The Great Tree of Avalon (17 page)

Mist swirls about me, darkness abounds;
Nothing can save me, it seems.
Suddenly starlight! Green all around—
Life beyond marvelment teems:
The tree, and the world, of my dreams.
The tree, and the world, of my dreams.

All of this world did a single seed start,
Planted in wonder and whist.
It throbbed as alive, and beat like a heart,
Ready the Fates to assist,
Merlin’s own ultimate tryst.
Merlin’s own ultimate tryst.

Bursting with power, it sprang into life.
Out of its deepest core came
Avalon great, with mysteries rife,
Wildness no people could tame,
And wonders too many to name.
And wonders too many to name.

Mighty now rises the world-tree so tall:
Part spirit, part body . . . and partly between.
So vast, so enormous, its fibers hold all—
Including the realms of my dream,
Embraced by the magical green.
Embraced by the magical green.

Avalon lives! The last place to keep
All the songs of Creation alive.
Sing every note—sing high and deep:
Voices uplifted shall thrive;
Singers themselves shall survive.
Singers themselves shall survive.

What riddles, what puzzlements, does this world hold?
Answers elusive as mist . . .
A world ever new and still utterly old,
A landscape by destiny kissed.
Avalon does yet exist.
Avalon does yet exist.

The last notes lifted into the air, joining with the whispering boughs. Elli looked up from her harp and saw, with surprise, that Llynia was gazing at her—and not in anger. The expression on her green-stained face was restful, if not exactly peaceful.

Even as the notes faded away, though, Llynia’s expression changed. Her gaze hardened. “Why don’t you ever do something useful? Instead of just sitting there, plucking your—”

A frightful crashing from somewhere above the cliff, combined with some creature’s shrieking wail, made her halt. And look up.

A whirling mass of broken branches, leaves, twigs, smashed berries, two writhing bodies, and the remains of a bird’s nest tumbled over the ledge at the top of the cliff. Bits of bark, dirt, hair, rock, and torn clothing plunged down, too. Plus a shower of sticky purple sap.

All this landed with a howling thud—right on top of the travelers. Llynia screamed as someone’s foot smacked her in the head. Elli leaped backward, barely snatching her precious harp out of the way before a falling branch could smash it. The pack horses reared, snapping their tethers and scattering supplies everywhere, before they bolted off into the forest.

Nuic, who had just returned with a fistful of herbs, jumped backward to dodge the flying debris. And then watched in undisguised amusement as Llynia tried to remove a sticky chunk of bird’s nest from her hair. Fairlyn, her long arms outstretched, ran after the panicked horses.

Meanwhile, the pair of flying bodies had landed—and continued to wrestle in earnest. Across the ground they rolled, throwing up clods of dirt and leaves and shredded cloth. Finally, one of them—a filthy young man with long hair streaked with purple juice—prevailed. He held down the other: a short, thin person with the large hands and sassy face of a hoolah.

Tamwyn twisted the hoolah’s arm behind his back, ignoring the creature’s howling protests. “You . . . you . . . maggot! No, a maggot’s too good for you. You’re just the rotten carcass a maggot eats!”

“
Aaawwooo!
” cried the hoolah as it tried in vain to wriggle free. “Clumsy man is killing me!”

“Damn right I am.” Tamwyn shook a leafy twig, caught in his hair, away from his face. “And you’ll wish you never—”

“Stop!” bellowed Llynia, standing over them with clenched fists on her hips. “There will be no killing. And no more fighting.”

Before Tamwyn could protest, a pair of powerful, branchlike arms lifted him off the ground. At the same time, two more arms lifted up the hoolah. Fairlyn, who had just returned from the forest—without the horses—held them both in her sturdy grip. Her large eyes were rimmed in red, and she smelled like whatever part of a carcass even a maggot wouldn’t touch.

Catching her scent, the hoolah wrinkled up his nose. “
Hooeee
there, tree! You’ve got a smell even worse than clumsy man here.”

Fairlyn gave him a rough shake, as her odor grew even more rancid.

Tamwyn, swinging his legs in the air, demanded, “Let me down! You’ve no right to do this.”

Elli stepped in front of him. “And you’ve no right to come crashing down on top of us! You’ve scared off the horses, for one thing.”

“And smacked me in the head, for another.” Llynia touched her tender cheekbone. “You could have killed me.”

Nuic grumbled, just loud enough to be heard, “Maybe next time they’ll aim better.”

