Doomraga's Revenge (14 page)

Doomraga cried out again—with rage, as before, but also with something else. Something more like determination.

“That miserable green dragon and that wizard he carries,” it uttered in a chilling whisper. “Meddlers. Troublemakers. We will destroy them, my master and I. Yes . . . just as we will destroy their world.”

The monster’s bloodred eye flashed, briefly illuminating the marsh. For minutes thereafter, the rotting bodies and corrupt beings nearby glowed with a dull red hue. They pulsed, like dying stars, throbbing with the evil light.

Marshaling all its power, Doomraga returned to work. Its body started to bulge, expanding with rhythmic bursts of energy. Soon, the leech knew, it would achieve its most astonishing feat. Out of its new body would emerge a great new force, a most potent weapon, a power that would reach every corner of Avalon.

With that glimpse of the future, Doomraga quaked once more. This time, however, it did so not in rage . . . but in laughter. A deep, bone-rattling laugh arose from its core, echoing across the marsh.

19:
T
HE
M
ISTY
P
ORTAL

Sometimes it’s best not to know what lies ahead. Or even to guess.

Misty colors aglow, thousands and thousands of flowers trembled in the breeze. Intense purple, deep green, luminous pink—these and many other colors flashed brightly, covering ridges that rolled all the way to the horizon. Like most flowers in Airroot, they grew on the dense, compacted slopes of older clouds, where the airy soil was thick enough to support their roots. But here, in the oldest clouds of the realm, they had spread across misty meadows that rose and fell as far as anyone could see, making the clouds themselves gleam like crushed rainbows. No wonder, then, that bards had come to call this place the Cloud Gardens.

On one ridge in particular, where emerald green flowers painted the slope, color radiated. Here, green saturated the air above the flowers as well as the flowers themselves, glowing in the vapors that spiraled up from every blossom. And this radiant green seemed more than just color. Richer, brighter, it looked almost like a kind of flame. Green flame—rising out of the flowers, the mist, and the magical air.

The portal, shimmering with a strange sort of fire that was partly mist and partly light, was unique in all of Avalon. No other portal’s flames matched these. And no one but the mist faeries and sylphs who lived near the Cloud Gardens, floating above the flowered ridges, knew it even existed. The misty portal remained a secret, undiscovered by outsiders and unused by anyone.

Until now.

The vaporous fire crackled loudly, shooting green sparks that flamed bright before tumbling down to join the emerald flowers. There, with a watery hiss, the sparks melted away. The portal’s fire, meanwhile, snapped and sparked more intensely than ever, like flames on a rolling boil.

The misty portal suddenly parted, opening into a deep green hole. Out of that hole reached a shape—a long, slender finger. Then came other fingers, knuckles, and the palm of a hand, emerging slowly. The hand groped, feeling the air outside the portal—as if testing to make sure the air really existed.

All at once, the hand lunged forward. Arm, shoulder, and head pushed through the curtain of mist, as a tall man stepped forward. He stood on the slope, luminous with flowers, looked around himself, and nodded.

“So,” declared Krystallus, “there
is
a portal into Airroot.” His rugged face creased in a grin. “How very disappointed Serella will be that I, not she, found it first.”

He studied the shimmering portal, gazing at it as intently as a master jeweler would gaze at a new kind of crystal. “Flames of mist,” he said with wonder. “This is why I travel all the time—to find places like this.”

He pushed off his brow a lock of hair, whiter than most clouds. And frowned, thinking of someone else—a man whose hair was as black as a raven’s wing. For he knew there was another reason why he traveled constantly: to get away from his father. Not just the man, but his image, his reputation.

His
shadow
. A shadow that stretched from one end of this world to another, always touching Krystallus, always obscuring him. He squeezed his powerful hands into fists. Would he ever step out of that shadow? Or would he always be, as the elf queen Serella had said, just “the son of someone great”? Was his yearning to travel nothing more than a desire to escape?

Peering at the misty portal, he wondered what secrets it held. And what secrets he himself held.
Will I ever stop being Krystallus, son of Merlin—and become Krystallus Eopia, great explorer of Avalon?

