Though she was still panting, and her limbs felt as heavy as stones from the quarries, she forced her thoughts back to the present. She had a task to do—and a life to save. Granda’s life!
She sat up. But the sight that met her gaze almost made her collapse back on the rock. The lush border forest that grew right to the canyon rim, and that marked the boundary between Woodroot and Waterroot—El Urien and Brynchilla, as Granda would say—was gone.
Gone!
For half a league along the canyon wall, the border forest had been ripped away. Torn out by the roots. Slaughtered in a massive clear cut.
All that remained of those verdant groves near the canyon, where creatures always ran free, swinging from ropemoss and leaping from branches, was a wasteland of death. Everywhere lay severed trunks, broken limbs, slashed branches, and torn hunks of bark. The very heart of this forest had been brutally hacked to shreds and left to rot. And where were the creatures—the foxes, hedgehogs, woodpeckers, and deer?
A wind blew down the canyon, whipping the surface of the white lake behind the dam, wailing across the redrock cliffs. When it reached the murdered strip of forest, though, the sound of the wind changed to a deeper, heartrending moan. She felt sure it was a cry of pain, a cry of anguish from all the trees and creatures who had once lived in that place . . . and now were gone.
The scaffolding for the dam, thought Brionna, her jaw clenched tight. And all those logs for the barges. This is where they came from! But the trees, unlike Brionna and her grandfather, had no chance to survive. No chance at all.
As the elf maiden lifted her gaze beyond the slaughtered stumps, she could see the reassuring greenery of Woodroot’s more distant hills—ridge upon ridge of living, breathing trees. Although the forest looked dryer, and its colors paler, than in seasons past, she knew that it was still very much alive. Within that greenery, branches still clacked and rustled and swished. Fawns still cavorted and tried to outrun their mothers. Larks still whistled freely and yellow swallowtail butterflies swooped in search of tasty blossoms. The song of the forest, one melody and many, still could be heard in those hills.
And yet, for Brionna, that song would now always carry another note. A note of pain, and loss, and the moaning wind.
She had no idea how long it took her to cross that stretch of ravaged land. She only knew that she seemed to be walking over an open, bleeding wound that could never truly heal. As she trudged across the clear cut, stepping over the hacked remains of so many innocent lives, she felt sick. Wretchedly sick. And she also felt angry—at the sorcerer, for creating this horror, and at herself, for joining in it. How can you help that scourge of a sorcerer? What possible reason could be good enough?
She sighed, knowing the answer: Tressimir. Granda. Despite everything she’d seen, his life was reason enough.
In time, she stepped into the living forest. As if she’d passed through a portal to a whole new realm, everything changed in the span of that single step. Her bare feet bounced on the loam, soft and rich and full of tiny creatures crawling or burrowing. Though it felt much dryer under her toes than usual, this soil seemed like wading in a pond compared to the arid rocks of the canyon.
And the smells . . . oh, the smells! Zesty resins, sweet ferns, woody bark, rich mushrooms, nutty shells, delicate lichen, tangy berries, and so much more filled her nose and lungs.
She heard sounds of chattering squirrels and slithering snakes; saw colors in bursts of green and hints of scarlet; and felt sensations of wonder, surprise, and renewal all around. For she had entered the living forest. She had come home.
At least for a while. Brionna turned west, away from the deepest groves of Woodroot, but toward a nearby portal that she knew well. She had been there many times before with Granda—who, despite his years, was always curious to learn about other peoples and other realms. The scattered races of the elves intrigued him especially, so they had traveled through the portal several times to visit the sea elves of southern Brynchilla, and once even to meet the dangerous dark elves of Lastrael.
But now—for the first time—she would take that portal to Rahnawyn. Fireroot. To seek out a crater with towers like teeth—and a wizard’s staff that would buy her grandfather’s life.
As she hopped across a dry streambed, whose waters had vanished along with the river now trapped by the sorcerer’s dam, she pinched her lips. The sorcerer thinks that staff, that bit of magicked wood, is so very valuable. The fool! Far greater magic is here—right here in the living forest.
