His dismay only grew with each passing day. Much of the time, as they tramped through forested hills and along dry riverbeds, the travelers scrapped with each other. Llynia complained that they were losing precious time; Elli often agreed and suggested that Llynia should walk faster—not exactly what Llynia wanted to hear. Meanwhile, Henni missed no chances to tease Tamwyn, Fairlyn smelled like something horrible, and Nuic grumbled constantly about how much the world (especially priestesses and porters) had degenerated over the past few centuries. Although Llynia never actually asked Tamwyn’s advice, she often put him in the lead and let him guide the group north—always badgering him from behind about his clumsiness. Which, of course, delighted Henni even more.
In this way, the group trudged northward toward the Dun Tara snowfields—and the portal that Llynia insisted would take them to Woodroot, for the secret purpose that she wouldn’t discuss in the porters’ presence. Tamwyn had tried, for several days running, to tell her what he knew about that portal, but she wouldn’t even begin to listen. Finally, fed up with her obstinance, he’d decided just to let her find out herself. The result would be quite entertaining—well worth a few days’ labor as a porter.
After the seventh day of trekking, Tamwyn picked a low, rounded knoll for their camp that night. Stubby grass, faded yellow in color, covered its top. A tiny pool of water bubbled at its base, barely enough to supply the group’s needs. The pool was so small, and hidden behind a fold of the ground, that Tamwyn wouldn’t have seen it at all but for the family of water faeries hovering there.
The luminous blue wings of the faeries caught the light, flashing like translucent sapphires. There were five of them in all, a pair of adults and three young ones. All wore the silver-blue tunics and dewdrop-shaped shoes common to water faeries. The father also wore a belt of dried red currants, and the mother carried a backpack made from a periwinkle shell in which she carried their youngest child.
As Tamwyn approached, he nodded in greeting. Good day to you, friends. As always, the words to communicate with nonhuman creatures simply formed in his mind. He wondered why other humans didn’t seem to use this silent language. Was it too difficult? That couldn’t be right, since it felt just as easy as human speech to him. More likely they had lived for so long in villages, away from most other creatures, that they’d simply forgotten how.
The father faery lifted up from the pool with a spray of water droplets from his wingtips. He gestured angrily at Tamwyn.
You have a point, the young man replied. How can any day be good when there’s so little water around? He listened as the faery said something else. Well, I hope you find that spot to your liking! I’ve heard there are some nice waterfalls there, meltoff from the Dun Tara snowfields.
The faery waved, not angrily this time. He swooped back to the pool, helped his wife gather the children, and flew away. Their luminous blue wings hummed softly and then disappeared behind the knoll.
Tamwyn dropped his load and started to make camp. As always, his first task was to build a fire—no trouble for him, even when there wasn’t so much dry kindling around. Perhaps it was his experience as a woodsman . . . or perhaps his flamelon ancestry somehow gave him an affinity with flames. Either way, making a campfire seemed as natural as making a wish.
He started by walking over to an old hawthorn tree that he’d noticed near the knoll. One of its lower branches, broken by a storm, hung by a few shreds of bark. Hawthorn burned with lots of heat, and this branch was just the right thickness for long-lasting coals.
He stood before the tree and bent his head in greeting. Then, as was the custom of fire builders since the earliest days of Avalon, he asked:
Friendly tree both strong and high,
Answer now in truth: May I
Take your limb to warm my own,
Cook my food, or heat my home?
The tree’s remotest twigs stirred ever so slightly. Abruptly the whole tree shrugged—whether from a sudden gust of wind or from its own inner will, it was hard to tell. But that was enough to break off the remaining bark, and the branch fell to the ground. With a nod of thanks, Tamwyn took it back to the knoll.
Now that he had the wood he needed, lighting the fire was easy. A few scrapes of the iron stones that he kept in his pocket, and his ball of tinder grass caught a spark. He placed it on a patch of bare soil near the top of the knoll, well away from any overhanging branches. For he knew well that the hardest part of making a fire in these days of drought was keeping it safely under control.
