water and flecks of mud on the moss. “No. Not since the vision I described to the Council.”

  “Then the only person who might know what this means is . . .”

  Llynia cut her off. “The Lady of the Lake.” The name seemed to hover, mothlike, in the steamy air. Then a look of pride touched Llynia’s face, and she added, “So now my quest to find her is all the more important.”

  Coerria watched her grimly. “No. It’s now less important.”

  The younger priestess stiffened. “What do you mean, High One?”

  Over at the waterfall, Nuic stepped out of the spray to hear better. Elli, crouching behind the shelves, couldn’t resist peeking around the side to watch.

  “I mean,” replied the Elder, “that your quest has changed.”

  “Changed?” Llynia leaned forward on the edge of the pool. “What then is my quest?”

  The old woman didn’t answer. Instead, she opened her hand, palm up, and the small creature hovering by her cheek settled there. Its tiny wings, tinted purple, folded against its back. Coerria smiled gently. “Take some rest now, Uzzzula, my faithful maryth. Even a busy hive spirit needs to pause now and then.”

  At this, the little creature gave an insulted shake and buzzed off to start braiding her hair again. Taking one strand in her small arms, she laid it over another, then reached for a third, which she carefully placed over the middle strand. Flying just behind the priestess’s head, she continued to wrap the strands together, joining them in a thin, delicate braid.