The Great Tree of Avalon

  Many a bard had sung the story of this bell. Made from the belt buckle of a giant, melted down by the breath of a fire dragon, molded into shape by the hands of dwarves, and exquisitely decorated by faery artisans, it symbolized the Drumadians’ most basic ideal: unity and cooperation among all creatures. Some believed that the Buckle Bell, as it was fondly known, had been the idea of Elen the Founder. That would make it almost as old as the circle of stones that formed the compound’s Great Temple . . . and nearly as old as Avalon itself.

  The elderly priestess who stood beside the bell right now, wearing woolen earmuffs to protect what little hearing she had left, didn’t look much younger. Priestess Hywel’s few remaining strands of white hair bounced with each new clang. They also bounced with every wave of her hand, which was her signal to the team of eight obedient dog faeries—all with walnut brown fur, white wings, and dangling pink tongues—who pulled the bell rope on command.

  Hywel had lived in the compound longer than anyone— including High Priestess Coerria, now almost two hundred years old—and had been an Elder since before some of the other Elders were even born. And yet, though she bent low to the ground, her sharp eyes scanned everything nearby for any signs of disarray. For she took very seriously her title, Dean of Timeliness and Decorum—especially where young apprentices were concerned.

  As the bell’s final note faded away, over two dozen apprentices came running from different directions. For it was time to stop their classes, memorization work, craft projects, or service to their mentors: Formal Prayers were about to begin. And no one ever, ever missed Formal Prayers.

  Hywel watched closely as the apprentices approached the Buckle Bell. Her back straightened ever so slightly, as she felt a surge of pride at seeing the new generation of her beloved Order. Of course, she’d never reveal that pride to any of them. But as she watched, her old eyes glowed like the candle that burned in the holder by her feet—a candle that every senior priestess or priest carried today, the Flame of Faith holy day.

  All the apprentices, young women and men alike, wore the traditional garb of Drumadians: greenish brown robe, leather sandals, and a wooden clasp at the throat, carved in the shape of an oak tree. And all of them were joined by their maryths—distinctive companions whose loyalty would last as long as their lives as Drumadians. Hywel’s own maryth, a rather ancient grass snake wound around her forearm, also watched the approaching crowd.

  And what a crowd it was! Since, by Drumadian law, maryths could be any kind of creature but human, the young priestesses and priests were joined by a complete menagerie of does, stags, birds, beetles, dogs, cats, lizards, sprites, dwarves, faeries, and even a couple of tree spirits. These maryths, like the many who had bonded with Drumadians in the past, were as varied as all the creatures of Avalon. In fact, it was often said that maryths had just one quality in common: absolute devotion.

  The apprentices, in turn, bowed respectfully to the Elder. One teenage boy, who had shoved his friend jokingly a few seconds before, got shoved back just as he bowed. His foot kicked Hywel’s candle, splattering hot beeswax on his shin. He winced—but his pain was less from the burning wax than from the burning look he got from the old priestess.

  Slowly, the crowd dwindled as apprentices and maryths shuffled down the intricately carved wooden steps that led to a small, open-air theater: the Shrine of Elen. Here, they knelt before a statue, carved from the trunk of an oak tree, of Elen binding the leg of a wounded troll child. Just as the last person arrived, the whole group started to chant—the very first of a long litany of prayers to the Founder that would last all morning.

  Everyone spoke in perfect unison. Listening from her post up by the bell, old Hywel almost smiled. For no one lagged. No one forgot a phrase. And, of course, no one was absent.

  Except for Elli.

  Even as the bell began to toll, the young priestess, a newly admitted apprentice third class, had slipped out of sight. Ducking behind the apprentices’ dormitory, she had hidden among the burly roots of an ancient elm until the clanging finally ceased. Then a strange light came into her hazel green eyes. She ran a hand through her mass of brown curls—as thick as a faery’s garden—and darted off. As quietly as a wood elf she moved, making no sound but the soft jangle of the handmade harp slung over her back.

  And one more sound: the gruff hmmmpff that came now and then from the small pinnacle sprite who rode on her shoulder. At this moment, Nuic’s whole body—perfectly round but for his tiny arms and legs—darkened to brown, so that he looked almost like a second head upon her shoulders.

