Shadows on the Stars (21 page)

Tamwyn halted.
This wood has been burned. I’m sure of it.

He stepped over to the wall. Rubbing his fingertip along the surface, he studied the smudge it left on his skin. No different than the soot from his cooking fires, it seemed.

And yet something about this burned part of the tunnel made him uneasy. It felt dangerous somehow. Threatening. Almost . . . malevolent.

Why?

He bent closer, examining the wall. Unlike the other stripes of wood he’d passed through, the grains here seemed almost fluid, flowing under the surface like tiny rivulets. Dark red, they glistened like muddy streams.
If only my dagger hadn’t broken back there, I’d use it to chip some of this away.

Instead, he used his fingernail. Digging into the charred wood, he ripped out a sliver. Seeing some blood on his fingertip, he shook his head at his clumsiness. How could he have cut himself on such a smooth spot?

Suddenly he stiffened. His finger wasn’t cut. The blood on his skin hadn’t come from himself. It had come from the wall!

For within this dark, smoky wood ran not grains but vessels. Vessels of blood. As Tamwyn stared, aghast, a slow red ooze dribbled down from the place he’d opened.

All at once, he realized the truth. What they’d been passing through weren’t just strange stripes of wood. No, they were the intricate markings that could be found inside any tree, markings that told the story of its struggles, experiences, gains, and losses.

They were
rings.

Tree rings—but of the grandest, tallest tree of all. The tree that contains within itself all the different kinds of wood that ever existed. The Great Tree of Avalon.

Each ring was unique, telling a tale of something remarkable that had happened in a particular year. So in traveling along this tunnel, Tamwyn had passed through the Great Tree’s memories of many seasons—of cedars flourishing, cherries blossoming, and maple roots breaking ground as hard as rock. He had walked by the first oak to survive the long winter at the base of the high peaks. The tallest grove of mahogany trees to sprout in the jungles of Africqua. The most fragrant spring to grace Woodroot’s history, when the Forest Fairlyn was born.

And now,
he realized grimly,
I have entered the War of Storms.
A year, stretching into an age, when forests burned in every realm, the very air smelled of death, and the rivers ran with blood.

Onward he walked, his feet shuffling across the charred wood, his staff tapping against the floor. Henni, who looked unnaturally glum, stayed as close as a shadow. For his part, Batty Lad dared only once to poke his furry head out of the tunic pocket—and then, with a whimper, dove back inside.

How long it took to pass through this section of the tunnel, Tamwyn couldn’t guess. But when, at last, the blackened walls gave way to gray, then to rippling lines of yellow and tan, then to the green of newly sprouted ferns, his heart leaped. Though he couldn’t forget the feel of that ancient blood, nor the sooty smell of smoke, he knew that in the memory of Avalon, a time of renewal—the Age of Ripening—had begun.

Though he couldn’t be sure, the tunnel now seemed to veer gradually to the right. Not all at once, but over time, even with the occasional brief swing to the left. Or was he just imagining that? It was hard to tell.

Worse yet, he was starting to feel utterly disoriented.
Just where, in the whole vast space of the trunk, am I
? he wondered. Walking here was completely different from his many treks across the surface of the root-realms. In those places, even if he were lost, he could find landmarks to help him chart his course. There was always a ridge line, a mountain peak, or a lone tree in the distance. And of course, at night, he could orient himself by the stars.

Here, though, deep inside the Tree, there were no such landmarks. Where he really was, he could only guess. All he could tell was that he wasn’t, at the moment, going up or down. But even that wasn’t wholly certain: Maybe the tunnel had actually been sloping, but so very subtly that he just couldn’t tell.

If only I had some sort of compass
, he mused, continuing to stride along. Not a traditional compass, but one that could work inside the Great Tree. That could place him, wherever he happened to be. That could tell him his position vertically, as well as horizontally!

Now,
that
would be something useful. But of course, it was nothing more than an idea. And a bizarre one, at that.

In any case, right now he could only wonder where, inside the Tree’s trunk, he really was. And whether, years ago, his father might have traveled down this same tunnel—seeking the same destination.

