What glory or despair shall sprout
From Merlin’s magic seed?
At this point, Tamwyn caught another glance from the bard. This time he felt sure that the fellow had seen him. But the bard went right on singing, as if nothing mattered but the song itself.
The Age of Flowering began,
The first of Avalon.
So came the founders of the creed:
Elen and Rhiannon.
As creatures thrived, they filled the lands
So wondrous and diverse.
The stars shone bright on Avalon,
And sang elusive verse.
Enchanted portals linked the realms:
Serella led the way.
And Merlin left, though prayed he might
Return another day.
Then stars aligned in strange new ways,
Destroying cherished forms—
And soon across the Seven Realms
Began the Age of Storms.
The winds of greed and arrogance
Blew now relentlessly,
And sucked the precious sap of life
From deep inside the Tree.
At last, long last, through Merlin’s aid,
The storms of war fell still.
Yet now the winds of Avalon
Contained a subtle chill.
And so the agonies that birthed
The Age of Ripening—
A time when all through Avalon
The highest hopes took wing—
Gave birth, as well, to prophecy.
Our Lady of the Lake
Arose and did for all to hear
A Dark prediction make:
“A year shall come when stars go dark,
And faith will fail anon—
For born shall be a child who spells
The end of Avalon.
“The only hope beneath the stars
To save that world so fair
Will be the Merlin then alive:
The wizard’s own true heir.”
What shall become of Avalon,
Our dream, our deepest need?
What glory or despair shall sprout
From Merlin’s magic seed?
The bard fell silent, as did the museo. A gentle breeze arose, rustling the hair of the encircling tree spirits, and the fields of barley beyond the village. But other than the soothing whisper of night air, no sound could be heard.
In Tamwyn’s mind a certain phrase stuck, clinging to his thoughts like a burr to his leggings: the wizard’s true heir. He felt sure that he’d heard that phrase a long time ago—before he’d ever heard it in the ballads of wandering bards.
He closed his eyes, trying to remember. Was it from a dream? From the dream? He could almost hear it, spoken aloud, with reverence and a touch of fear. The wizard’s true heir. But who had said it? And why?
He shook his head, unable to remember. And yet . . .
Hearing some movement, Tamwyn opened his eyes. They were leaving! As the tree spirits bowed low and floated away into the night, the bard replaced the lopsided hat on his head, covering the museo. And then, with a twirl of his sideways-growing beard, he strode off.
Tamwyn swallowed, for he knew that his moment of peace—as well as his vague memories—had disappeared, as well. Now he was back in the dung. By himself, as usual.
No, wait—not quite by himself. He lifted his gaze to the stars. They were still here, still his companions! Amidst the vastness of the night, so many lights shone—thousands upon thousands of them. There were the constellations he knew so well: Pegasus, the Golden Bough, Twisted Tree, and White Dragon.
And there, just above the hills on the horizon, the Wizard’s Staff. Not the most beautiful constellation—just seven stars: a line of five crowned by two at the top, so close, they nearly touched. But those stars were probably the most storied ones in Avalon. For those stars had gone dark, one by one, several centuries ago—right before the dreadful Age of Storms.
Up to that time, no celestial event in the history of Avalon had caused so much turmoil. When the Wizard’s Staff vanished, there had been riots among the dwarves in Fireroot, and mass marches on the great temple of the Society of the Whole, right here in Stoneroot. For many people, the War of Storms didn’t end when the peace treaty was signed at last— but when Merlin, through some powerful magic, finally rekindled the seven stars.
Tamwyn chewed his lip. The only other time Avalon’s stars had ever gone dark was the stellar eclipse in the Year of Avalon 985. That was the Year of Darkness—the year of Tamwyn’s birth. And also, if the stories were true, the year of someone else’s birth, someone who would bring about the end of Avalon.
Who was the child of the Dark Prophecy? And who was that child’s greatest foe, the true heir of Merlin? Tamwyn had heard many debates over the years, in taverns and farm fields, about whether such an heir even existed. Or, if he or she did exist, who it might be. Some believed it was the Lady of the Lake herself: She had, after all, helped Merlin end the War of Storms. But more and more people were claiming that a humble teacher somewhere in Woodroot, a fellow named Hanwan Belamir, was really Merlin’s heir.
