At that moment, Fairlyn dipped one of her thinnest boughs into the pot with the facial mud. The smell of roses intensified. The preparation was almost ready. Just a few more minutes. And then—the facial, what Llynia felt sure would be her favorite part of her experience in the Baths. Not even the clumsy hands of that young wretch could botch a facial! And just to make sure, Fairlyn would be watching.
Llynia raised herself a bit higher in the pool and laid her head back against the pillow of moss. Her feet sloshed in the warm water, splashing the departing toe-scrub faeries. And she thought back dreamily to yesterday’s Council of Elders, and what had happened there.
She recalled how impressive the Great Temple had seemed when she entered, striding into the circle of stones. Surely those stones hadn’t looked so magnificent, so regal, since the earliest days of Avalon—when they were first set in place by Elen and her followers after being carried all the way from Lost Fincayra. The entire circle fairly glowed with midday starlight. And the Elders who gathered there, from all Seven Realms, gave an air of profound importance—and expectation—to the meeting.
Just as Llynia had expected, the session began with many of those Elders, joined by their maryths, describing the worsening drought. Upper Waterroot (called High Brynchilla by most), as well as parts of Stoneroot and Woodroot, had been hardest hit. Frighteningly, those places weren’t just withering, but also graying: Even their colors seemed to be drying up. Could something have caused a change in weather patterns? Or could something have altered the waters of High Brynchilla, believed to flow through deep underground channels into the neighboring realms? No one could say.
Then, with growing anxiety, Llynia had listened as more voices—and more troubles—seized the Council’s attention. From every realm, Elders told strange and shocking tales. A new breed of flying beast, with transparent body and deadly talons, had been attacking people in even the remotest villages. These creatures traveled through the portals, so it was impossible to say just where they came from—or would next appear. In addition, one clan of eaglefolk in Fireroot had broken off from the rest of its noble kind, and was ruthlessly slaying and robbing. Angry flamelons were threatening all-out war against them, and other eaglefolk as well.
On top of that, the gnomes’ bloody raids were growing worse, especially in Mudroot. Many humans, including priestesses and priests, had been murdered in their sleep. And most disturbing of all, perhaps, came the news that some groups of humans, angry and scared by all these attacks, were banding together to slay nonhuman creatures—a direct violation of the basic Drumadian laws that governed every realm.
By this point, fear was palpable in the Great Temple. So was confusion. Cries of woe and calls for justice drowned out any discussion. When one Elder tried to urge compassion for the gnomes, she was rudely shouted down. Only when High Priestess Coerria herself rose to speak, and read aloud a soothing letter from Hanwan Belamir, the famous teacher from Woodroot, had the group quieted—though just briefly.
For everyone there had known the darkest truth of all: that this was the seventeenth year since the Year of Darkness. And that, if the Lady of the Lake’s prophecy was correct, a child had been born in that year. A child who would ultimately destroy Avalon. A child who, like most wizards and sorcerers, would come into his or her full powers at age seventeen—this very year.
Llynia sank deeper into the bathing pool, sloshing warm water over her toes, smiling broadly. For now she recalled, with delight, her favorite moment of the meeting, the moment when everything had changed.
She had stepped forward and raised her hands, calling for attention. It amazed her even now that she had acted so boldly, and spoken so confidently. She had declared for all to hear that she’d had a vision the night before, after evening prayers—a vision of the Lady of the Lake herself. Merely uttering the name of this great enchantress, who was both revered and dreaded across the realms, was enough to bring silence to the meeting. A hush fell over the Elders and their maryths; even the massive pillars of the stone circle seemed to lean toward Llynia, listening.
For the Lady of the Lake was shrouded in mystery, as thick as the mists that swirled around her magical lair somewhere in Woodroot. No one knew where she had come from, nor how she had gained her powers. Even her precise location was a mystery: Many had tried to find her, but all had failed—and some had never returned.