Once he started cooking supper—a hearty vegetable stew—only Elli made some effort to help, peeling some yellow tubers that she’d found in the forest. But she sat on the other side of the fire from him, facing the opposite direction. There was no chance she would speak to Tamwyn, let alone look at him directly—which suited him just fine.
After a while, Nuic ambled up the knoll, carrying an armful of bay leaves and garlic grass. The little sprite dropped his ingredients into Tamwyn’s pot, and then sat on the grass beside Elli. Caustically, he grumbled, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that Llynia was really the child of the Dark Prophecy.”
Behind them, Tamwyn perked up. He continued to make the stew, dicing and mixing in various dried vegetables, grains, bark strips, and oils supplied by the Society of the Whole. But all the while, his woodsman’s ears listened with keen interest.
“I’ve thought the same thing myself,” agreed Elli. “But she’s too old—by about twenty years, I’d guess. And I heard she came from Stoneroot, not where most Drumadians seem to think the Dark one was born.”
She paused, running her fingers through the low grass. “Why do they say the child was probably born in Fireroot?”
Tamwyn jolted, dropping some carrots.
“Hmmmpff. Don’t you know that? Fireroot was one of the only places where there were children born that year. The flamelons refused to go along with the ban on having babies, suspecting that the whole Prophecy was just a trick by humans to get them to reduce their numbers.”
“Always thinking about war, aren’t they?” Elli shook her head, thick with curls. “If I ever meet a peaceful flamelon, I’ll be shocked.”
Tamwyn wanted to shout: My mother was peaceful! But he held his tongue.
The pinnacle sprite’s colors darkened. “Wrong, Elliryanna. If you ever meet a peaceful flamelon, don’t be shocked. Be frightened. That’s so unlikely, it could well be a disguise.”
Sucking in her breath, Elli said, “You mean . . .”
“Correct.” Ribbons of gray and black swept over Nuic’s body. “It could be the Dark child.”
For a long moment, they sat in silence. Then Elli rose, scooped up Nuic, and walked down the slope.
As Tamwyn stirred his pot of stew, starset’s flash of light wove golden threads into the limbs of trees and the lines of stones. Yet he hardly noticed: He couldn’t help but wonder about what he’d just heard. Was he, being at least half flamelon, never going to be truly peaceful? And was that the same as being truly at peace?
Then his thoughts turned to the most disturbing question of all. What if, despite everything he believed about himself, he really was the child of the Dark Prophecy? The person who would cause the end of Avalon?
No! He shook his head, brushing his long black hair against his shoulders. That was impossible. And yet . . . he did have a special knack for causing disasters. Whether it was losing Scree, getting banished by Lott, or destroying Elli’s harp, trouble seemed to follow him like a shadow. And always had.
He stirred the stew more vigorously than ever. At the bottom of the knoll, he could see Llynia stride past Elli, who was standing by an old beech tree, and Henni, who was tossing pebbles at a raccoon that wanted to sleep. The priestess continued up the slope, swept past Tamwyn without so much as a word, and stopped only when she reached the top.
There Llynia sat down, legs folded and back straight, all set for her evening prayers. As always for this ritual, she had donned a fresh set of clothes: today’
s choice, a white robe embroidered with green threads, a silver sash, and a necklace of speckled brown beads. In her hands she held her volume of Cyclo Avalon, open to the page that began the lore of élano.
Her face seemed troubled, but Tamwyn wouldn’t have guessed that right now she wasn’t worried about the success of her quest, or the time they’d lost trekking. No, her greater worries now involved herself—her powers. Just when, she asked herself fretfully, will my visions fully return?
She craned her neck, looking up at the constellation commonly called the Circles—two rings of stars, one inside the other. Drumadians, though, had their own name for it: the Mysteries. This constellation, more than any other, inspired thoughts about the seventh sacred Element. The outer circle, made of twenty-one stars with hints of green and scarlet, was called Mystery of Life. It was here that Llynia directed most of her prayers; it had always reminded her of a jeweled crown. The inner circle, with eleven stars and an aura of lavender blue, was called Mystery of Spirit. It seemed pretty enough to Llynia, but cool and distant, not so inspiring.