The fiery green curtain crackled, undulating as if beckoning to him. Could it lead higher in the Tree, to places no one had ever seen? To realms not yet discovered? To the uncharted stars?

His eyes reflecting the portal’s green light, Krystallus knelt on the compacted cloud. Pulling his sketchbook out of his tunic pocket, he dipped his feather pen into the ink and began to draw a map. This one, different from any other map he’d drawn, showed masses of clouds, not land or water. Cloudscapes that rose, fell, merged, formed, and evaporated continuously, right before his eyes. This scene changed so rapidly, so fluidly, he found it necessary to sketch not one, but two, then three, then
seven
distinct versions—each one drawn a few minutes apart, each one showing a unique view of this realm of shifting mist.

Someday
, he vowed,
I will create a new kind of map for this realm, a map that constantly evolves. Yes—just like these clouds!

Quickly, he made a note of this idea (on the inside cover of the sketchbook, where he’d already scrawled many other ideas for new and better maps). Then, closing the book with a satisfying
snap
, he replaced it in his pocket.

And now
, he thought,
where should I go next
? Impulsively, he picked seven petals from the emerald green flowers growing beside him. Placing their vaporous petals on his open hand, he considered them.
One for each root-realm. Which shall it be?

Closing his eyes, he allowed the fingers of his free hand to roam across the petals. Finally, he picked one that felt just right—though he couldn’t even begin to explain why. When he opened his eyes, he gasped in surprise.

Shadowroot! He hadn’t expected that. The dark realm was the only one he’d never visited. No one he’d ever met, except Basilgarrad, had actually gone there and returned to talk about it. And Basil had ridden there on the wind. Why, there probably wasn’t even a portal to Shadowroot! Even if he tried to go there by portalseeking, he could easily be taken to somewhere else entirely. Or worse: His disassembled body could never be restored again.

Grimly, he set his jaw.
I’m going to Shadowroot. If I can.

Taking one last moment to gaze at the lush, misty meadows surrounding him, he pushed their radiant colors from his mind. His thoughts focused on one color only. The color of eternal night.

Krystallus then strode right into the portal’s misty green curtain. Flames crackled, swallowing him greedily. With a burst of sparks, he disappeared.

20:
F
IRE IN THE
S
KY

Dragons live a long time. A very long time. But some things, deeper than memory, live longer.

Krystallus plunged forward, tumbling out of the fiery portal. He rolled on the hard ground, immediately smelling its strange aroma, much like crushed mint but more tart. Sitting up, he blinked his eyes. Beyond the ground illuminated by the flickering green flames, he saw nothing.

Nothing but blackness.

Dark sky, and even darker contours of hills, surrounded him. But for the portal behind him, there was no light anywhere. Not even the hint of a distant campfire. Or a home. Or life of any kind.

“Welcome to Shadowroot,” he whispered to himself, drawing his knees closer to his chest as he sat on the mint-scented ground. There was a note of triumph in his voice, to be sure. But there was also something else—something more like fear.

For there was, indeed, life here. If he believed the stories of the museos—the translucent, tear-shaped creatures who sang wondrous, deeply sorrowful songs—the realm they had escaped from held unimaginable terrors. Whatever evil had forced the museos to flee Shadowroot years before still haunted them today, giving their songs an undertone of dread. And that evil, no doubt, still remained in this realm . . . somewhere beyond the portal’s frail ring of light.

Maybe this is one time I’ll wait until later to draw my map! It wouldn’t show much, anyway. Unless
, he mused,
I can invent a new sort of map that reveals what can’t be seen
. Finding that an appealing notion, he grinned—and made a mental note to add it to his list.

Slowly, he stood. Peering into the dark surroundings, he tried to see anything recognizable. Anything alive. But all he could see were layers upon layers of darkness.
Realm of endless night
, he thought, quoting some bard who had written a ballad about the escape of the museos. How did it go? He remembered only a shred:

Utter darkness haunts their dreams,
Fever from their flight.
Evermore they hear the screams:
Realm of endless night.

Feeling something brush against his wrist, he started. In the wavering green light from the portal, he saw a tiny, triangular stain on his skin. Black as the realm around him. Suddenly frightened, he shook his arm, trying to shake off the stain—and whatever wickedness it carried.