Llynia spun on him, but before she could say anything, the hoolah called out to her, “You got hit harder than you think, woman. You look sick, you do. Greener than a gullyful of frogs! Ee, ee, hoohoohoo hahaha.”

Now Llynia, her eyes ablaze, turned to face both the hoolah and Tamwyn. “You two are very lucky that I am a priestess of the holy Order. One who has never been tempted to bring pain to another creature... until now.” She sucked in her breath and chanted, “O Lorilanda, dear goddess, give me strength. And Dagda, fount of wisdom, give me patience.”

She turned to Fairlyn. “Did you see any sign of the horses?”

The trunk of the lilac elm spirit twisted to one side, then the other, Fairlyn’s way of shaking her head.

Llynia glared again at the two vagabonds who had tumbled out of the sky. “You have no idea what damage you’ve done! By the crooked teeth of Babd Catha . . . you’ve ruined everything! Without our horses, we can’t carry our supplies. And without our supplies, we can’t complete our que—” A sharp look from Fairlyn cut her off. “Our journey,” she said more cautiously.

Tamwyn, whose temper had only slightly cooled, spoke up. “Look, I’m sorry about the horses. It was an accident, believe me. But if it would help you out, I’ve worked as a porter before. And more often, a guide. My name is Tamwyn.”

Elli tapped the back of her harp in approval and turned to Llynia. “That would help, wouldn’t it?”

Over by the bramble bushes, Nuic snorted. “It’ll take more than one man to carry just her clothes.”

Llynia scowled, but said nothing.

Tamwyn glanced spitefully at the hoolah. “Don’t expect any help from
him
, though. Helping’s not in his nature.”

To the surprise of everyone—most of all Tamwyn—the hoolah thrust out his chin as if he’d been insulted. Light from the midday stars glowed on his circular eyebrows. He straightened the woven red band on his forehead and declared, “Whatever the clumsy man can do, so can I! My name is Henniwashinachtifig Hoolah. And I’m just as good as he is.”

“Henni . . . what?” asked Elli.

“Call me Henni Hoolah if you want. Your new porter.”

“Don’t believe him!” warned Tamwyn. “It’s just one of his tricks. He’ll take your things and dump them in the first pit he finds, then run off laughing.”

“Will not!”

“Will so!”

“Will not!”

Llynia waved her hand for silence. “A pair of porters, is it? The most ragtag, filthy porters anyone could imagine.” Her scowl lessened just a bit. “Well, I’d prefer our pack horses . . . but if you can carry our things, then we can keep going.”

“You’ll regret this,” muttered Tamwyn.

“Only because of
you
, clumsy man.”

“Is that so? Why, I’ve guided people halfway to Woodroot and back!”

Llynia interrupted them with another wave. She gazed scornfully at Tamwyn and said, “You’re my porter now, nothing else. Don’t even
think
about trying to guide. I am our leader . . . and even if I didn’t have the Sight, I’d need no help from the likes of you.”

Henni nodded vigorously. “Smart move, Lady Greenbeard. Clumsy man there isn’t old and wise like me. He’d just lead you into a swamp or a dragon’s lair.”

“Stop calling me clumsy man!” roared Tamwyn. “Or however old you are, you won’t get any older.”

Llynia squinted at him. “And just how old are
you
, porter?”

Tamwyn swallowed. “Er, eighteen.”

The priestess nodded, but over by the brambles, old Nuic turned a suspicious shade of rusty red.

Just then Henni spat a shred of balloonberry out of his mouth—which just happened to smack Tamwyn right between the eyes.

Angrily, Tamwyn swung his fist at the hoolah. Although he couldn’t reach his target, the force of his swing twisted him free from Fairlyn’s grasp. He dropped to the ground, stumbled to stay on his feet, and fell against Elli.

Elli cried out as the harp slipped from her hand. It fell to the ground with a loud
twang
. Tamwyn, meanwhile, finally regained his balance—and planted his foot squarely on the harp. There was a splintering crunch of wood, a gasp of horror from Elli, and a groan from Tamwyn.

And a chuckle from the hoolah.

Then everyone fell silent. Elli stared wordlessly at the shattered remains of her harp. Tamwyn stood frozen, aghast at what he’d done. Even the rowan tree’s boughs ceased their whispers.

In a single, swift motion, Elli whirled around and slammed her fist right into Tamwyn’s nose. He howled in pain, even as his knees buckled beneath him. He collapsed on the dirt, seeing more stars than in any Avalon sky.

