Shadows on the Stars (42 page)

“I do! But the only thing worth knowing is that very soon his crystal will be joining the ones worn by you and the girl. Right inside my pocket!”

At that instant, three things happened at once. Deth Macoll thrust his murderous blade at the sprite. Elli swiftly sidestepped and grabbed the assailant’s wrist. But before she could start to fight for the blade, Nuic leaped at her head, grasping her abundant curls.

She wrenched backward as the force of his leap threw her off the edge of the cloud. Both Elli and Nuic fell downward into the endless well of mist. And they weren’t alone. Pulled by Elli’s grip, Deth Macoll pitched forward and tumbled over the edge, swinging his cane wildly.

All three of them plummeted down into the swirling vapors.

39
•
What Wind That Blows

So loud was the
whooshhhhh
of air all around, Elli couldn’t hear her own scream. Down, down, down she fell, tearing through gauzy shreds of mist, plunging into utter emptiness. Nothing could stop her fall—and nothing could save her quest.

Yet even as she spun downward, she reached behind her head to grab Nuic. He didn’t let go easily, tearing out whatever curls he held in his tiny hands, but finally she clutched him to her chest. Their eyes met. And for Elli, this was their very last chance to read each other’s gaze.

Strange,
she thought as she peered into his liquid purple eyes,
he doesn’t look at all afraid
—

A trail of silver threads suddenly burst out of the crease in Nuic’s back. Instantly, the threads popped into a wide parachute, giving the sprite a sharp tug. Elli barely held on to him. Then, abruptly, the whoosh of air quieted. They were floating like a huge, windblown seed through the vaporous air.

Again their eyes met. And she suddenly could imagine his crusty rebuke:
Stump-headed fool! How could you forget about my
parachute? We mountain dwellers don’t just walk everywhere, you know.

Just then a broad, wedge-shaped cloud, dense enough to stand on, came into view. Nuic twisted hard to the left, trying to shift the parachute. They veered sharply sideways.

Trails of mist from the side of the cloud flowed over them, making it difficult to see. Even so, Elli spied the darker, denser edge of its core, and reached for it. Keeping Nuic tightly in one arm, she stretched with all her will. Her fingers nearly pulled out of their sockets as she tried to grasp hold.

Too late! They slid downward, bouncing off the underside of the cloud. The parachute caught on something and twisted with a wrenching jolt, spinning them in midair. They plunged downward again.

Whooshhhhh!
A savage gust tore into them, sheering them sideways. The blast of wind was so strong that Elli lurched and turned upside down, almost losing her grip on Nuic.

But that twist was just enough to untangle the parachute. The silver threads popped again, slowing their fall. They sailed through the air, making gentle turns, as if they were dancing an aerial ballet.

“There!” cried Elli, pointing to a rumpled cloud to the right. Though it wasn’t very big, and didn’t seem to be attached to anything else, at least it looked dense enough to provide a safe landing—if only they could reach it.

Nuic twisted hard. They veered right, as Elli reached out her hand, stretching as far as she possibly could.

Closer they came, and closer. Misty fingers reached out to them, drawing them near. Elli spied a firm edge and reached, reached farther . . . and touched it! As her hand wrapped around the edge, she pulled with all her strength. They thudded down onto the surface, rolled through the rising vapors, and finally came to a stop.

Elli lay her head back on the cloud, her brown curls scattered around her head like an unruly halo, and sighed in relief. This cloud was softer, wetter, and even more springy, than the ridge cloud they had walked upon. Yet it was, at least, somewhat solid. Enough to hold them for a while.

Nuic wriggled free and sat down in the spongy vapors beside her. With a sharp squeeze of his shoulders, he released the parachute—all except for one strand that had twisted around his leg. He untangled himself, flicked the strand away, and watched as the parachute blew free again, drifting over the edge of the cloud and out of sight.

“Well, Elliryanna, looks like we made it.” His color warmed to rich pink. “And it looks like our friendly jester didn’t.” His rosy hues deepened. “I quite enjoyed seeing him plunge down into the mist, writhing uncontrollably and squealing like a baby boar.”

Elli rolled over on the cloud and propped herself on her elbow. Her arm sank into the soft, slightly moist surface. She scrutinized him closely, as if she were reading some hidden script beneath his skin.

“You knew he was a fraud all along, didn’t you?”

