Shadows on the Stars (28 page)

Gwirion scratched the shaggy, barklike skin of his brow. “You see, human son, our fires have long burned low.”

“Fires?”

“The fires of my people, the Ayanowyn.”

That word again! Tamwyn remembered how it had popped into his head, from some magical insight, at the painted mural. He started to speak, but before he could, Gwirion held up both his brown hands.

“Be silent, my friend. It is time, I can tell, for a story. One of the few remaining skills of my people.”

He whistled to himself thoughtfully, as if deciding where to begin—a series of low, wandering notes. At last, he shifted his loincloth and sat down on the floor, legs folded. He was so close that Tamwyn could feel the heat emanating from his skin. Yet all that warmth didn’t seem to trouble Gwirion in the least. Rather, it was the tale of his own people that made him scowl as he spoke. Despite the glory of his words, there was none at all in his face.

“Many thousands of flames ago, even as the first streams of élano stirred inside the trunk of the Great Tree—what we call the Middle Realm—our people arrived in this world. Led by Ogallad the Worthy, we flew down to these lands, our bodies burning every bit as bright as our destiny.”

Tamwyn stirred. “Flew
down
? Your people came from the branches?”

“No, human son. We came from the stars.”

Tamwyn sucked in his breath.
From the stars.
“And when you say your people were burning . . .”

“I mean we burned with fire that springs from the soul—
llalowyn
in our language, the hottest fire known to mortal beings. And when we passed into Avalon, Dagda himself greeted us. He told us that we would be masters of the Middle Realm for many generations, and that our people would inspire many wondrous stories which would long outlive us—whether in the songs of bards or in the murals of painters.
For stories
, he said,
are as immortal as the gods.
Dagda then crowned Ogallad with a Golden Wreath to signify our glorious future.”

Suddenly Tamwyn understood. Gwirion’s people were the same ones he’d seen pictured! Fire angels—though somehow their fires had been extinguished. So they
were
real, after all.

He indicated the charred image on the wall. “Is that him? Your first leader?”

Gwirion looked both pained and proud. “That is Ogallad, his soulfire burning bright.” He peered at Tamwyn. “And now, I expect, you want to know what happened to our flames.”

The young man nodded.

“In the days of
Lumaria col Lir
—the Age of Great Light—my people flourished. We built magnificent cities of colorful tile, made with the heat of our own flames, in the caverns of Avalon’s trunk. We ventured far from the Middle Realm, both starward and rootward, though mostly down into the root-realms. Why, it was my people who brought the first light ever to shine in Shadowroot.”

Despite the pain, Tamwyn lifted his head. “Not the Lost City of Light?”

“Indeed.” A distant fire kindled in Gwirion’s eyes. “We gave light to the land, placing torches by the thousands on the streets and in the buildings. And we also gave light to the hearts of the people there, by sharing all the stories we knew, and teaching them to do the same. We even built them a great library just to hold all their books and maps.”

He paused, savoring the image of that city. “Dianarra, we named it. City of Fallen Stars, for it seemed that we had brought the light from high above to the darkest depths below.”

He looked past Tamwyn to the scorched wall, and somewhere beyond. “Years later, as you must know, the dark elves doused those lights. Then the City’s name proved apt, for it had truly Fallen. But by then my people had fallen as well. Into darkness and decline, our greatest stories all but forgotten.”

“What happened?”

Somberly, he ruffled his ragged wings, then whistled a few forlorn notes. “Our greatness turned to greed. We believed, sometimes correcdy but ever more intolerantly, that our ways of living were superior to others. We imposed our customs, and our will, on peoples throughout the Middle Realm. If they dared resist, we burned their homes, their crops . . . and sometimes even their children. For we told ourselves that only we knew
the right
; only we understood
the good
.”

He sighed. “At the same time, we started thinking of the Great Tree as our land, our possession, to exploit and use however we liked. We grew wasteful, destructive, shortsighted. We burned forests to clear land for grazing our captive beasts, even if it clogged the air and sullied our streams. Then we moved on to other forests and did the same, over and over again. Always, mind you, in the name of what was
right
and
good.
Why, we even destroyed the trees that held our precious Golden Wreath, symbol of our highest destiny! In time, the Ayanowyn had turned much of the Middle Realm into a wasteland.”