Not wishing to be seen—or slowed down—Brionna moved as lightly as a shred of mist through the trees. She carefully avoided the pathways often used by her fellow wood elves. How could she ever explain to them what she was doing? Besides, they might even try to stop her from helping the sorcerer.
She crawled through a tunnel of poky hawthorn boughs to screen herself from some elves who were busily harvesting almonds and walnuts. And she made a wide detour through a meadow of talon grass, which clutched at the hem of her bark cloth robe, just to be sure she’d miss one of the elves’ largest settlements. As she glimpsed the ring of tree houses built in the boughs of eight enormous elms, her throat tightened.
Could she chance stopping by there? In the highest tree house, she’d probably find her friend Aileen, who was well on her way to becoming a master woodworker. Aileen would set aside her carving tools and make Brionna a pot of hot hazelnut tea, sweetened with honey and cinnamon, as she’d done so many times before. Just a brief visit couldn’t do any harm...
Brionna bit her lip, knowing better. And continued on her way.
As she passed by a meadow where honeysuckle had bloomed before the frost, she stopped abruptly. There, leaning against a maple tree, rested a longbow. Carved of springy cedar, it looked in good condition, except for its broken string. Some careless archer had evidently left it there, along with a slim quiver of arrows that lay on the maple’s roots. She hesitated—the archer could be planning to return, and probably needed the bow and arrows.
Not as much as I need them, Brionna thought grimly. She grabbed the weaponry and kept walking.
At last, she approached the portal, a circle of green flames that sat between two large boulders. Eerie light, shimmering constantly, danced along the sides of the boulders, and over the branches of a towering spruce.
Before entering the portal, Brionna sat down under the spruce to restring her bow with some sturdy thread from her robe. As she pulled out a loose thread (not hard to find, after her climb up the canyon wall), she thought about her plan. Or really, her lack of a plan. Why, she wasn’t even sure what this staff looked like!
No matter. She’d figure it out. She just had to. Whatever it took, she would find the staff, take it from whoever guarded it, and return before the stars of the constellation vanished completely. Then she would bring Granda back home.
She had almost finished tying the bowstring when she heard an odd sound. Part rumble, part gurgle, and part roar, it seemed almost like a voice. But it was unlike any voice she’d ever heard before. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she pressed against the trunk of the spruce and sat as still as only a wood elf can.
With every passing second, the sound grew louder. And stranger. Then, to Brionna’s amazement, out of the trees strode an elderly dwarf. At least he was short enough to be a dwarf—though his bulbous, potato-size nose and his unusually wide rump seemed to belong to someone bigger. Under his mop of white hair, wild pink eyes gleamed. Perhaps to cover his rump, he wore a thick woolen vest that reached down to the bottom of his baggy leggings.
The dwarf was trying to sing . . . or maybe to frighten people away. As he neared the portal, Brionna could make out his words:
Well, pinch me nose, I don’t suppose
I am a flapsy bird:
Me songly croon’s so out o’ tune
Like none you’ve ever heard!
I withers every word.
Now, pulls me lip, don’t ever quip
I am
a camelump:
That bump you see in back o’ me
Is really just me rump!
Though wider than a stump.
Just who am I? Me heartly cry—
Life’s making fun o’ me.
Not short or tall, not much at all,
I hates the mystery!
Certainly, definitely, absolutely.
Well, tweaks me ear, it’s far from clear
I am a websy duck:
Me tries to swim are truly grim,
Just squirmsy in the muck!
A yucksy sort o’ luck.
Now, strips me nude, I won’t conclude
I am a stingsy bee:
Though very least I loves to feast
Insides a honey tree!
Me favored place to be.
Just who am I? Me heartly cry—
Life’s making fun o’ me.
Not short or tall, not much at all,
I hates the mystery!
Certainly, definitely, absolutely.
Brionna’s deep green eyes opened wide. Could this be true? She had learned enough history from her grandfather to know the name of the person who, in ancient times, made famous that phrase: Certainly, definitely, absolutely.