  “Hmmmpff. Skipping out of prayers again, are we?”

  “Sure,” answered Elli with a soft, melodic laugh. She padded past the Temple of Seven Fountains—now just seven trickles of water—before saying more. “No one will miss me, with everybody crowded into that little shrine. Not even that old goat who loves to yell at apprentices.”

  “Now, now,” chortled Nuic, his color brightening a shade. “No disrespect to your elders! Just because Hywel caught you out picking raspberries the other day, when you were supposed to be in recitation class, there’s no reason to get rude.”

  Elli suddenly swerved, hiding behind a cart full of squashes, carrots, and tomatoes—just in time to avoid a stern-faced priest carrying a tall candle. Right beside him trotted his maryth, a deep blue unicorn whose horn glowed dimly.

  Turning toward Nuic, she whispered, “You were right there with me, as I recall, soaking yourself in the stream while I got those berries.”

  Nuic’s color went misty blue, as if his round body was still immersed.

  “Right you are. I deserved that little bath, after two weeks of being your maryth! Why, I’ve never worked so hard— teaching you about herbs, reminding you where you’re supposed to be, and most of all, trying to keep you from getting expelled from the Order. Though I don’t know why! It’s bound to happen anyway, at this rate.”

  Again, his color darkened to brown. “Hmmmpff. I should have stayed in that pitiful little stream, even after that old goat told me to get out and do more to keep you out of trouble.”

  Elli’s eyes narrowed. “How come you can call her an old goat, and I can’t?” In a mischievous tone she added, “Aren’t you being disrespectful to your elders?”

  “For one thing,” grumbled the sprite, “I’m at least six or seven centuries older than she is. So she isn’t my elder. Not even close! And you, who are just sixteen, should appreciate that. And there’s another thing.”

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. “That old goat really is an old goat.”

  Elli started to laugh, when a pair of priestesses, deep in conversation, walked by the cart of vegetables. Each of them carried a beeswax candle, shielding it from breezes with an open hand. Behind one priestess glided an owl, gray wings fluttering with every swoop; behind the other shambled a medium-size brown bear. As they passed the cart, the bear grabbed a carrot and started munching—but not before giving a sly wink to the two fugitives behind the cart.

  “Let’s get moving,” said Elli with a shake of her abundant curls. “Before someone else sees us.”

  “Right. Maybe even someone with enough rank to expel you—and send me back to the mountains once and for all. Someone like High Priestess Coerria herself! Or that young twit who’s trying so hard to become the next High Priestess.”

  This time it was Elli’s skin that darkened, going from its usual ruddy complexion to something more like beet red. “Llynia. No one—not even the Chosen One to succeed Coerria—should be that stuck on herself.”

  Nuic reached up, grabbed a small tomato in his hand, and chewed it thoughtfully. “They say Llynia’s the youngest Chosen One in ages—since Elen’s own daughter, Rhia, almost a thousand years ago.”

  “She’s the stupidest one in ages,” muttered Elli. “The day before you came to the compound, she made me wash all the floors and windows of the woodworking lodge. Twice! And do you know why? Because I dared to speak to her maryth, a tree spir
it, without asking Llynia’s permission first!”

  “Hmmmpff. I guess if Hywel’s an old goat, then Llynia’s a young ass.”

  Elli grinned. Nuic might be as rough as a mountain boulder sometimes—and as hard to make smile—but she really did enjoy him. Even like him.

  “So tell me something, Nuic. What made you come here, anyway? Why did you ever leave your home way up there in the hills to become a maryth?”

  “Boredom, that’s all.”

  Elli frowned, not believing that for an instant. But she knew that Nuic wasn’t about to tell her more. Why he came to the Society of the Whole was a secret known only to him—and perhaps to High Priestess Coerria, who for some reason had assigned him to Elli.

  She sighed glumly. We both have our secrets, don’t we? At least nobody knew hers—just where she’d spent the past nine years. And with whom! Until, at last, she’d escaped. No, not even the High Priestess knew about all that. For if she did, she never would have allowed Elli to join the Order. That was certain.

