Suddenly she remembered. She lifted her head to gaze upon a landscape of spouting flames and belching smoke, fire-scorched ridges and plumes of volcanic ash. Fireroot. Not a single tree, nor even a blade of grass, grew on these cliffs. The foul smell of sulfur wafted over her.
Then, from somewhere deeper than her nostrils, she caught the barest whiff of something else—something resinous, rich, and alive. Brionna put her face in her hands and started to cry.
20 • Something Marvelous
As Scree stepped across the cavern, waves of orange light from the flame vent rippled over the rock wall. And over him, as well: Since he wore no shirt, like all eaglemen while in human form, the light touched his bare shoulders, his muscular arms, and the bridge of his hooked nose.
With all the intensity of a soaring eagle studying a fleeing hare in a field below, he studied the staff that leaned against the wall. Its gnarled shaft and knotted top pulsed with light from the flame vent—but not with light from within. No, right now it looked just the same as it had for most of the past seventeen years: an unremarkable piece of wood.
Unremarkable . . . until a few nights ago, when the staff had glowed with its own light, its own inner magic.
Scree’s yellow-rimmed eyes peered closely at the dark grains of the wood, the tight knot at the top, and the subtle lines along the shaft—which, in the cavern’s flickering light, looked almost like the carved edges of runes.
But he saw nothing magical. Just as he’d seen nothing unusual about the staff since that strange night. Had he just imagined the whole thing? He lifted his hand, studying the charred skin and blisters on his palm. No, he couldn’t have imagined that!
Though he hadn’t gone back up to the portal at the crater’s rim since that night, the memory of those green flames licked constantly at his thoughts. Why had the staff suddenly woken up, after all these years? Did it really nudge him to go outside that night—whether to search for Tamwyn, or to see the star vanish? And what could that change in the Wizard’s Staff possibly mean?
Scree scowled, scraping the floor with his sharp toenails. Even though he’d kept the staff by his side for so long, it seemed more mysterious than ever. As did the old man who’d given it to him on that dark night long ago.
“Who was he, anyway?” he demanded aloud.
As his words echoed around the cavern, he thought about the ancient, white-bearded man who had appeared out of nowhere on that fiery mountainside. Who could change into an eagle . . . or fly straight into a wall of stone. In some unfathomable way, Scree had loved that man, loved him instantly when he looked into his eyes, at once so young and so old. And more than that, he owed that man his life.
Slowly, his charred hand reached for the staff—but stopped just before grasping it. “I still love him, too. Despite the endless chore he gave me.”
He worked his fingers in the air. “But today the mystery will end. Today I’m going to find out just who he was.”
For Scree had a hunch—a hunch that had grown stronger with every passing year. What if that old man was really a wizard? And not just any wizard, but the wizard? The one whose name was . . .
“Merlin,” he said in a whisper that echoed lightly in the low-ceilinged cavern. “And if that’s true, then this”—he worked his fingers again—“is really Merlin’s staff.”
He swallowed. “Which could mean . . .” His voice trailed off, for he was daunted by the weight of his own words. “That I am the true heir of Merlin.”
At that instant, a feeble light flickered along the full length of the staff. A light that came from deep within the wood itself.
Scree’s heart raced. He remembered the very first time he’d touched the staff, that night on the fiery cliffs. As his small hand had curled around the wood, the old man had said, Promise me, now, that you will keep this staff safe. It is precious—more precious than you can imagine.
And then, in a whisper, he had told Scree about the child of the Dark Prophecy, who could bring ruin to Avalon. And about the wizard’s true heir, who could bring hope instead. Both, he had said, were born in that very year—something he thought no one else knew.
Now, both Scree and Tamwyn had been born that year . . . but as the years passed, Scree had grown increasingly sure that his brother couldn’t be either one. Tamwyn was just too innocent and trusting—not to mention clumsy. But he’d often wondered about himself. Could he possibly be one of the two prophesied people? After all, it was to him the old man had given the stick. And if he was one of them, which one? There had been times—especially after he’d made his terrible mistake and almost lost the staff—that he suspected he might be the Dark one. But in his heart, he’d always longed to be the other, who could do so much good for Avalon.