The sprite winked at her. “Very good! I knew you’d catch on eventually.”

“But how did you know?”

“It was easy, really. No one as mean-faced as him could really make it as a jester.”

She blew away a floating wisp of mist that had settled on her nose. “Then why did you wait so long?”

“Hmmmpff. Isn’t that obvious? Because we needed to know where that fiend Kulwych is hiding! And now, my dear, we do.”

“No, we don’t. He refused to tell you, remember?”

“Hmmmpff. So he thought! He said, if you recall, that Kulwych is
somewhere even deeper than a dark elf’s grave
.”

Elli shrugged. “And?”

“And that tells us he’s down deep underground—which, in Shadowroot, means one of the dark elves’ abandoned mines. Wherever the deepest mine may be, I’ll wager that’s where we’ll find Kulwych.”

Slowly, a grin spread over her face. “You really are a sly one, Nuic.”

“You’ve only now figured that out?”

“But wait,” she protested. “How are we supposed to find this old mine?”

“How should I know?” he grumbled. “I’m no explorer! You’ll just have to find a map or something.”

Elli just stared at him. “A map? Of Shadowroot? It would be easier to find a friendly dark elf somewhere and ask him for directions.”

“Hmmmpff.” Nuic folded his arms. “Do that, then. But whatever you do, be quick about it!”

She merely frowned. “The deepest mine in the darkest realm,” she muttered, her voice joyless. “That’s the kind of place people visit only in their worst nightmares. Not on purpose.”

The sprite grabbed some shreds of mist and then drummed his moist fingers on his belly, just above the Galator. “That’s true, I’m afraid. Finding it will be hard enough, especially with so little time. But something tells me that
entering
it will be even harder. And who knows what we’ll meet down inside?”

“A jester, perhaps.”

Lightning-quick, Elli sat up to see who had spoken. Just like Nuic beside her, she scowled to see a gray shape striding toward them through the mist rising off the cloud. She leaped to her feet, ready to fight to the death.

“Or even a bard,” said the misty figure, stepping through the vapors.

To Elli’s astonishment, not to mention relief, it was not Deth Macoll. For no master of disguise, unless he was also a changeling, could have made such a dramatic change. This fellow wore a bushy beard that stuck out on both sides, a lopsided old hat, and an extremely silly grin. And even without the hat, he stood at least a head taller than the assassin.

Even so, Elli looked at this stranger with suspicion, her fists raised. She glanced down at Nuic, standing in the vapors by her feet. Strikingly, his colors showed no concern whatsoever. His skin swirled with warm yellows and greens. She looked back at the man—and suddenly recognized him.

“You’re the bard on the hillside! The one who led us to Brionna. And who Tamwyn said he’d met before.” She almost winced, hearing herself say his name . . . for now she missed him more than she would have believed possible.

The man twirled one tip of his sideways-growing beard and bowed slightly. “Olewyn the bard, at your service.”

“Nuic the sprite at yours,” came the voice by Elli’s feet. “Or, as my friends call me—”

“Nuic the grump,” she finished. “And my name is Elliryanna Lailoken, or just Elli.”

“Hmmmpff. Just
rude
, if you ask me.”

The bard’s silly grin widened. “Pleased to meet you, Nuic the Grump and Elli the Rude. You never can predict who or what you’ll encounter on a passing cloud. Pure chance, you know.”

He shook himself jauntily and plopped down on the cloud, legs crossed beneath him. Then he stretched out his arms and wiggled his fingers. “Ah,” he sighed dreamily. “How nice to rest.”

Following his lead, both Elli and Nuic sat back down. As she wriggled a bit deeper into the soft mass of vapors, Elli examined the bard. She couldn’t decide whether he was really very old or very young, rather less than he appeared or rather more. With this fellow, it was extremely hard to tell. Just as it was hard to tell whether something other than what he called
pure chance
had brought him here.

“A song, anyone?” offered Olewyn merrily.

“Hmmmpff,” muttered Nuic. “I’d prefer a meal.”

“Ah, we can provide that, too.” The bard nodded, as if agreeing with himself, then reached into the folds of his baggy cloak. He pulled out a dark and grainy slab that could have passed for the bark of an oak. “Here, try some of my homemade bread.”

With an arduous effort, he managed to tear the slab into rough halves. Then, still huffing from the strain, he handed a piece to each of them. Elli, who was trying not to live up to her reputation as rude, reluctantly took one. She tried a cautious nibble.