“O Goddess, God, and all there is,” she began, her upturned face washed in the light of the stars. “Tonight I pray for more than my own strength of body and purpose. Tonight I pray for all of Avalon, the Great Tree that holds our world and connects it to all other worlds.”
She paused, breathing deeply the cool air of evening. “I call to you, Lorilanda, spirit of rebirth, and to you, Dagda, spirit of wisdom—my great lights in this time of deepening darkness. Please guide me . . . and help me find what I need! For only then can I lead my people through this night of torment and into a new day, a new world, when all your creations may reach their highest forms. There are those who seek to control this world, as well as others; but there are those, such as you, who seek only to give free peoples the right to choose their own destinies. And so I ask your blessing—as well as your help. And as always, I offer you my gratitude, along with my life.”
Llynia focused her gaze on the Mysteries, watching the two sparkling circles with not just her eyes but also her inner Sight. As she had done every night since the start of the journey, she tried to clear her mind completely—not easy, given the persistent smell of skunkweed that still clung to her hair. But she willed herself to open her Inner Eye, to show her at least a glimpse of the future, perhaps of the Lady she so dearly wanted to meet.
She concentrated harder on the twin circles of stars. One by one, she counted them, then gazed at their hues of green, scarlet, and lavender blue. All at once, she stopped. A particularly bright star, richly blue, drew her attention. She peered at it—when suddenly it seemed to flash.
A burst of blue light filled her mind. And with it, something more: an image, as visible as the Mysteries themselves. In the center of the inner circle, she could see a wide blue lake, shrouded by swirling mist. Then, emerging out of the mist, the form of a woman, very old but still tall and vibrant. And very beautiful. Her silver hair, bunched in countless curls, fell over her shoulders onto her shawl and gown of deep, textured green. Around her neck hung some sort of amulet made of leaves.
The Lady of the Lake. It was she! As Llynia watched, breathless, the woman raised her hand, palm out, in greeting.
Llynia’s heart leaped. This was the very same vision that she’d had before the Council of Elders! But this time it was much more vivid and detailed. So she’d really seen the Lady. And her powers were, indeed, returning.
Suddenly, the image blurred. Mist rose off the lake, consuming the woman’s gown, her face, and last of all, her hand. An instant later, she was gone.
But Llynia clapped her hands in delight. She’d seen a vision. A vision of the Lady! And the great enchantress had welcomed her—yes, with an open hand. So she would get there after all! She would find the secret lair, the blue lake covered in mist. And whatever else happened, that meant that she would surely become the next High Priestess—and the first to meet the Lady face-to-face.
Meanwhile, at the very bottom of the knoll, another sort of spiritual experience was taking place. An experience with less talking and more listening.
Elli sat with her back against the beech tree. Its broad trunk, silver in the starlight, wore knots and gnarls from many seasons. Like all the other trees in these hills, its branches seemed brittle with dryness, its leaves bland in color. Yet the old tree still looked sturdy, and much of its bark felt as smooth as a stream-washed stone. She had started her meditation, as always, by just closing her eyes and relaxing. Breathing slowly. Listening with all her being to the living earth, the rooted tree, and the all-embracing air.
Centered now in that place, and that moment, Elli stretched out her senses even farther. As if she were casting a net, or a spider’s web as light as the threads in the High Priestess’s gown, she reached out to the rock beside her foot, the sprig of brown moss along its edge, and the lone beetle passing there on the way home. As her senses expanded, she could smell the dried rose hips and the stand of maples growing below the knoll. She could hear the far-off whisper of wings, sparrows perhaps, high above the beech tree. And she could feel the faint yearning for moisture in the soil, just as she could in her own skin.
Some words came to mind, words written long ago by Rhia, daughter of Elen the Founder:
Listen to Creation’s morning,
Waking all around you.
Feel the spark of dawn within,
Breaking day has found you.
