The Great Tree of Avalon (18 page)

And yet, water didn’t seem to be what the sorcerer was really after. If that was his goal, why would he go through so much trouble to find this staff? Even if it really was the staff of a wizard, it had nothing to do with water. Or did it? The questions echoed inside her mind.

She closed her eyes, seeing once again Granda’s face— still and gray, a dribble of blood at the corner of his mouth, flecks of dirt in his ragged white beard. And yet his heart still beat, just enough to keep him alive.

Not for long, though. She thought of the last moment, there on the ledge, when she’d held his hand inside her own. How warm it felt, even then, though she knew that the warmth would soon slip away.

And then, in her mind’s eye, his hand started to change. To lengthen, to grow clean and smooth. To whiten—until it was the hand of the sorcerer.

“See that you bring back the staff,” he had commanded, slicing the shadows under the stone wall with a sweep of his hand. “And soon! You have just under three weeks, mmmyesss, my pretty one. For only yesterday, the stars of the Staff on high started to go dark, the sign I have long awaited. Mmmyesss, from my lord Rhita Gawr. Ah, that surprises you? That name? Rhita Gawr . . . It is a name you will soon hear much more, my little elf.”

His white hand pointed at the dam. “I need just three weeks, no more, to finish my grand creation, just what the stars will take to vanish. And on that day the last star goes out, I shall use the staff you’ll have brought me. Use it, and then destroy it! Poetic, mmmyesss? On that day, both the staff on the ground and the staff in the sky will disappear forever.”

The voice in the shadows had made a high, hissing laugh. “Succeed, Brionna, and your grandfather shall live. But fail, and he shall die—mmmyesss, most painfully.”

The sorcerer’s hand had shot out from the dark wall and gripped her forearm. “For seventeen years I have sought that staff, and for all that time I have been thwarted. Mmmyesss, by fools as well as foes! First, by those two bunglers, who could have brought me both Merlin’s staff and the boy who would be his true heir—but missed their chance. And by my ghoulacas, who have searched the Seven Realms for years without success. And also by other forces that have tried to hinder me, no matter how many entrails I’ve read. But now I have found it! Mmmyesss, with the help of a wretched little beast from Fireroot. How ironic.”

Wheezing, he had laughed again. “So now, my helpful maiden, you shall bring the staff to me.”

“Why,” she had asked, “don’t you go yourself?”

“I must oversee the final stages of my creation, mmmyesss. And I have other reasons, as well. Excellent reasons.”

He had squeezed her, sending arrows of fire up her arm. “Find me the wizard’s staff kept by the true heir of Merlin. The entrails tell me that he is only a young man—but beware, for his powers may be starting to grow. Kill him if he tries to stop you. He is no less my enemy than was his predecessor! And tell no one of your mission. No one! Unless.. .”

He had hesitated for a moment. “Unless, perhaps, you should meet the child of the—but no, I doubt that will happen now.”

“But where do I find the staff?”

“Seek it in Fireroot, near a crater with towers like crooked teeth. And bring it to me, mmmyesss, before the last star fades. Or the old elf will die.”

Brionna opened her eyes. Though before her stretched the rocky canyon raked by howling winds, she could still see the shape of that ghostly hand. And still feel the pain of that final phrase.

She turned, wiped some dirt from her eyes, and started again to climb.

PART II

14
•
Baby Brother

Tendrils of fire spouted from the flame vent in the cavern floor. All around, rough rock walls pulsed with orange light. So did the stalactites that hung down from the ceiling like the fangs of a great underground serpent, and the chunks of cinder on the cavern floor. Even the air, which reeked of sulfur, glowed orange.

A lone figure sat beside the vent, wearing only leggings and no shirt, in the manner of all eaglemen who assumed human form. Half his face was lit, revealing a strong jaw and sharply hooked nose. His shoulders, broad and muscular, flexed as he tried to break a shard of wood—for no reason except to test his strength. This shard was thicker than usual, and his hands gripped its sides, digging into the fiber. His whole powerful body shook with the strain.

Snap!
The shard split in half, sending chips flying across the cavern.

With a satisfied grunt, the figure tossed the wood aside and stretched out one leg. Using his toes, which sported long nails that could change into talons at will, he turned a spit over the flames. The meat of the cliff hare that he’d nabbed just before dawn started to sizzle.