At first, as she’d expected, it tasted just like wood. After a few chews, however, it softened up remarkably, then suddenly dissolved into a tangy, minty liquid. Almost as soon as she swallowed, she felt renewed strength surging through her limbs. She took another bite, larger this time. And then another.

As the taste of fresh mint tingled on her tongue, she asked, “What is this called?”

“Ambrosia bread,” Olewyn replied. “You like it?”

“Oh yefff, vewy muff.” She swallowed. “Really, I do.”

“Good,” declared the bard. “It’s my tastiest recipe. Matter of fact, it’s my
only
recipe. In any case, while you and Grump the Nuic keep eating, I shall give you a song. With the help of my dearest friend, of course.”

Elli, chuckling and chewing at the same time, watched as he reached up and grabbed the brim of his lopsided hat. With dramatic flair, he lifted off the hat and revealed a small creature who was sitting atop his head. Blue-skinned with flecks of gold, shaped like a teardrop, the creature was unmistakable.

“Your museo,” she said, delighted to see—and, even more, to hear—this magical creature again. She knew just how rare museos were in Avalon: not so rare as a Sapphire Unicorn, perhaps, but still almost never seen. Certainly not as close as this.

The bard twirled one side of his beard, thinking. Then, with a knowing look, he pulled a small lute out of his cloak. He plucked it once and announced, “This ballad, though brief, is one of our favorites. Written, they say, by Rhiannon herself, when she was High Priestess.”

Elli and Nuic exchanged a glance, which bespoke their love for both Rhia and Coerria. Without thinking, Elli reached up to her amulet, feeling the crystal hidden beneath its leaves.

Just then, the museo began to hum—a rolling, layered hum that filled Elli with such a rush of emotions she felt almost giddy. She swayed, light-headed, glad that she was sitting down. As the museo’s deep, vibrating hum rolled through her, she slid farther down into the vaporous cushion of the cloud.

The humming swelled louder, while distant strains of wind harps rose to join it. And at last, the bard himself began to sing:

Sway, broad boughs of Avalon,
Shielding from the storm—
Bend so far, yet never break:
Ev’ry day newborn,
Mystery’s true form.

Rise, tall trunk of Middle Realm,
Stretching ever high—
Reach for misty, branching trails:
Stairway to the sky,
Stars are flaming nigh.

Sink, great roots of Seven Realms,
Plunging under sleep—
old the farthest, lowest lands:
Celebrate or weep,
Wonders ever deep.

The museo kept humming for a moment longer, a low, rolling note that vibrated the very marrow of Elli’s bones. She felt as if a wave of sound and feeling had just washed over her, leaving her sadder, wiser, and richer than before. And she longed to plunge deeper into that wave, to ride its currents, to feel its swell, over and over again.

When at last the museo ceased, no one stirred or spoke for quite some time. Other than the faraway music of the Harplands and the gentle breath of the wind across the cloud, there was no sound. Yet for Elli, the memory of the museo’s hum and bard’s song was more than enough to lift her heart.

It was the bard who first spoke again. “And so, good travelers, where will you voyage next?”

Elli started to answer, then caught herself. Having learned her lesson, she wasn’t sure it was wise to reveal to anyone—even a friendly bard—where they were going. That was why she looked so surprised when Nuic raised his voice.

“To Shadowroot,” the sprite declared. “By whatever route we can. And as fast as we can! We have work to do there—important work, that could mean the life or death of Avalon.”

The bard raised his thick eyebrows.

Sensing his doubt, Nuic growled, “Can’t you understand what I’m saying? All the wonders of this world, all the places where you roam, all the people you care about—will be lost if we don’t succeed.”

The sprite blew a frustrated breath as his colors darkened. “And where are we now? Stuck on this cloud, drifting through Airroot! And even if, by some miracle, we ride it all the way to a portal, we’re still a good way from our goal, since no portal can take us into Shadowroot. So however you look at it, we have a long ride—and a longer trek—ahead of us.”

Glumly, Elli added, “And almost no time.”

Olewyn’s brow, already lined, wrinkled some more. “There is, you know, a faster way.”

“What?” demanded both of them at once.

He leaned forward as a shred of mist wrapped around his beard. In a whisper, he said, “You could ride the wind.”