Because the old man had also told him something else: For the child who now guards it, and for the man who someday wields it, there is terrible, terrible danger. But when, at last, the wizard’s true heir appears—this staff will recognize him . . . perhaps even before he recognizes himself. When he touches the staff and says, “I am the true heir of Merlin,” you will see something marvelous. Marvelous indeed!
Why the staff had waited so long to show signs of magic, he didn’t know—but now, for whatever reason, the time had come. Scree felt a drop of perspiration roll down his temple, as the staff glowed still brighter. As if it sensed his intention, its own light now pulsed to the rhythm of his heart.
He moved his fingers closer to the shaft. He was ready now. Yes, ready to take the staff of Merlin and speak aloud those words—words that would mean so much for Avalon’s destiny . . . as well as his own.
21 • The Child of Krystallus
Tamwyn stood on the knoll, whose grass shone pale yellow under the stars, looking anxiously at the hoofprints of a stag. They were there, all right, fresh and clear—and exactly where he himself had come running, heart pounding, down the valley. But were they really his? How could that be?
“Porter,” snapped Llynia, seated on the grass by the smoldering fire. “Tomorrow I’ll need you to show me a faster route north. We’re running out of time.”
Reluctantly, he turned from the hoofprints—though he glanced back again for one more look. He stepped over to Llynia, knelt by the dying embers, and stirred them with his dagger to be sure no breeze could rekindle them. Then, sheathing his blade, he sat down facing her.
“If that’s what you want, then you’ve got to tell me exactly where we’re going.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she retorted, shaking her head of blonde hair. “You may know how to scare off a dragon, but I’m still the leader of this quest.” Her voice dropped to a growl. “Even if I need a little help now and then.”
Tamwyn tapped the empty stew pot beside him—a pot which, no matter how many scrubbings Fairlyn had given it, still smelled faintly like a dragon’s tongue. “But unless I know our final destination, how can I pick the best route?”
Llynia’s green chin darkened. “Quit gloating, porter! You already know what you need to know. We’re going to the portal up north at the snowfields.”
“You may not like what you find there.”
“Don’t try to give me any advice! All I want from you is the fastest route there, nothing else.”
He scowled at her. “Then you’ll have no interest in hearing that the portal you’re talking about was buried under a landslide last spring.”
“What?” The priestess stared at him, aghast. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Flipping fire dragons, I tried to tell you! At least half a dozen times. But no, you wouldn’t take any advice from a lowly porter.”
Elli, who had been walking up the slope from the old beech tree, with Nuic on her shoulder, frowned at him. “That may be true, but I don’t think you tried all that hard. Were you just going to let us find out when we got there?”
His dark eyes narrowed. “Maybe so. That’s just what a pair of gnome-brains like you deserve.”
Her face went livid. “
Don’t you ever call me that!”
“Hold on, Elliryanna.” Nuic’s stern command was enough to keep her from charging at Tamwyn, though just barely. “He doesn’t have any more eyes for you to blacken.”
Tamwyn touched one of his swollen cheeks. “I don’t know how you ever—”
“We don’t have time for this!” shouted Llynia. “Already we’ve lost a precious week. And now you tell me the portal’s blocked! I really don’t know what to think.”
“Tell you what I think,” shouted Henni from the branches of the beech, where he was munching on a raw turnip. “I think you should keep on leading us, Lady Greenbeard. Wherever you like! Getting lost has never been more fun, eehee, eehee, aha-ha-ha.”
Llynia just glowered at him. “Don’t use that name again, hoolah!”
Henni nodded solemnly. “Yes, Lady Greenbeard.” His circular eyebrows crinkled as he smirked. “Oops, sorry, hoo hoo heeheehee. Won’t slip again, Lady Greenbeard. Hoohoohee, hoo-yowwwch!”
He nearly fell off the branch from the force of Fairlyn’s swat. Despite having two of her arms splinted and wrapped in bandages made from one of Llynia’s woolen scarves, she still had plenty of arms left to strike with. And plenty of anger, too, as was clear from the strong scent of broken hoolah bones in the air.