Just then his keen hearing picked up something in the distance, a vague whispering sound. It ebbed and surged, whooshing like gusts of wind. Yet it seemed somehow more than wind, deeper and sturdier.

They came to a smooth section of wall, flecked with gleaming silver. Tamwyn was reminded suddenly of the stars. He wondered whether this ring marked the moment, centuries before, when Merlin rekindled the stars of the Wizard’s Staff after they had gone dark for the first time. And he also wondered whether, without Merlin around to help, he or anyone else could ever hope to light them again.

Meanwhile, the whispering sound grew louder. Now it seemed more like a rushing river, seething and coursing on its way to the sea. Tamwyn, followed by Henni, started to walk faster to find the source of the sound.

All at once, they stopped.

“Oohoo,” said Henni. “A painting.”

“More like a thousand paintings,” corrected Tamwyn. “And all so beautiful.”

Indeed, the entire tunnel, including ceiling and floor, had been decorated in bright colors and extraordinary detail. It was one vast mural, stretching hundreds of paces! Painted on the silvery surface were intricate scenes of every season in every realm, along with many scenes that Tamwyn couldn’t even begin to identify. There were trees that grew upside down, mountains that seemed to float upon the air, clouds that carried purple-hued cities, rivers that ran with something like honey, and even the spectacle of a strange yellow star rising over the horizon. And so much more—places beyond description, worlds beyond count.

There was even a scene that consisted mainly of darkness. A great city loomed in the background, where a few frail lights still burned, although night deepened all around. Dark figures crouched in the shadows, clearly afraid. Could that have been, Tamwyn wondered, Shadowroot? Maybe the Lost City of Light that he’d heard described by bards?

Most of the painted scenes overflowed with creatures. Some of them Tamwyn knew well, such as mist and moss faeries, gobsken, dwarves, elves, eaglefolk, humans, and light fliers. Even the Sapphire Unicorn had been painted, bending her graceful neck to drink from a starlit pool.

And there were some beings that he’d never seen before—including one especially striking creature who resembled a winged man or woman, completely surrounded by orange flames. There were several of them, sprinkled throughout the mural. Always, they were pictured in dramatic, even heroic, circumstances: rescuing other creatures, making beautiful buildings, or soaring high over the world below.

In one starkly painted scene, the left half of the sky was intensely bright, while the right half was deeply shadowed. A group of the flaming people were pictured flying toward the left—from night into day. Or perhaps . . . out of the darkness and into the light.

For some time, Tamwyn peered at this painting. Could these people, he wondered, be flying to the stars? And if that was so, did it mean that some mortal creatures had actually made the journey successfully? Or was this painting not about what they had done, but about what they, like Tamwyn, longed to do?

Looking closely at the scene, he examined the people—their wings, their orange flames. Just who were they?

Ayanowyn.
From nowhere he could explain, the word simply popped into his mind. And then, just as mysteriously, he understood its meaning.
Fire angels.

He knocked his skull with the heel of his hand.
Fire angels? Don’t be absurd!
First, nobody here was speaking, so how could he hear any words? And second, no creature, however bizarre, could live long consumed by such flames. Even the salamanders that he and Scree used to chase in Fireroot, who loved to bathe in flame vents, had to cool off regularly or they would roast.

His eye glimpsed a new painted figure, one that made him catch his breath. For he’d seen this figure before, many times, in his dreams. It was a man, tall and rugged, with a wild mane of gray hair that blew behind his shoulders. And in his hand, he held a flaming torch.

Krystallus! So whoever painted this mural had heard of him. Or maybe even had known him.

He turned a slow circle, tapping the top of his staff pensively as he studied the rows of paintings. In a flash, he understood. This mural was really a story, just like the rings of the Great Tree. The story of Avalon! But instead of telling the story of the world from the Tree’s perspective, this mural told it from the painter’s perspective.

Who
was
the painter? How long ago did she or he live? As part of what people? Where in the vastness of Avalon did they live? Had they made this tunnel, as well as the mural?