Shim. The little fellow, no bigger than a dwarf, who had always insisted that he was really a giant. Just a very small giant! He’d been one of Merlin’s best friends in Lost Fincayra. Why, in Merlin’s first great battle with Rhita Gawr, it was Shim’s heroic sacrifice that led to the legendary Dance of the Giants—and Merlin’s ultimate victory.
And in that moment of triumph, deep magic had swirled through the immense stones that were the scene of Shim’s sacrifice—stones that would later become the Great Temple of the Drumadians. As a result, Shim not only survived, but grew—so large that he stood, in his own words, as tall as the highliest tree. As tall as a true giant.
Brionna shook her head. She’d always loved that tale. But it had happened more than a thousand years ago! Now, giants were among Avalon’s longest-lived creatures. Everyone knew that. They didn’t last as long as people with wizard’s blood, perhaps. But they often lived for a thousand years or more, which was twice as long as elves—who themselves lived twice as long as Avalon’s humans.
And yet . . . if this fellow really was Shim, how did he get so small again?
Suddenly she bit her lip. If this was indeed Shim, he would have spent a great deal of time with Merlin. The Dance of the Giants had been only the start of their adventures together—adventures that continued even after the Lost Fincayrans won back their wings and Avalon was born. Hadn’t Granda said that Shim even fought right along with Merlin in the War of Storms?
And if he’d seen a lot of Merlin, he would also have seen a lot of his staff! He might know how to recognize it. Or even how to use it.
Brionna’s heart pounded with excitement. In one graceful motion, she stood up beneath the spruce. The dwarfish fellow, who had been peering into the circle of green flames between the boulders, jumped backward. His pink eyes glared at her.
“What strangely creature is you, who sproutses right out o’ the ground like a tallsy tree?”
“Just an elf.”
“Bust a shelf, you says? Why would you wants to do that?” He scratched his head of white hair. “Maybily I didn’t hears you right. Old Shim’s ears aren’t hearing so clearly these daylies.”
Brionna caught her breath at hearing his name. “I’m just an elf!” she shouted so he could hear. “My name is Brionna!”
He bowed, so low that his bulbous nose struck a spruce branch. “I is pleased to meets you, Shionna.”
“Brionna.”
Shim bowed again. “Rowanna.”
Giving up on her own name, she decided to confirm his. She called right into his ear, “Are you really Shim? The famous Shim?”
The pink eyes went suddenly dim. “I was, yes, a longsy time ago. Certainly, definitely, absolutely.”
He looked down at his feet and scowled. “Until I started shrunkeling again! I don’t knows why such a cruelsy thing should happen. But about seventy years ago, I begins to shrunkle. And shrunkle. Now I is so smallsy that lots of giants, even the ones who usedly called me Sir Shim the Brave, don’t recognize me. Or don’t even sees me!”
Despite her own problems, Brionna couldn’t help but feel touched by his story. She put her hand on his sagging shoulder. “You’re still, ah, very brave.”
Offended, he pulled away. “Still a hairy knave? That’s not a nicely thing to say.” Then a look of determination filled his face. “I tells you what I am, though. I is still very brave.”
She had to bite her tongue to keep a straight face. “I know, I told you I do.”
“You stole a moldy shoe?” He shook his head. “That’s not enoughly reason to enter a portal, Rowanna. Portals can be dangerously, you know.”
Too frustrated to speak again, she just looked at him.
Shim’s face brightened. “Now, I has a goodly reason.”
“What?” she shouted.
He cocked his head. “Can I trustly you?”
Vigorously, she nodded.
He glanced warily to both sides before whispering, “I is goings to find something magical. Wizardly magical.”
Brionna gripped his arm. “Not . . . the staff?”
He shook his head. “No, no, not for laughs. I is seeking Merlin’s very ownly staff! It could takes me years of searching, and I isn’t even surely it’s in Avalon. But Merlin oncely said he might leave it behind, so it could somedayly helps his truly heir. And if that’s really, truly, honestly so—it would be the only thing in Avalon with enoughly magic to makes me tall again. As tall as the highliest tree!”