Tamwyn lowered his gaze. Those were exactly the kinds of questions that Scree had always liked to debate. All through the night, until the stars brightened again the next morning. He just loved a good argument, waving his arms— or his precious walking stick—to make his points. I miss that stubborn old scrap of bark. Even if he was just as gnome-headed as, well, as . . .
Tamwyn swallowed hard. As a brother.
Once again he looked up at the stars, blinking to clear his vision. At first he didn’t notice what was happening to the Wizard’s Staff. Then something struck him as odd.
He blinked again—and caught his breath. For the constellation had, indeed, changed. Right before his eyes. Where just a moment ago there had been seven stars, there were now only six. A star had gone dark!
What that meant, he could only guess.
8 • Out of the Shadows
With surprising speed for such a bulky warrior, Harlech took a step backward. He moved away from the base of the stone tower that rose from the rim of Waterroot’s deepest canyon, the Canyon of Crystillia. Away from the shadows that were darker than the darkest pit. And away from the cloaked figure skulking there.
“Merlin hisself?” he sputtered. “Yer goin’ to steal somethin’ from the wizard Merlin?”
“No, you fool. Merlin is gone, long gone! I shall take it from the person the prophecies call the true heir of Merlin. But the effect, my Harlech, will be the same. Mmmyesss.” He gave a low, throaty laugh. “You see, he carries with him a staff—the staff of his master! It looks like just a simple walking stick, my Harlech, which is why I’ve had to search so many years to find it. But this walking stick has great powers, mmmyesss. Powers I shall soon possess.”
The white hand of the cloaked figure stabbed at the air, pointing to the great stone dam that spanned the canyon below them, to the enormous white lake it contained, and to the teams of enslaved horses, deer, mules, dwarves, wolves, and oxen. They were dragging new stones from the open-pit mines, hauling more freshly cut trees for scaffolding, pulling heavy barges across the lake, and making repairs to the narrow road that ran across the top of the dam—all at the insistent cracking of men’s whips. In the distance, the White Geyser of Crystillia rumbled and threw its water high into the air, just as it had done since the birth of Avalon from Merlin’s magical seed.
Only now the geyser’s white water did not flow down into Waterroot and its neighboring realms—but stopped here, trapped behind the dam. To the very few explorers who had ever reached this remote place, the sight of the dam, the lake, and the dry canyons below Prism Gorge would have been shocking. And the sight of slaves—even more so.
“I shall use that staff, mmmyesss, my Harlech. For something most special. Most special, indeed. And then . . . I shall destroy it! And at the same time, I shall destroy forever Merlin’s hold on th
is world.”
Harlech tilted his head and scratched the jagged scar that ran across his jaw. “The wizard ain’t goin’ to like that, Master. Nor, I ’spect, his true heir.”
“You think that matters?” The sorcerer released a high, whistling laugh, like the hiss of a satisfied snake. “The lost staff will soon be the least of their problems. For I will use it, my Harlech, to gain something far greater: the control of Avalon.”
“Jest how, Master?” Harlech edged closer to the shadows. “Can ye tell me?”
The white hands rubbed together. “This much I will say, all your feeble mind can hold. With the help of that staff, I will make something powerful—so powerful that, before long, I will control all Seven Realms, the very roots of the Great Tree . . . roots that support the entire Tree, give it strength, and produce the élano that runs through its veins. And as the roots go, my Harlech, so shall the Tree. All of Avalon, to its remotest branches, will then be in my grasp! Mmmyesss, as surely as the spirit lord Rhita Gawr rules on high.”
Harlech brushed a bead of sweat off his temple. “But Master, won’t yer enemies try some tricks to stop ye?”
“Tricks, mmmyesss. But I have something better than tricks. I have knowledge! Just as no one else in Avalon knows what I have built here, at the wellspring of High Brynchilla, no one else knows that Merlin’s staff is still in Avalon.”
“The true heir—”
“All right, he himself probably knows! But no one else. Not even the child of the Dark Prophecy, whose help I have long awaited . . . not even he knows about the staff. Unless, of course, he can read entrails as well as I can.”