Tamwyn picked up a clod of dry dirt and squeezed it so hard that it exploded with a puff. “Listen now, priestess. I only agreed to help you because—”
“Of your clumsiness, eehee,” called the hoolah.
“Because I chose to,” he continued, gritting his teeth. “I can leave any time, and then the only help you’ll have is that crazy beast over there in the tree.”
“No way,” objected Henni. “Where you go, I go, clumsy man! Life’s much more exciting with you around.”
Tamwyn glared at his tormentor, then faced Llynia again. “I will help you, if I can. But if you want me to find the fastest route, you must tell me more. I’ve heard you say you’re going to Woodroot, but which part? And how much time do you really have?”
Elli chewed her lip, then said to Llynia, “Maybe we should tell him.” Before Tamwyn could show any satisfaction—or surprise—that she’d actually agreed with him, she added, “He is without doubt the rudest, stupidest, clumsiest dolt in all of Avalon. But there’s still a chance he knows a better way to get where we’re going.” She pointed skyward, her expression anxious. “There are just five stars left now.”
“I know that already,” snarled the priestess. She turned to Tamwyn. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve reduced me to asking for your help? Haven’t you already humbled me enough?”
“You tell him, Llynia,” Nuic said sarcastically. “Especially after he pushed you into that big mud hole, and practically forced you down the throat of that dragon.”
She faced the sprite, but he’d already turned his most sympathetic shade of green. Then, before she could speak, Nuic grumbled, “Besides, any fool could figure out we’re going to the Lady of the Lake.”
“You idiot!” Llynia’s face twisted in rage. “You had no right!”
Nuic merely glowed greener.
Surprised, Tamwyn caught his breath. The Lady of the Lake? Now there was an adventure—the sort he’d always thought about. Dreamed about! But could he take that much time away from his search for Scree? Such an expedition could take several weeks, or even months. And yet... it was sorely tempting. How many chances did a wilderness guide get to visit Woodroot, and maybe see the legendary enchantress—the very person who first uttered the Dark Prophecy?
His eyes strayed back over to the hoofprints. Under the starlight, they glowed eerily, like eyes in the soil that were staring at him. He drew an uncertain breath, staring back. Perhaps . . . he could even ask the Lady about the destiny of a lad born in Fireroot in the Year of Darkness. A lad whose name meant Dark Flame.
Llynia reached over and shoved him. “You must not reveal this. To anyone!” She grabbed him by the shoulders. “You are now bound to the Society of the Whole. Swear this to me, porter. Swear now!”
Tamwyn shook free of her grip. “All right, then. You’re a damned fool! A Dagda-forsaken idiot. And a howling, hopeless, hysterical buffoon! Is that enough swearing for you?”
Llynia was so shocked, she just opened her mouth and gasped for air. Finally she found her voice, but could only mutter some lines from Elen’s Humble Primary.
From the branches of the beech tree, Henni whistled in amusement. Perhaps even in admiration. But Fairlyn, standing beneath him, started smelling like smoldering flesh, so he went silent.
From his seat on Elli’s shoulder, Nuic spoke as calmly as if nothing had happened. “Now that our destination is out, Llynia, can you tell us if you’ve had any of your visions lately? I suppose, hmmmpff, you haven’t seen any more of the Lady.”
She whirled on the pinnacle sprite. “As a matter of fact, I have! Just this evening, too.” She pointed at him so that her finger almost touched his flesh, now a grumpy-looking yellowish green. “I had the same vision as before. The Lady welcomed me to her lair. That’s right! She even raised her hand to me in greeting.”
Nuic’s color darkened. “She did, did she?”
“Yes,” declared Llynia proudly. “It was perfectly clear.”
The old sprite merely grimaced.
Elli glanced at him uncertainly, but he only said, “Put me down, Elliryanna.”
With a worried look, she set him down. He walked over to the small pool in the fold of the knoll and put his feet in the water, grumbling to himself.