His voice lost the spark and crackle of flames and began to hiss, like embers doused with water. “The greatest wasteland of all, though, was inside ourselves.”

He thumped his chest. “And so, in time, our soulfires burned low, then went out completely. Now we do not flame, but merely smolder. We give no light. Why, even our wings have shriveled, so we can no longer fly!”

Sadly, he shook his head. “Today my people create no new stories through our wise choices and heroic deeds. We only repeat the tales of old glories, those we can still remember, even though we know such times will never come again. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?” Tamwyn pushed himself up onto his elbow, then slowly sat up. He faced Gwirion, peering into his deep brown eyes. “You must still have hope.”

The winged man shrugged. “Hope is a spark that blows on the wind. If it does not soon find kindling to burn, it goes out forever.”

“But you said
unless
.”

It was a long moment before Gwirion responded. “There is a prophecy, the final vision of our people’s last seer. Her name was Mananaun, and she died just recently, a mere eighty flames ago. She prophesied that one day, the Ayanowyn will somehow regain the wisdom of our hearts and the power of our wings. On that day, we will fly out of the darkness we have made for ourselves . . . and back into the light.”

That painting!
Tamwyn recalled the striking image of Gwirion’s people soaring into a brighter sky.

“Not only that,” continued Gwirion, “our soulfire will rekindle, and burn as bright as before. Then we will, at last, return to the stars from whence we came so long ago—and be met once again by Dagda himself. And in that meeting, he will give us a great gift.”

“What?”

Gwirion’s eyes gleamed. “Our people’s true name. And so would begin another great age for our people—as storied, perhaps, as Lumaria col Lir.”

He shook himself, as if waking from a dream. “But none of this will ever happen! We have fallen too far. Our name will always be Ayanowyn, which itself is much too grand for what we have become. It means, in our tongue—”

“Fire angels,” finished Tamwyn.

Gwirion stared at him in surprise. “You have unusual talents, my friend. Very unusual. And something more. I feel that, in some mysterious way, you attract
goodness
to yourself.”

“Ha! If only you knew the truth.”

“I feel sure of this, quite sure. Why else did that wolf do what he did?”

“Maybe he just wasn’t hungry.”

“Not likely. No, you remind me of a story about Angus Oge—an explorer, and a man of unusual kindness, who lived in the early days of my people. It is said that once he trekked across a remote part of the Middle Realm, a place so lifeless that he could find no food to eat. All he had was muddy water, for tens of flames on end. He grew steadily weaker. With his last remaining strength, he used his soulfire to boil some water in his ironwood pot, hoping to find at least a sprig of herbs to make some tea. But he found nothing. He knew now that he would die. Then, at the very final moment before his story ended, a wild hare bounded over—and jumped right into his pot.”

Tamwyn frowned. “Usually, Gwirion, it’s
me
who jumps into the boiling pot.”

His friend laughed, a sound like vibrant fire crackling.

“It’s true.” Tamwyn’s expression darkened. “Back in tire rootrealms, we, too, have a prophecy. It says that one person, the child of the Dark Prophecy, will someday cause the end of Avalon. The ruin of this world.” After a long pause, he said, “And that person is me.”

Gwirion studied him, then declared, “I do not believe this.”

“But it’s true.”

“No, I think not. Prophecies can be hard to interpret. Or simply wrong. Our destinies can take as many shapes as a flame, you know! For we may be given our colors and brushes by the gods, but we paint our stories ourselves.”

He glanced over at Tamwyn’s staff that, even in this smoky room, still gave off a hint of hemlock. “You are like your staff, really. Plain to look at, perhaps, but with something very powerful inside. Yes, I can feel it! You have your own soulfire, though it cannot be seen. And I suspect that, one day, it will burn bright indeed.”

Tamwyn looked down at his tattered tunic and leggings, so torn and bloodied. “That’s hard to believe.”

Suddenly Gwirion started. “By the fires of Ogallad! We have been through so much, but I don’t even know your name.”

“Tamwyn. It means—”

“Dark Flame. I know.”

“You, too, have unusual talents.”

Gwirion smiled. “Not really. Your name is from the flamelon people, is it not?”

Tamwyn nodded. “My mother was a flamelon.”