But two facts about her were known for certain. First, she was very old—old enough to have known the great wizard Merlin during his last days in Avalon. Together, they had finally ended the terrible War of Storms and crafted the famous Treaty of the Swaying Sea that all creatures had signed (except gnomes, gobsken, ogres, trolls, changelings, and death dreamers). And second, she had always shown a special interest in the Society of the Whole. Just why this was, nobody could explain, but the Lady seemed to hold Drumadians with some esteem.
And so, down through the centuries, she had appeared occasionally in visions—but only to the High Priestess. Or to someone soon to become High Priestess. These visions were events of enormous importance—although none had occurred for well over a hundred years, just after Coerria herself had become leader of the Drumadians. It was also said that, one day, the Lady of the Lake would do more than appear in a vision, that she would actually welcome a priestess into her lair—and that this priestess could transform the Society of the Whole, becoming its greatest leader since Elen.
Of course, no priestess had ever actually been welcomed into the Lady’s enchanted lair. Nor had any priestess ever had a vision that invited her to come.
Until now.
Llynia cackled softly, blowing some pink bubbles off her chin, remembering the hushed excitement of everyone in the Great Temple. And, best of all, the look of surprise—no, shock—on Coerria’s face. For not only had the vision of the Lady come to Llynia, thus ensuring that she’d soon be High Priestess, the vision had not come to Coerria. So Coerria’s time, at last, was coming to an end.
Oh, but that wasn’t all! Llynia swept her hands along the mossy edges of the pool, combing the thick strands with her fingers, feeling their luxuriant softness. And she nodded, remembering how much she’d savored announcing her final news to the Council of Elders: In her vision, the Lady of the Lake had taken her into the lair!
After that announcement, the full Council had broken into cheers. All except Coerria, of course, and a few of her most loyal dunces, such as Lleu. But the Council had then moved swiftly to authorize Llynia to take a journey to Woodroot—to find the Lady of the Lake, and to seek her wise counsel in this time of such grave difficulties.
But first . . . to take a bath, as only the Drumadians can prepare. Llynia worked her fingers in the warm water, fingers that would before long touch the very hand of Avalon’s greatest enchantress. Then she bit her lip—not in doubt, exactly, but with a trace of uncertainty.
What was it, really, that she had seen in her vision? It was just a flash—a brief, distorted image. She had seen the Lady stepping toward her, on the waters of a magical lake surrounded by mist. The Lady raised her hand in greeting . . . and then suddenly vanished.
That was all. Was it really what she’d thought it was, the long-awaited welcome? Or not?
And something else troubled her, as well. Something more fundamental. For some time now, she’d been worried about her very gifts as a seer, gifts that had allowed her to claim remarkable rank and power at a very young age. Visions had come to her often since childhood—the first when she was no more than three, warning her about a fierce hail-storm. But more recently, her powers seemed to be fading. Nobody else knew the truth . . . but until that vision of the Lady, she’d had none at all for almost a year. More than anything, she hoped that this new vision was a sign that her powers were, at last, returning.
Llynia’s hands curled into fists, and her jaw clenched. Seeing this, the ever-attentive Fairlyn started wafting smells of lilac blossoms, to bring peace of mind, and of thyme, to soothe worries.
Slowly, a sense of peace returned to Llynia. Her thoughts came back to her facial, which should be ready by now. She could almost feel the tingle of that specially prepared mud on her cheeks and chin, nose and brow. And the penetrating warmth that would protect her face from even the harshest starlight.
Then, to her delight, Fairlyn lifted up the clay pot holding the mud. It was time.
But where was that apprentice? “Get over here, girl!” Llynia’s cry was so loud that several hovering faeries jolted in fright and zipped off to hide by the waterfall. “Right now, I say! Before my facial goes stale.”
Llynia growled to herself. She’d only allowed that poisonous girl into the Baths at all because of the facial. Since it had to be applied very quickly, it needed hands much larger than faeries’ to do the job. Human hands, if possible. But what was the point if Elli ruined everything by being so slow?
Then a comforting thought came to her, one that made her feel more content than all of Fairlyn’s wondrous aromas. The first thing she’d do as High Priestess—the absolute very first—would be to toss that little wretch out of the Society. And into the nearest ditch.