That was Rhia’s description of what real meditation was like. It made Elli feel that she understood something about the early Drumadians’ way of connecting with their world. How she wished she could still talk with Rhia! Of all the people who had been alive when Avalon was born, Rhia—or, as she was called by some, Rhiannon—intrigued her most of all. Elli’s father had told her many stories about Rhia: how she lived most of her childhood in a great oak tree in Lost Fincayra; how she saved the life of Merlin during his Quest of the Seven Songs; and how she helped her mother, Elen, found the Society of the Whole, becoming its second High Priestess. Elli had heard, too, that Rhia had resigned in a huff as High Priestess, storming out of the Drumadians’ compound with a vow never to return. But if that had really happened, no one had ever been able to tell Elli why.
Something fluttered on her knee. She opened her eyes. Resting on the worn cloth of her robe sat a beautiful moth whose light green wings, rimmed with white lines, tapered gracefully at the back. Elli looked into the moth’s dark brown eyes. Its feathery antennae quivered, and its wings closed together.
Gently, she stretched out a finger and brushed the moth’s leg. “So, little one, you are meditating, too. And why not? You’re a living creature, just like me. And you can be a priestess, too! A priestess of your own kind. With plenty to learn from the Great Tree, and lots to teach the likes of me.”
A shadow suddenly fell across her robe, blocking the starlight. The startled moth beat its wings and flew off. Then Llynia’s voice shattered the stillness.
“That’s outrageous, Elli.”
She looked up into the stern face of the priestess. And shook her head. “Outrageous? Why?”
Llynia pointed her finger at Elli’s face, as if she were lecturing a child. “Priestesses must be human, that’s why! Among all the creatures of Avalon, we’re the only ones with the knowledge, skills, and wisdom to serve as emissaries of the Goddess and God. To carry on the sacred work of the Order.”
Elli scrunched up her nose. “Is that what you think we are? Emissaries of the gods?” She stood up and faced the priestess who held the title of Chosen One. “Well, I disagree. And I think High Priestess Coerria would, as well.”
The mention of that name made Llynia scowl. “You have no right to use . . . to be . . . anything! You’re not a priestess, Elliryanna. Just a homeless vagabond! Someone a dottering old woman took pity on, nothing more.”
Elli’s face flushed. “She is ten thousand times the person—the priestess—that you’ll ever be!”
“Oh? You
’ll never last long enough to see what sort of priestess I will be.” A vengeful light came into Llynia’s eyes. “That I will see to myself.”
The long arm of Fairlyn, smelling of lemon balm, touched Llynia’s shoulder. But she brushed it off and glared at Elli for another moment. Finally she strode back up the knoll, muttering, “Moths as priestesses. Moths!”
From his seat by the cooking fire, Tamwyn had watched their encounter. For the first time in days, as he saw Elli standing alone under the beech tree, he felt a twinge of something other than anger. Something more like sympathy. Despite the fact that she’d given him two black eyes in less than a week, and most likely deserved whatever scolding she got, he wondered whether she might actually be more than just a violent hothead. But when she turned and looked his way, he averted his gaze.
Suddenly a small object sailed out of the night, swerved to avoid the stew pot, and crashed into Tamwyn’s shoulder. Whatever it was tumbled down onto his lap.
When he looked down, he saw what looked like a crumpled mass of old leaves. Then he noticed the subtle green aura that surrounded it. Touching it gently with his finger, he found a pair of thin flaps, one folded tight and the other pulled over a tiny, mouselike face with cupped ears. Wings!
A bat, then. Or some sort of bat spirit—shaped like its original host, as Fairlyn was shaped like a lilac elm, but different in many other ways. Whatever it was, it looked awfully scrawny . . . but still alive.
Gently, Tamwyn rubbed the back of the bat-thing’s neck, just behind his furry ears. You’re going to be fine, little one. Picked a soft place to land, you did. A bit dirty, but soft.
The green aura grew steadily stronger. Tamwyn could see a subtle brightening, especially in the creature’s eyes. With a sudden jolt, the little fellow rolled over, shook his head, and flapped a crumpled wing.
Aglow with green light, he turned toward Tamwyn. Then he started to speak—not right into Tamwyn’s mind, the way other animals did, but aloud, in the Common Tongue. And he spoke very fast, with a strange accent that Tamwyn had never heard before.