Gwirion reached over with a muscular arm, scarred from their battle in the tunnel. He clamped his warm hand on Tamwyn’s shoulder. “Then we are cousins, you and I. For in days long past, my people and yours intermarried. That is how, I have heard, the flamelons gained the ability to hurl fire from their hands.”

“That skill didn’t pass on to me, I’m afraid.” Tamwyn raised his hands and turned them slowly before his face. “I can’t make any magical fire. Only illusions.”

“Perhaps one day you will,” Gwirion replied. “After all, magical fire must first be kindled in the soul.”

Tamwyn gazed at this bark-skinned man who seemed, at once, so sad and so assured. Despite Tamwyn’s doubts, there was something in Gwirion’s words that gave him a touch of hope.

At that moment, the winged man leaned forward. “What work do you do among your people?”

“Whatever work I can find, mostly. My favorite job is being a wilderness guide.”

“Ah, so you are an explorer like Angus Oge?”

“No, not really. But my father . . .” Abruptly, he caught himself. “Gwirion. Have any other humans ever come through this realm?”

Thoughtfully, he rubbed the shaggy skin of his neck. “Once, and only once.”

Tamwyn’s face lit up. “Tell me!”

“It was many flames ago. In human years, I would say, almost twenty. A man came through this village—the last survivor, he said, of his group. The rest had perished in a terrible attack by the termites, in this case scores of them. The only reason he survived, he said, was his torch.”

Tamwyn started. He would have leaped to his feet, if he’d had the strength. “That was Krystallus,” he declared. “My father.”

Gwirion’s brown eyes peered at him. “Yes, I see the resemblance now. Though his hair was gray and yours is black, there is a kinship in your faces. And in your soulfires. For he was very brave, and very proud. He was injured, but would not take our help. And he was on his way, he said, to the stars! I told him that was terribly dangerous, even foolhardy, though in my heart I envied his boldness.”

Tamwyn’s heart swelled at this news. “Then you will feel the same toward me. For my quest, too, is to find the way to the stars. And to rekindle those that have been darkened.”

Gwirion whistled in astonishment. “Your kinship to your father goes far deeper than your faces.”

“Do you know,” the young man asked anxiously, “which way he went?”

“Yes, and I will show you. Once you are well enough to walk, that is.”

Tamwyn tried to push himself to his feet, but the hip that the termite had bitten exploded with pain. Groaning, he fell back on the charred tile floor. A cloud of soot rose up from the spot and settled on his torn leggings.

Weakly, he shook his head. “I wish I could go now.”

“Yes, my friend, I know. But you will be ready soon.” His eyes narrowed. “You
must
be ready soon.”

Tamwyn cocked his head, inquiring.

“In just thirteen flames—less than a week by your way of counting time—is our high holy day, what we call Wynerria, or Fires of Faith. It marks the day when Ogallad first arrived in this realm.”

He paused, a wistful look on his face. “In ancient times, when the glory of my people was as great as our numbers, Wynerria was the grandest celebration of the year. Bonfires burned in every cavern, in giant ironwood hearths so the Great Tree would not be harmed. Stories were told, paintings were crafted, and music was shared by all. At the height of festivities, a Golden Wreath—still plentiful in our forests—was cast into the flames as an emblem of Dagda’s ever-bright splendor.”

“And does this celebration still happen?”

“Only in a burned-out ember of itself, I fear. Today, our numbers have declined, so much that only this miserable little village is left. Instead of the great celebration we once had, all that remains are meaningless rituals. And since the last Golden Wreath disappeared, some villagers—let by that fool, Ciann, who attacked you—have taken to burning living creatures as a sacrifice to Dagda. So the whole meaning of the day has been utterly lost. The Dagda I believe in wants life, not death, to honor him! We have gone from fire angels . . . to fallen angels.”

Tamwyn swallowed, but he could no longer taste the sweetness of his magical water. The smell of charcoal in this hut seemed to grow stronger. “So they wanted to use me as the sacrifice.”

Glumly, Gwirion nodded. “That is why you must leave as soon as you are well enough to walk. Before the holy day, in any case. The nearer to that day we get, the more dangerous for you. If Ciann and his allies are in a frenzy for sacrifice, I probably won’t be able to hold them off again—not even with the help of my wife and sister.”