  After glancing around to make sure that nobody was near, Elli darted out from behind the cart. She sped over to the millhouse, its enormous waterwheel barely turning in the low river that flowed through this part of the compound. She hopped across the bank, and started to run into some nearby trees—when she stopped, turned around, and loped back to the river. In one swift motion, she jumped down into the muddy channel, scooped up some water in her hands, and splashed Nuic in the face.

  “Wha-what was that for?” he sputtered.

  “You said you wanted a bath, didn’t you?”

  Elli didn’t notice, but as she climbed back up the bank, the sprite on her shoulder turned a pleasant shade of bluish green.

  Onward she ran, right through the moss garden that covered a whole hillside. Nuic had told her (with seriousness bordering on reverence) that this garden contained more than five thousand different kinds of moss from all the rootrealms. Mosses of every conceivable shade of green covered stones, tree trunks, footpaths, and benches; still more hung like beards from branches, filled the creases of boulders, and made shin-deep cushions for weary walkers. Hundreds of moss faeries, looking like tiny green humans with translucent wings, zipped across the hillside—tending, trimming, and carrying hollowed-out acorns filled with water. Thanks to the faeries’ hard work, the drought hadn’t yet harmed the lushest growth, although patches of brown were starting to spread across the hillside.

  Elli slowed down, looking cautiously from side to side, as she approached a wide walkway of gleaming white stones— the dividing line between the compound’s second and third Rings. Seeing no one, she leaped across the walkway. The stones flashed beneath her, reminding her of how they glowed at night under the dimmed stars, thanks to their coatings of élano.

  As she ran on, passing the entrance to a cavern of pink and violet crystals, she marveled at the sheer beauty of this place. Its overall design—from the seven concentric Rings that represented the seven sacred Elements of Avalon, to the remarkable trees chosen from every root-realm, to the majestic circle of stones that was both the compound’s Inner Ring and the Great Temple at its heart—made this the most inspiring place she’d ever seen. And that, of course, had been the goal of Elen and Rhiannon when they designed these grounds so long ago.

  Even as she ran, Elli couldn’t help but grin. She understood now why her father had loved this place so much during his years as a Drumadian priest . . . even if he, like Elli, had broken the rules now and then. She bit her lip. I wish I’d known him better. Him and Mama both.

  She kept on running, occasionally ducking behind trees, boulders, and wooden signs carved with prayer runes, to avoid being seen. At one point, she veered sharply, almost throwing Nuic off her shoulder. The sprite’s tiny feet pinched her skin, and he demanded, “Why do you have to go so far, if all you want to do is meditate?”

  Without slowing her stride, she answered, “I’ve told you before, the Great Temple is totally empty in the mornings. No one goes there, so no one disturbs me. And this is my best chance, when everyone else is at Prayers.”

  “Hmmmpff. There’s no difference, anyway, between a prayer and a meditation.”

  “But there is.”

  “What? Tell me, O High Hostess.”

  Elli slowed to a trot, then stopped by the edge of a circular mud pit that had once been a lily pond. Picking up a stone, she hefted it in her hand before hurling it out into the middle. It splatted on the damp mud.

  “All right,” she declared. “Try this. Prayer feels mostly like telling. Saying things to the gods—Dagda, Lorilanda, whoever. But meditation . . . that’s different. Meditation feels less like telling, and more like, well, listening.”

  Nuic shook himself, swinging his tiny arms. “Sounds pretty much the same to me.”

  “Know what, my little friend? You’re hopeless.”

  “We’ve been together for over two weeks, and you’ve just now figured that out? Hmmmpff, you’re dimmer than an ogre’s eyeball.”

  Starting off again, Elli jogged past the long flatrock building that held the pottery kilns. Trails of smoke drifted out of several chimneys. Then she sped through a grove of white birch trees, brought here all the way from Woodroot. She wasn’t completely sure, but it looked as if their leaves were actually turning color—golden yellow with hints of orange—just like local stones. Strange.

  She veered sharply to cut behind the high wooden fence that surrounded the residence of the High Priestess. This, she knew well, was the most dangerous part of her journey. Elders and others often visited the residence, striding through a simple oaken gateway in the fence. As she neared the gateway, she stopped abruptly. Hidden behind a hawthorn tree with branches as thick as her own hair, she crouched in silence, watching for any signs of trouble.