The mirthless laugh came again. “For you see, my Harlech, I have learned something just this morning, from a wild boar that one of my ghoulacas found in Fireroot. A boar whose bloody entrails told me what I have been seeking to learn for seventeen years.”
He cracked his white knuckles in delight. “I know where it is, my Harlech. I know where the staff is hidden.”
A wild wind rose out of the canyons, shrieking as it passed, hurling sand and shards of stone from the quarries. Harlech winced as the gust blew over him—whether from the biting shards, or his master’s words, or both.
As the wind died down again, the voice from the shadows clucked with amusement. “You needn’t worry, though, my Harlech. Just do as your master says, and your own entrails will be safe.”
Looking unconvinced, Harlech’s hands played nervously with the handles of the daggers, club, rapier, and broadsword dangling from his leather belt. “As ye wish, Master.”
Just then a mother nuthatch, blown so hard by the wind that she almost hit the tower, flew over them. In her beak she held a writhing slug, food needed by her three fledglings, who were now peeping hungrily from their nest in the boughs of a cedar on the nearest edge of Woodroot. But the sight of the sorcerer in the shadows—and the teams of slaves working on the dam—made her flap her wings in sudden fright. She shrieked, dropping the slug.
In one swift motion, Harlech whipped out his broadsword and sliced through the air. The bird’s shriek ended abruptly as her headless body spun into the shadows, followed by a pair of drifting feathers. The head itself struck the side of the redrock tower and bounced to the ground.
Harlech glanced down at the head, its eyes frozen wide with terror. He gave a sharp kick with his boot. The head took a final, brief flight, then rolled across the rocky ground and fell into the quarry pit.
“Swift work, my Harlech. I have relied on our remoteness to keep us safe. That, and a spell to ward off any small beasts that might stray too close to this canyon—and our little project. Even so, the cursed wind still tries to thwart me. And yet we simply can’t have any spies discovering our plans, can we?”
Harlech’s upper lip curled in satisfaction. He blew a bloody feather off the blade and sheathed his sword. “No, Master.”
“So now . . . do you have the slave I need?”
The man tensed again. He fidgeted, thinking hard. “Er,
I’m not sure, Master. Ye needs one wid fight, ye say. An’
what else?”
The sorcerer’s voice lowered ominously. “With a brain—bigger than yours! Mmmyesss, so it can understand language.”
“Language, Master? What kind do ye mean? The oxen’ll speak theirs, the bears’ll do theirs, and those damn wolves’ll go a-howlin’ theirs, ’specially when they’re feelin’—”
“Silence!” spat the voice. “I mean the only language that matters, the only language that truly deserves that name.”
“Aye, ye mean human.”
“Yes, and there will soon be one human who speaks no more, if he doesn’t work faster.”
Harlech gulped. “Me pardons, Master, but . . . er, we don’t have any human slaves, as ye know. As ye commanded, these many years ago. Only dumb beasts.”
The pale fingers stretched out and clutched at the air, as if they were squeezing someone’s neck. “Dumb beasts is right! I didn’t say the slave should be a human. Just that it should understand a human. To grasp my instructions!”
Harlech started to edge away. “The-there’s them dwarves, they kin speak human tongue. B-but no, they never foller orders. Stubborn as blind one-eyed jackasses! Jest this mornin’ I cut the ears off o’ that—”
“Harlech!”
“W-well . . . there’s a wild horse, Master, a right smart mare indeed. M-m-mebbe she’d do. But,” he added nervously, “fer them two lame legs.”
One of the white hands flashed out from the shadowed wall and grabbed his wrist. “Something better, Harlech. Think fast.”
“Aaaargh!” The big man’s face twisted as waves of pain surged through his arm. Sweat poured off his brow, stinging his eyes. “I, I . . . don’t know, M-M-Master.”
The white hand flexed ever so slightly. Harlech yowled again and fell to his knees. The sword blades clanged against the ground as he writhed.
“Elves!” he blurted, twisting to free himself.
The white hand released him. “Elves? I don’t recall seeing any such creatures here. When did you capture them?”