Llynia turned back to Tamwyn. “I’d tell you what I think of you, porter. But . . . as a holy woman, I can’t!” She rose, fists clenched, and strode off toward the other side of the knoll. Fairlyn, smelling like something that had roasted too long on the fire, followed after her.
Tamwyn watched them go. Then, careful not to disturb Batty Lad (who was sound asleep in his tunic pocket), he got up and went to join Nuic. As he sat next to the sprite, he shook his head glumly. “Some quest this is.”
The sprite’s liquid purple eyes studied him for a moment. “I’ve seen worse. Not for several centuries, mind you, but I have.”
The young man sighed. His mind was bursting with questions—about the Lady, the stars, and most of all, the mysterious hoofprints in the mud by the pool. Anxiously, he touched one of them with his toe, as if he could somehow feel the truth of how it had gotten there. But he felt nothing . . . except confusion.
Absently, he picked up a small branch that the dragon’s tail had broken off the beech tree. Taking the dagger from his belt, he started to whittle, slicing long shavings that curled and fell to his feet.
Nuic turned his round face toward him. “So then, to get to the eastern end of Woodroot, where the Lady lives, which portal would you use?”
Tamwyn sliced off a particularly twisted shaving. “Well, to tell the truth, I’m not sure we should use any portal.”
Elli, who had come over to join them and was now standing behind Nuic, tossed her curls doubtfully. “Not use one? What are you saying?”
Without looking up from his whittling, he replied, “Portals are unreliable. You said so yourself, days ago. But up here in northern Stoneroot, they’re also scarce. There are only three that I know about—and one is that portal in Dun Tara that’s now buried under rocks. The second is over on the coast, but I’ve been told that its only outlet in Woodroot is in the far northwest, where the elves make magical musical instruments. And if Woodroot’s as big as this realm, that would be several weeks’ walk—or more—from where you want to go.”
“What about the third one?” asked Nuic. “Nobody uses it anymore.”
“Why not?”
Tamwyn dug his blade into the wood to cut through a knot. “Because it’s down inside the lair of those dragons I tracked.”
Nuic swished his feet through the water of the pool. “Hmmmpff. Our friend Llynia would just love that idea.”
“Wait, now.” Elli got down on one knee be
side them. “Are you sure there aren’t any more portals up here?”
Tamwyn rammed the dagger down the wood, slicing off a thick piece. “No. I’m not sure.”
“You must not go to other realms very often.”
He stopped whittling and looked straight at her. “I haven’t gone to other realms at all. Not since I came here seven years ago.”
“What? And you call yourself a guide?”
“If you must know, I’ve been looking for someone.”
“Right. Someone you were guiding, I’ll bet. And then led off a cliff.”
Tamwyn’s temples pounded, but he forced himself to stay calm. He sliced a few more curls of wood, then glanced at Nuic. “I thought we might try instead . . . the Rugged Path.”
The old sprite’s color turned as gray as many of the stones at the base of the knoll. “The Rugged Path? What do you know about it?”
“Just what I’ve heard from bards, really. It was first discovered back in the Age of Ripening, I think.”
“Hmmmpff. In the Year of Avalon 33, to be exact. Which you humans never seem to be, until it’s too late.” He shifted his weight, sinking his small legs deeper in the pool. “A boy named Fergus, a shepherd, found it. Saw a strange creature one day who led him to the Path. And when he entered, he went from Stoneroot to Woodroot, or the other way around. At least that’s the legend.”
Elli raised an eyebrow. “What kind of creature?”
“A deer.”
Nuic paused, glancing at Tamwyn, who had stiffened at the word. “A doe, pure white from head to hoof. Some bards say it was really Lorilanda, goddess of birth and flowering, on a visit from the spirit world. But if you ask me, it’s all just a load of gossip. And not very reliable gossip, either.”
“Why not?” asked Elli.
“Hmmmpff. For a start, the legend says the Rugged Path runs only one direction—but no one is sure which direction that is. It could go to Woodroot or from Woodroot, but not both. And if that’s not enough uncertainty for you, nobody knows for sure whether the Path even exists! In all my centuries in the mountains, I heard only a few claims of finding it, none of them reliable.”