He shook his head. There were no answers to those questions. At least none that he could find.

Just then he spotted a new scene, painted on the ceiling. At first he thought it was just a tall, vertical column, colored rich brown with occasional streaks of green. But when he saw, at the very top, what looked like the beginnings of branches, along with some stars gleaming through mist, he knew what it really was. The trunk of the Tree!

Catching his breath, he spied something else about the painting. On one side of the trunk, near the top, there was a bump that bulged outward like a burl. In its center sat a deep, bowl-shaped valley that faced the branches above. Perfectly round, the valley reminded him of the craters he’d seen in Fireroot, except for its vivid green color. Suddenly he recalled his father’s description of Merlin’s Knothole:
From there, one could view the very branches of the Great Tree, leading to the stars.

He nodded in wonder.
Merlin’s Knothole.

Then he noticed something odd. A thin, silver ribbon dropped down from the Knothole, plunging toward the lower reaches of the trunk. Painted with light, nearly transparent strokes, it was hard to tell whether it actually represented something deep inside the trunk, far beneath the bark. Whatever it was, it sloped steeply, like a near-vertical stairway.

Could that be a stairway to the Knothole? And if so, how do I find it?

His brow furrowed. More questions!

Once again, he became aware of that peculiar sound, coming from farther down the tunnel. Now it whispered, now it whooshed, now it pounded like a distant drum.
By the wizard’s beard, what is that?

He turned toward the sound, determined that at least one of his questions should be answered.

18
•
Spirals

The sound grew steadily louder, rumbling like endless thunder in the distance. As Tamwyn and his friends passed the end of the brightly painted mural, they entered a section where the tunnel’s walls and ceiling were draped with moss, as rich and luxuriant as any in the misty forests of El Urien.

Indeed, the air itself became heavy with mist. Beads of water formed on the bridge of Tamwyn’s nose, trickled down his staff, and shook from his ankles with every step.

Meanwhile, the sound swelled and swelled, echoing in the tunnel. Henni tugged on Tamwyn’s sleeve and said something, while Batty Lad mouthed a comment from the lip of the pocket, but it was impossible to hear. Just then the tunnel swung to the left and opened onto a mossy ledge—and the most astonishing view that any of them had ever witnessed.

A waterfall, gargantuan in size and awesome in power, stretched far above them, as well as far below them. It roared like a million angry ogres, slamming into the walls of an enormous cavern that showed no top and no bottom. Spiraling plumes of spray soared into the air, showering the ledge where they stood, as the waterfall crashed relentlessly upward.

Upward?

Tamwyn leaned against his dripping staff, alternately looking higher and lower. Still unwilling to believe his own eyes, he stepped cautiously closer to the slippery edge, stowed the staff in its sheath, and crawled out as far as he dared. To look down—at the source of all this water.

Yes, the source. For the cascade was truly rising toward him, up this cavernous well in the trunk of the Great Tree. And not only that. It didn’t rise straight upward, in the way chutes of water plunged down. It rose, instead, in a spiral—one that spun gracefully and continuously, like a watery dancer who has twirled since the beginning of time.

Then Tamwyn noticed something more. While water lifted starward, light fell rootward. Also moving in a spiral, the curling column of light wove in and out of the cascade. Each spiral wrapped around the other, as each Element touched its counterpart, making water droplets shine like stars and shafts of light flow like radiant rills.

Henni, who had also crawled out to the edge, turned an astonished face toward his companion. Tamwyn had never seen those silver eyes so full of out-and-out wonder. And he was sure his own eyes looked much the same. It struck him that, for all his antics, maybe this hoolah had actually changed during their journeys together. Sure, Henni was still as playful and unreliable as ever, but there was at least a little rationality in him now. And, no matter how he tried to disguise it, a hint of respect . . . for his surroundings, if not for his life.

Tamwyn turned back to the twin spirals of water and light, one climbing and the other descending. Both moved with endless grace, rising and falling forever. He watched, spellbound, until suddenly he sat back in surprise.

He shook his wet locks, trying his best to listen. Could it be? At last, he concluded it really was there.