But he didn’t seem to notice. With sudden fury, he grabbed a small rock and threw it hard against the cavern wall. It burst into hundreds of cinder bits and a wisp of dust.

“How much longer do I have to wait?” he growled, so used to living alone that he’d grown accustomed to talking to himself. “Since that night on the cliffs . . . I’ve kept my promise! Done everything just the way the old man would have wanted.”

A shadow seemed to cross his face, darkening his large, yellow-rimmed eyes. “Well,
almost
everything.”

He turned the spit. “But for that one mistake, I’ve done just what he asked me to do. And more.”

Scree’s gaze strayed to the gnarled wooden staff leaning against the wall. “All for a piece of wood.”

He scratched an itch on his muscular arm. But he couldn’t scratch the stronger, much deeper itch down inside himself.

Reaching for his flask, made from the bladder of a bear whose meat had helped him survive last winter, he took a swallow of water—always a scarce commodity in this realm of fire. Then, with his toes, he grasped the spit. Curling his leg, he lifted the spit up to his face, tore off a hunk of juicy meat, and chewed thoughtfully.

“You’re seventeen now, Scree. Isn’t it high time you left this cave—this realm—forever?” His question echoed inside the cavern. Lowering his voice, he added, “To find him, wherever he is.”

He took another bite of meat. Seven long years he’d lived alone, without any sign of his brother. At first, he’d been sure that staying hidden was the right thing to do. After all, it was Scree—or the old man’s staff—that those murderous ghoulacas were after. So the farther away Tamwyn was, the safer he’d be.

Turning the spit, Scree tore off another chunk. Now, though, he wasn’t so sure—about that or anything else. Was this task never going to end? Hadn’t he already done plenty to protect the staff? And with no—or almost no—lapses? Right now what he really wanted to do was find Tamwyn. Or at least try. But what if he lost the staff in the process? Then all those years, and all he’d done to keep his promise, would have been wasted.

He spat out some bones, which clinked against the cavern floor. “Scree, you headless troll, make up your mind!” He frowned and grumbled in exasperation, “What I need is some sort of sign.”

Over by the wall, something crackled. Scree turned back to the staff, which was rippling with orange light from the vent. And also, he suddenly realized, with something else— a deeper light, from somewhere within. He watched in disbelief. The staff had never done this, or anything like this, before.

The full length of its shaft now glowed brighter, pulsing strangely. And then, for some reason he couldn’t explain, Scree sensed something more than light coming from the staff. It wasn’t anything so clear as a message—more like a
feeling
. Of approval, maybe even encouragement.

He sucked in his breath, then whispered incredulously, “It wants me to go! It wants me to leave the cave.”

The staff flickered, then glowed even brighter.

Giving the staff an uncertain nod, he said, “I guess maybe you’re not just a piece of wood after all.”

He set the meat aside, then stood up and carefully wrapped his fingers around the staff. It felt different than before, though he couldn’t be sure whether the difference was in the wood or in his hand. Gripping it firmly, he turned and strode out of the cavern.

Night stars glittered overhead, thousands of them, burning like flame vents that shone through the smoky sky. Yet none of them shone as brightly as the young eagleman’s eyes. For after so much time deliberating, he’d finally made his decision . . . with some help from the staff.

He glanced down at the gnarled wooden shaft, which now seemed the same as usual. No light, no feeling. Had he just imagined the whole thing?

Either way, it didn’t matter. The decision was made. He would walk up to the portal on the crater’s rim—right now, this very night. Then he’d plunge in, and start searching for his lost brother. At last.

As his feet crunched on the brittle volcanic rock, he said aloud, “And I’ll find you, Tam. Whatever it takes.”

Just hearing his brother’s name made him pinch his lips together. He remembered, as if it were that very day, their final moments together, seven years before. And what had happened outside this very cavern, in the crater whose teeth-like towers had swallowed all that remained of his family.

•  •  •

“Get off me, you ogre!” Tamwyn shouted as Scree rolled over on top of him, pinning him to the rocky ground.

Scree merely peered down at him, smirking. “Is that a command, baby brother?”

Tamwyn’s dark eyes flamed—no less than the sizzling fire plants on the cliffs. “I’m not your baby brother,” he spat, twisting unsuccessfully under all the weight. “You’re the same age as me, ten years old, and you know it! Just because you’re bigger . . .” He tried to break loose. “I’ll catch up with you, though, you’ll see.”