“Only a few days ago, Master.” Harlech rubbed his wrist under the burned sleeve of his shirt. “Two o’ them, an ol’ geezer an’ a she-elf. His kin, mebbe. Useless in the quarries, too thin an’ weak. An’ that she-elf, too damn sassy. So I been puttin’ them to use haulin’ ropes for the barges.” He grinned maliciously. “They don’t seem to likes followin’ orders.”
“How did you come by these elves?”
“Garr, I done snared their horses o’er in Woodroot. Then they tracked me, an’ tried to waylay me wid their bows an’ arrers. I bested them, but lost two o’ me best men. After all they’d seen, me first thought was to kill them quick. But then I thinks—no, Harlech, here’s a better idea. Jest bring them back fer slaves.”
“Mmmyesss, well done. Elves are haughty creatures, thinking themselves the equals of humans. But they should be intelligent enough for the task. And from what you say, they should be . . . persuadable. Bring them to me at the Overlook.”
The dark figure left the shadow of the tower, drew the hood of his gray cloak tight, and slunk away along the rim. Harlech watched the sorcerer leave. After a few seconds, he cursed silently and wrenched himself to his feet, still rubbing his sore arm through the hole in his sleeve.
Harlech glanced down into the quarry pit, where two of his men were whipping an unruly mare. He nodded in approval, then started down the road that led to the top of the dam. That was where most of the work was happening now, as the final layers of stone were being moved into place. And that was where he’d find those elves, slacking off, no doubt.
His heavy boots pounded on the road, sending up clouds of red dirt. Though made by slaves only a few months before, this road already showed many ruts and holes from all the tree trunks and blocks of stone that had been dragged along its length. The whole project was nearly done, but he made a mental note to get some slaves up here to make repairs on th
e road. Slaves were best off staying busy, right up until the moment the master had no more use for them. And then . . . Harlech smiled savagely.
Just as he rounded the final bend beneath the hill, a slim figure came hurtling around the curve from the other side and smashed right into him. Both tumbled over on the dirt. Harlech, though surprised, drew both his daggers at once. He rolled on top of whoever it was and pointed his blades at the angry face. A face with deep green eyes, pointed ears, and an extremely sharp tongue.
“Get off me, you giant turd! Before I . . . ”
“Why, if it ain’t the she-elf,” Harlech said with a savage grin. “Saved me the trouble o’ fetchin’ ye wid forcible means, ye did.”
“I’ll save you nothing,” declared the young elf. She tried to twist free, but he grabbed her by her long braid of honey-colored hair and yanked her back. She glared up at him—then spat right in his eye.
Harlech growled with rage and pressed his daggerpoints against her throat. “Slipped outa yer chains, did ye? Tryin’ to run away? Lucky I ain’t free to slice off yer pointy ears, ye liddle snake. Cuz iffen I could, ye’d be bathin’ in yer own blood right now.”
“Snakes don’t have pointy ears, you dolt.” She started to say more, then froze, as her eyes shifted to something behind the warrior. “No, Granda!” she shrieked. “Just get away!”
In an instant, Harlech turned, dodged the swipe of a wooden cane, and threw out an arm that tripped the old, white-bearded elf who had tried to strike him. Before the elf could rise again, Harlech sheathed his daggers and grabbed both of the elves around their necks. His fingers squeezed so tight, they both coughed, barely able to breathe.
All the way back up the road he dragged them, battering their bodies against jagged rocks and deep ruts. His grip around their necks never slackened. When he reached the stone tower, he turned roughly and hauled them along the rim for quite some distance until he reached a ledge that overlooked the steepest wall of the canyon. By the time he dropped them at the ledge, the elves’ once-green robes of sturdy barkthread were torn and splattered with blood. Both elves lay motionless.
A low cackle sounded from the shadows under a huge, rectangular stone at one side of the ledge. The monolith’s face had been carved with intricate runes useful in the dark magic of disemboweling creatures while they were still alive: spells to keep their writhing to a minimum; chants to cast their heart or intestines or stomach in just the right way so that hidden truths could be revealed from organs and blood; and, of course, incantations to keep the sensation of pain as strong as possible—since pain often prolonged the victim’s life. Beneath the monolith, the remains of a freshly killed wild boar lay scattered on the ground.