  All clear. Elli stood up and dashed past the opening.

  Just at that instant, someone stepped through the gateway—a priestess carrying a large red candle in an ornate holder. Elli smashed right into her. Hot wax sprayed everywhere, the senior priestess screamed, and both of them tumbled to the ground. Nuic went rolling into a thorny shrub.

  “Idiot girl! Idiot!” raged the priestess, her arms flailing wildly. Candle wax splattered her face, neck, and hair—but even so, Elli recognized her instantly.

  “Er, um . . . sorry about that, Priestess Llynia.”

  “You’ll be sorrier once I’ve—owww!” Llynia tore a big chunk of wax out of her straight blonde hair. “Once I’ve had you boiled to death. Beaten to death. And then expelled!”

  Elli glanced over at Nuic, now a mirthful shade of pink. Despite the trouble she was in, it was hard not to laugh out loud. Especially since Llynia didn’t exactly look like the second-highest-ranking priestess in the Society of the Whole. She looked a lot more like a country jester who’d just been splattered with cherry pies.

  “Oooh, I’ll get you for this,” Llynia declared in a malicious voice. She yanked at another glob of wax on her head, pulling out some hair by the roots. “Aaaghh! By the breath of Elen the Founder, I will. Death by drowning. Then torture. Then . . . more torture. Just count yourself lucky that Fairlyn, my maryth, isn’t here, or she’d have murdered you already.”

  Innocently, Elli said, “I thought the first Drumadian law forbids that.”

  Llynia scowled at her. She shook her head, making a big piece of wax flap against her nose. “Every rule has exceptions. For idiots. And assassins!”

  “What in Avalon’s name happened here?”

  A tall, lanky priest strode up, peering at them with eyes as keen as the silver-winged falcon perched on his shoulder. He set down his candle, and helped Llynia to her feet. She shook herself free of his grip and started to sputter so angrily that saliva dribbled down her chin. Just then another priestess, with a sallow face, joined them. Seeing Llynia, she gasped—almost dropping the ginger cat in her arms, as well as her own candle.

  Llynia’s wax-covered hand pointed at Elli’s face. “This girl . . . attac
ked me. Me! The Chosen One.”

  The sallow priestess gasped again, while the cat she held snarled and clawed at the air.

  Elli waved her hands in protest. “No, I didn’t! It was just an accident.”

  “A nearly fatal accident,” hissed Llynia. “Why you . . . you . . .” She grabbed a clump of red wax that was dangling from her eyebrow, swinging like a pendulum, and threw it at the ground. “What’s your name, girl? I’ve tried to forget, since the last time we met.”

  With a gulp, Elli answered. “Elliryanna Lailoken.”

  At this, the tall priest stiffened. He turned toward Elli, studying her strangely.

  “Is something wrong here?” asked a quiet voice, just above a whisper, from the gateway.

  “Wrong?” shrieked Llynia, whirling around. “Wrong? Let me tell you how—”

  She stopped herself abruptly, seeing who had joined them. Everyone else, including Elli, fell silent as well.

  There by the wooden gate stood an elderly priestess—almost as old as Hywel, perhaps. Yet she seemed much more spry. And, to Elli’s mind, much more beautiful. She carried no maryth, at least none that could be seen, although Elli suspected that her maryth would be as remarkable as the priestess herself.

  The woman’s long white hair fell to the middle of her back, and her crystal blue eyes were like prisms that caught light, bent it, and set it free again. She stepped toward the others, moving with striking grace and beauty—the sort of grace that is only earned by struggle, and the sort of beauty that is only deepened by time.

  “High Priestess Coerria,” said Llynia, controlling her voice so she no longer ranted. She bowed her head in greeting, which sent flecks of wax falling like hailstones.

  “Llynia,” said the elder woman softly, bowing her own head.

  Her long white locks rippled as she moved. So did her gown, the formal dress of the High Priestess—said to be the very same one that Elen herself had worn. Woven of pure spider’s silk, it had been a gift to Elen from the great white spider of Druma Wood, the magical forest in Lost Fincayra that had sheltered Elen’s daughter, Rhia, for many years. So often did Elen refer to that beautiful forest—and wear that dress—that her followers came to be called Drumadians.