Elli jogged over. “Here I am, priestess.”
“Good,” snapped Llynia. And then, chuckling to herself as she feigned a tone of concern, she said, “I was starting to worry about you.”
Elli’s face hardened. “No you weren’t. You were just worrying about yourself, as usual.”
Llynia gasped in surprise, inhaling a mouthful of pink bubbles. She coughed—and splattered bubbles all over Fairlyn’s trunk. The tree spirit started to smell a bit like rotten eggs.
“Get on with your job, girl. Now! I’ll take care of your insolence later.”
With that, Llynia leaned back against the moss and closed her eyes. “Remember, now, be quick as you can. And don’t miss any spots.”
“Don’t worry,” grumbled Elli.
She dug some mud out of the pot and started to apply the facial. Spreading it over Llynia’s face, she glanced up at Fairlyn, whose large eyes were watching her suspiciously. Elli smiled sweetly, hoping to lull the tree spirit into leaving them alone. But Fairlyn never moved, observing Elli’s hands as they moved across Llynia’s cheeks, temples, and forehead. Elli bit her lip, afraid her plan wasn’t going to work.
Then came a ruckus from over by the gate. And a crash. Two faeries, squabbling over a bottle of oil, had dropped it, shattering glass on the ground. Fairlyn stepped away for just a few seconds to clean up the mess, swatting her arms at the faeries and smelling like moldy worms.
That was all the time Elli needed. With a furtive glance over at Nuic, still soaking in the spray of the waterfall, she pulled out of her robe a small leather satchel. Quickly, she dumped its contents—some sparkling green powder—into the pot, then stirred it all in.
By the time Fairlyn returned, Elli was gently applying more mud to the priestess’s brow. She continued, filling in the gaps on Llynia’s nose, massaging her temples, and coating her eyelids. As she worked, she kept herself from laughing, or doing anything else that might arouse suspicion, by reciting to herself the Drumadians’ first prayer—composed, it was said, by Elen herself. It was called the Humble Primary:
O Goddess, God, and all there is—
Keep me
Humble as the lowest roots,
Grateful for the living seed,
Mindful of the farthest branch,
Joyful for the distant stars.
“There,” Elli declared at last. “All done.”
“Goob,” snarled the priestess, unable to open her mouth with the mask of mud. “Now ged oub! Leab me alobe.”
“Whatever you say.” Elli rose to her feet and walked briskly back to the waterfall at the far end of the Baths.
When she arrived, she peered into the spray at the top. There was Nuic, wiggling his tiny toes, as waves of turquoise and violet flowed through his body. She could easily imagine him spending much of his life just like this, soaking contentedly in alpine streams.
“I’m done,” she announced.
Nuic opened his eyes. “Did she drown?”
“No. Afraid not.”
“Hmmmpff, too bad. Would have made her better company.”
Elli covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. “She’s over there now, resting after the facial.”
“Hope she gets a good rest. About twenty thousand years, maybe.”
Then, noticing Elli’s grin, the sprite’s round face wrinkled. “You did something, didn’t you? Tell me, you minx. What have you done?”
“Well,” she whispered, “let’s just say I did my best to make this facial . . . unforgettable. I, um, added a little ingredient of my own.”
Nuic’s purple eyes swelled larger. “Oh, did you now? Not, by some remote chance, my last satchel of deepergreen powder? I couldn’t find it this morning. Been using it to perk up the ferns in Coerria’s garden.”
Elli reached into her robe, pulled out the empty satchel, and tossed it over to Nuic’s feet on the wet stone.
The sprite tried to look angry, but Elli could see he was more amazed than anything. “You didn’t really?”
She nodded cheerily. “Let’s just say that after this facial, Llynia’s going to be the envy of everyone.”
“Especially the ferns!” Nuic released a splashy-sounding laugh. “Why, they’ll be just green with envy.”
Elli, too, burst out laughing. “But nobody will be greener than Llynia.”
“You wicked, wicked child,” scolded Nuic. “That was a dreadful, terrible, cruel, utterly horrible thing to do.” His eyes positively sparkled. “Well done, Elliryanna. Well done.”