It took Brionna another full hour to convince Shim that she wanted to join him on his quest. That she knew where the staff might be found. And that she could help him focus his thoughts on their destination in Fireroot.
This was no small matter. Both their minds needed to be clearly focused, or the portal would carry them to different places altogether. Or worse. For portals magically disassembled people, carried them along through the innermost veins of the Great Tree, and then reassembled them as they arrived. If their minds weren’t completely clear about their destinations, so that every last particle of their beings was carried along, they could easily lose their way . . . or their lives. And even with total concentration, things could still go wrong: Some portals—especially in Airroot—seemed to have minds of their own, choosing random destinations for travelers.
In sum, traveling through portals was at best a delicate art. In the words of the famous wood elf Serella, who was the first person to journey through an enchanted portal and survive, back in the Year of Avalon 51: “Portalseeking is a difficult way to travel, yet an easy way to die.”
Holding hands—the customary way to enter a portal with another person—Brionna and Shim strode into the shimmering circle of flames. The elf, her face rigid, said only one word: “Fireroot.”
For his part, Shim drew a deep breath. Then he muttered, “I’ll finds it, I will! Certainly, definitely, absolutely.”
19 • The Smell of Resins
Green flames burst over Brionna and Shim, crackling with heat and light. And Mystery.
Suddenly the two travelers were gone. Incinerated, but not burned. Swallowed, but not destroyed. For they had plunged deep inside the veins of the living, breathing Tree of Avalon.
The last thing Brionna remembered, as she entered the portal, was that loud crackle of flames. She knew, in that instant, she had disappeared not just from that particular spot in Woodroot’s forest, but in a deeper sense, from herself. As pulsing rivers of green light swept her away, she joined with the Great Tree—body, mind, and spirit. If she still existed at all now, it was merely as part of Avalon’s breath and blood.
Downward she fell—downward and inward. Deeper and deeper, farther and farther. She had entered the Great Tree as utterly, as seamlessly, as the tiniest drop of water, the
slightest grain of soil, the smallest spark of light.
A smell, rich and resinous, overwhelmed her. It was the smell of the forest glade, the sprouting seed, the woodland mushroom, the moist banks of a rill. It blended fallen leaves and tiny shoots, old fur and newborn skin, warm bark and feathers floating on a breeze. This was the smell, she knew, of élano: the essential, life-giving sap of the Tree.
The pulsing rivers carried her, pulled her, and held her all the while. All this without motion, at least not physical motion. For now Brionna’s whole being had merged into Avalon, just as a breath merges into the breather. She was both at once—air and lungs; blood and veins; heart and soul.
She was inside the Tree.
She was part of the Tree.
She was the Tree.
Down, down, down she flowed, moving ever deeper, always surrounded by that resinous smell. Green lights flashed, then dimmed, then flashed again. Rays of dark red and deep brown sparkled, then vanished. Spots of yellow appeared, fluttering like a flock of butterflies, before dissolving into the ever-flowing green.
Everywhere she heard a sound: heaving, surging, coursing without end—the sound of light and soil and air uniting. The sound of life first sprouting, and growing, and finally dying, only to renew itself and sprout again. Branches reach skyward—stretch, bend, or break—but the breathing continues, the breathing goes on. Again and again, again and again. For every creature, for every time.
All at once, the resinous smell intensified. Brionna felt a sudden sense of herself return, a self she had long ago forgotten. And even more strongly, she felt a pang, an ache, deeper than just her body or mind—an ache of loss for what she had been, of sorrow for what she was leaving behind.
A green light was growing. Right in front of her it swelled and shimmered, crackling loudly. So loudly that she had to strain to hear the sound of breathing, her own and Avalon’s.
Flames! She toppled headfirst through the portal, along with Shim. For a few seconds she lay there, facedown in the black soil that had been charred by countless seasons of fire, unsure just where—and who—she was.