His back arched suddenly, throwing his brother off balance. One arm twisted free, and just as Scree turned, a fist caught him hard on the side of his head. He rolled, but Tamwyn did the same. When Scree leaped to his feet, a leg swept under him, knocking him back to the ground. Just before Tamwyn could pounce, though, Scree swung his foot.

Tamwyn staggered, lip bleeding, and fell to his knees.

Scree looked at him, panting, then reached up and felt his own ear. “Swollen like a flaming fire biscuit,” he grumbled.

As the two brothers winced, their eyes met. For a few seconds each of them tried to out-scowl the other. Then, unaccountably, they both burst out laughing.

“Your ear . . .” sputtered Tamwyn. “It’s as big as a hoolah’s hand!”

“And your lip,” Scree retorted, “looks like a smashed plum.”

“
Oooh.
Feels like one, too.” The part of Tamwyn’s mouth that could still move almost smiled. “But I got you just as good.”

“Pure luck, baby brother.”

Moments later, they were hiking up to the rim of the crater. Scree carried his staff, as always, while Tamwyn carried a new length of vine-rope to replace the snare that had recently grabbed a fire sprite, instead of the usual coal slug or cliff hare. The little beast had burned his way right through the vine, destroying the boys’ snare. But even though that meant more work for them, neither held a grudge. All the fire sprite had wanted, after all, was his freedom.

“Why do you carry that stupid stick everywhere?” asked Tamwyn, as he had done so many times before. “You don’t even leave it for a short walk like this.”

Scree swung the staff gently and tapped him on his seat. “So I can swat pesky flies, like you.”

His brother frowned. “Seriously, Scree. What are you worried about? There’s nobody but us around here, three leagues in any direction. Not even any eaglefolk’s nests.”

Scree cocked his head at the highest tower of rocks, the one with the strange green flames at its base. “No, but there’s a portal right over there, you gnome-brain. Just like the one . . .”

Tamwyn’s dark eyes narrowed to slits, and he finished the sentence. “The one in the Burnt Hills.”

The boys glanced at each other, remembering that portal—and that terrible moment when two ghoulacas had flown out and attacked their mother before they could do anything to stop them. Or save her life.

Scree cleared his throat. Though she wasn’t his birth mother, the eagleboy had felt deeply attached to her—and deeply wounded by her loss. “At least we killed them before they could eat her.”

Tamwyn just looked away.

Neither of them spoke for some time. Finally, after they had fixed the snare and were sitting on a pair of ridge rocks, watching the reddish clouds of the smoky Fireroot sky, Tamwyn said, “I’d like to try it. Just once.”

“Try what?”

He waved at the toothlike tower, whose base glowed an eerie green. “The portal. She was going to teach us portalseeking—remember? She said it was good to know how to do it, for our own protection.”

“No, Tam. Even just going up there is dangerous.”

“Come on, Scree. How about if we just go up, take a quick look, and come back?”

“It’s still dangerous. And besides, why do you want to go portalseeking, anyway?” He drummed his fingers on the wood of his staff. “Me, I’m fine just staying right here. No need to see any other realms.”

“Come on, now. Don’t you want to go tramping in the forests of Woodroot? Swimming in the seas of Waterroot? Climbing in the mountains of Stoneroot?”

Scree shook his head. “I just want some lunch.”

“Aw, be honest. You’d like to travel, wouldn’t you? There are so many places out there—as many as stars in the sky.”

“Just listen to you. Tam the explorer! You sound like that man she used to tell us about. Krys . . . um, Krust . . .”

“Krystallus.” Tamwyn gave a sigh. “She talked about him like she’d really met him. Really knew him.”

Scree shoved his brother’s shoulder. “Oh, right! And maybe he was also your father.”

Instead of rising to the tease, as Scree expected, Tamwyn looked him right in the eye and declared, “Well, maybe he was.”

Part of Scree wanted to laugh out loud. To remind Tamwyn that his father, whoever he was, had abandoned him even before he was born. It made no difference that Tamwyn’s eyes looked more human than flamelon, for both boys had guessed that his father was just another flamelon rogue, as brutish and dangerous as all the ones they’d met down in the forests. Why else had their mother refused even to talk about him?