“Elli!” scolded Llynia. “That was totally un-priestess-like.”

“And totally deserved.” She glared at Tamwyn, fuming. “You
are
a clumsy man. The clumsiest man alive! Or dead! Did your mother never teach you to walk? Or was she just as stupid and clumsy as you?”

Tamwyn glared right back at her, dropping his hand from his rapidly swelling nose . . . and the dark bruise forming under his eye. But just as he was about to hurl a few insults of his own, Nuic interrupted with a shout.

“Don’t mind her, good fellow! Nothing for you to worry about, really. You just destroyed her only possession, the last gift from her father before he died. And, oh yes, the one thing that kept her sane through six years of slavery.”

The sprite shrugged his round shoulders. “Don’t know why she got so upset at you.”

Tamwyn, suddenly looking as crushed as the harp itself, turned slowly back to Elli.

She just stared at him, almost tearful but with eyes ablaze. Then she turned and strode off.

13
•
Hands of Blood

Brionna clutched a jutting edge of rock and pulled herself higher on the canyon wall. Reddish brown dust sprinkled her long, honey-colored braid and stung her eyes. Even so, she didn’t stop climbing—just as she hadn’t stopped moving since that moment, two hours ago, when the shadowed sorcerer had released her. The life of her grandfather hung in the balance . . . and whether he lived or died depended on her.

On her alone.

Like an oversized spider, she scaled the rock wall. As she hauled herself over a steep outcropping, she groaned with the strain—but a sudden gust of wind forced the sound back down her throat, as it pelted her with pebbles and dirt. A rough edge jammed into her thigh, slicing her skin. A new bloodstain seeped into her loose-fitting elvish robe, once as green as Woodroot’s forests, but now so smeared with red and brown that the new stain hardly showed.

As she pulled her body onto the top of the ledge, panting, she looked down at her hands. Dark red dust coated them, rimming her fingernails like blood. Was this a sign? Of Granda’s blood . . . forever on her hands if she failed him?

She turned her hands, watching the red dust blow off her palms with the whistling wind.
Or perhaps the blood of that young man whose staff I’m supposed to steal? Will this mean his death, or the death of others?

No. She couldn’t think about that. She had to keep her mind on her task: Find the staff and bring it back here, to this wretched part of High Brynchilla. To this place of violation—of living creatures as well as the living land. To that sorcerer who kept himself hidden, except for his pale hands.

That was her task—her only chance to save the person everyone knew as Tressimir, the revered historian of the wood elves. Everyone but her. To her, he was Granda, the one person she could always count on. The person who had raised her from childhood, helped her through illness, and taught her practically everything she knew about the elves’ rich traditions, as well as those of Avalon’s other peoples. But most important of all, he’d taught her the meaning of family.

The wind gusted with sudden ferocity, smiting her with dirt and sand, kicking up spirals of swirling red dust all along the undulating rim of the canyon. Hard it blew, and cold. So cold, it made her shiver.

At last the wind died away. Brionna glanced upward. Just a few more minutes and she would reach the top of the rim—and see again the eastern edge of her beloved Woodroot, the forest realm where she longed to live again in peace. But she knew that there would be no peace for her soon. Not until Granda was safe.

She turned, gazing back over the canyon that she had nearly scaled. She could see, on the other side, the stone tower that lifted itself like the head of a bloody serpent. She could also see the ledge where the sorcerer had disemboweled that poor beast, and then given his commands. Beneath the canyon rim lay the white lake, glinting strangely, as deep as a small ocean. And then, last of all, her green eyes fell on that accursed dam, built by hundreds of slaves who had carved, hauled, and fitted its heavy blocks of stone. At the cost of their limbs—and lives.

Brionna shivered again, this time not from cold. She had worked only three days as a slave, pulling ropes for the barges that brought stones to the top of the dam. But that was long enough to get a cut from a man’s whip that would give her a permanent scar across her back. And long enough to get other scars, too, less visible but no less permanent.

Why was that sorcerer trapping so much water? That’s what she couldn’t stop wondering. Just to hold sway over all the lands and peoples who needed it? And who would die of thirst without it? That would give him power, to be sure. Not just here in Waterroot, but in neighboring realms, as well: Granda had once told her that their homeland in Woodroot took much of its water from this region. Could the dam have something to do with the summer-long drought? With the dryness—and blandness—of her favorite forest paths? Why, even the River Relentless was down to half its normal flow.