To his surprise, the black mark lifted off his wrist and fluttered in the air. Erratically, it flew past his face before disappearing into the darkness. A moth! He watched it vanish—then caught, once again, that scent of crushed mint.

Bringing his wrist up to his nose, he sniffed. Mint flooded his nostrils—tart but also remarkably sweet. He grinned at his discovery—as well as his foolishness.
So this realm, full of all that darkness and danger, also holds a fragrant little moth.

Curious to explore more of Shadowroot, he glanced over his shoulder at the flaming portal. The gateway that clearly he, Krystallus Eopia, was the first person to discover. And the first person to pass through unharmed. Another victory over that gloating Serella! Then, peering straight ahead, he stepped across the hard ground, to the very edge of the portal’s light.

Dark hills, barely distinguished from the lightless sky, stretched farther than he could see. So dark was this vista that he couldn’t even tell what was in the foreground and what lay far beyond. Everything merged into a thick soup of night. A soup that would, no doubt, hold more than its share of unusual spices . . . and deadly poisons.

Yet unlike a moment earlier, this scene didn’t make his heart race with fear. “Somewhere out there,” he said quietly, “is a tiny, mint-scented moth.”

Suddenly the sky changed. Arrows of fire, orange and gold, streaked high overhead, ripping the veil of darkness. Lightning? Falling stars? Krystallus caught his breath, gazing in awe at the fiery arcs.

No!
he realized.
That’s not lightning. It’s—

He paused, mind racing, trying to remember the words his mother had used to describe the creature who had come to his parents’ wedding. A creature who resembled a man, with enormous wings—wings that burned with bright orange flames.

Fire angels.

He watched, spellbound, as the flaming people soared overhead, leaving trails of glowing orange in the sky. Dozens of fire angels flew high above, lighting this otherwise darkened realm.
Where are they going?
he wondered.
And why are they here?

Finally, as the last of the luminous creatures flew past, Krystallus lowered his gaze to see what this momentary burst of light could reveal about the lands around him. He saw, more clearly now, the rugged hills that surrounded this spot. They rose into mountains that seemed to pierce the sky.
Evernight Peaks
, he said to himself, already choosing the name he’d add to his map of this realm.

Below the hills, a dark lake rested, its surface as still as a mirror. Even with the streaks of orange flame reflected in its water, the lake seemed like a pool of liquid darkness. Under the surface moved ominous, shadowy shapes that were still darker.
Lake of Shadows
, thought Krystallus.

Just as the last orange light faded from the sky, he saw something else—something he’d entirely missed before. Bodies ! Bodies of—could it be?—elves!

Sprawled only a few paces away from the portal’s ring of light, the elves lay motionless on the ground. They were twisted, as if still writhing, their final agony etched on their faces. Several of them had died with their arms stretched toward the portal. Groping for a chance to escape? From what?

Heedless of the encroaching darkness, Krystallus ran over to them. There were five, six, seven in all—and all of them were clearly dead. He clenched his jaw, partly out of sympathy for their terrible deaths from an unknown cause. And partly, he admitted to himself, out of disappointment that others had found this portal first.

In the final glow of light from the fire angels, he sensed a small movement. One of the elves—a woman with silvery blond hair—stirred ever so slightly. Her fingers clawed at the air, as her throat emitted a weak, dying gasp.

Krystallus stared at her, even as her form faded into darkness. For he knew that elf, knew her hair and her voice and her arrogant ways, which had often tormented his dreams.

“Serella,” he growled. Jealousy and resentment filled his heart, as relentlessly as the returning night filled the landscape.

Yet . . . down inside, in his innermost self, he felt a different emotion. One he never would have expected to feel, certainly not for Serella. Sympathy. Not for her as a fellow explorer, but on a deeper level, as a fellow living being.

Hesitating no longer, he rushed to her side. Tripping on one of the other darkened bodies, he barely kept his balance, reaching her just as total darkness descended. He kneeled down, placed his hand upon her back, and felt the barest quiver of a breath. Then, sliding his arms underneath her, he stood, lifting her limp body.