Elli beamed. “Couldn’t have done it without you. That’s one advantage of having a maryth who’s also an expert herbalist.”
“Don’t try to pin this on me,” he answered gruffly. “If Mistress Greenface over there finds out how it happened—”
“She won’t,” assured Elli. “She’ll just think it was some mislabeled bath ingredient. Happens all the time, the faeries told me so.”
“Hmmmpff.” He shook himself in the spray. “I tell you, if she ever does find out, she’ll curse the teeth right out of your head! And that’s only the beginning.”
Elli looked over at Llynia, lying quietly in the swirling waters of the pool. Pink bubbles ringed her face like a frilled collar . . . and the slightest hint of green was starting to show in the mud beneath her eyes.
The rim of the pool, all the way around, was lined with faery people. They were, for a change, at rest—chatting and drying their translucent wings. And waiting for their next task from Fairlyn, whose arms were busily putting dozens of soaps, powders, and herbs back on the shelves. As Fairlyn’s eyes glowed in satisfaction, the Baths smelled of chestnuts warmed by mid-day stars.
What smell, Elli wondered, would Fairlyn produce once she noticed the changing color of the mask? Not to mention what lay beneath the mask.
No doubt about it, Elli told herself. This was one facial that Llynia wouldn’t ever forget.
Suddenly, the Baths’ wooden gate flew open. Someone entered, along with a gust of cold air that shredded the clouds of steam.
6 • A Dead Torch and a Heap of Dung
Tamwyn strode off into the night, anxious to get away from Lott’s village and that blasted hoolah. To find some food and water. And to move his limbs—so cold and stiff under his sweat-drenched tunic and leggings.
He clenched both fists, recalling the hoolah’s taunts and coarse laughter. How he’d like to shake some sense into that rascal. Or even better, to wring his scrawny little neck! Just the thought made Tamwyn feel a bit warmer. Someday, maybe, he’d have that pleasure.
Most nights, when Tamwyn walked anywhere, he looked up at the stars, so mysterious and inviting. Sure, he crashed into branches or stubbed his toes now and then, but he didn’t really mind. He just loved watching the stars, reading them as if they were blazing words on a blackened page. A page from a book that great powers had been writi
ng for ages and ages—starting even before Merlin planted the magical seed that became the Great Tree of Avalon.
Tonight, though, he only looked down. At his bare feet, smudged with soot. They slapped against the packed dirt of the village path—dirt that Tamwyn knew would be white with frost by dawn, when the stars would brighten for another day.
He plodded on, nearing the communal stable at the edge of the village. Built from local flatrock, it had lasted several centuries—though from the way it was crumbling, it looked as if it wouldn’t last another one. Tamwyn looked closer, especially at the withered patches of moss in the cracks. Was he imagining it, or was this rock—normally a deep orange by this time of year—losing its color? Just like so much of the landscape he’d seen this summer up in the north, the rock seemed bland, washed out. What kind of drought was this, anyway, that took both water and color from the land?
He shook his head. Maybe the colors weren’t fading, at least not this far south. Maybe it was just a trick of the dim light. Or maybe he was just too tired to see clearly. As he approached the stable, a pair of starflower faeries took off from the wall, their buttery wings gleaming yellow in the starlight.
Tamwyn slapped his arms against his chest, sending up a puff of soot and broken thatch. By the wizard’s beard, it was cold tonight! He blew a misty breath. Then he leaned over to stretch his stiff back. He felt as if he’d been hauling whole trees up Lott’s ladder all day. Hungry and thirsty though he was, what he wanted now more than anything was someplace soft and warm, someplace to rest his weary bones. Perhaps even sleep.
His eye caught that of the nearest goat, standing off to one side of the other half dozen goats inside the stable pen. He was a black, short-eared fellow, with shaggy fur and a head so thin that his eyes looked pinched, ready to pop right out of his head. Hello there, my friend. You cold as I am?
The thin-faced goat shook himself, even his little nub of a tail. Mmm-a-a-a-a-a.