The Great Tree of Avalon (34 page)

“You can
change
your destiny, Tamwyn. Anyone can. Just as you can change your path through the forest, you can change your path through life. Look here, isn’t that just what my brother Merlin did? Just think how he began—a boy who washed ashore, with no home, no memory, and no name. But somehow, he found a new path.”

She glanced over at Nuic. “Tell me now, am I right?”

“It’s true, I suppose,” grumbled the sprite. “He could be even more of an idiot than Tamwyn at times.”

Elli could only grin at her maryth.

“And besides,” Rhia went on, “a prophecy is just a guess, a hint, of a possible future. It’s merely a clue to the riddle of what a person will make of his or her life . . . and maybe a false clue, at that.”

She thought a moment, as she wrapped a silvery curl around her finger. “So whether, in fact, you are destined to be the end of Avalon as we know it—the one world where humans and all other creatures can live freely together—remains to be seen. And much of it depends on you. On the choices you make. Always remember that, like Merlin himself, you have both light and dark in you.”

She took a swallow of clear springwater. “And now, another thing you should know. The guardian of Merlin’s staff may—or may not—be the wizard’s true heir.”

“But then . . . if it’s not Scree, who is it?”

“You will know when he or she touches the staff. When that happens, if it’s the right person, something wondrous will occur.”

Elli grinned. “That’s what High Priestess Coerria thought.”

“She was right.” Rhia watched Elli with a twinkle. “About other things, as well.”

Then the elder woman squeezed Tamwyn’s arm. “One more thing you might like to know, my dear. About your father.”

He caught his breath. “My father?”

“He was Krystallus Eopia, son of Merlin and Hallia.”

Like the walls of the tree, Tamwyn’s eyes took on a misty sheen.

“And so . . . your full name is Tamwyn Eopia.” Rhia paused, nodding. “I knew your father well. A braver explorer Avalon has never known! He died, as you probably know, trying to find the secret of Avalon’s stars, what they really are. What you don’t know, though, is that he also died of grief over losing his wife—Halona, princess of the flamelons—and their only child. You, Tamwyn.”

“Why, though?” His throat felt as rough as spruce bark. “Why did he lose us?”

Rhia sighed. “Hatred between the races, the same kind of hatred that fueled the War of Storms. Right after you were born, some flamelons tried to kill you and your parents, since they thought it was blasphemy that your mother had married someone with human blood. They attacked your home in the night and burned it to the ground. Somehow your mother managed to get away, carrying you with her. She thought your father had died, because she saw him crushed by a collapsing wall. But he somehow survived! He had a powerful will to live, your father.”

Her face looked suddenly older. “Then came the cruelest twist of all. Because your mother went into hiding right after the fire, Krystallus—along with everyone else—was sure that you both had died in the attack. Meanwhile, your mother kept hiding on the fiery cliffs, believing that her best chance to protect you, her only family, was to live as a peasant, in utter exile. When, at last, she discovered that Krystallus was still alive, he’d already left Fireroot—on his final expedition to the stars.”

“So they never saw each other again.”

“No, my dear. I’m afraid not.”

Elli leaned closer to Tamwyn. “I’m sorry. I know how it feels to lose your family.”

He just bit his lip.

Rhia tossed her silver curls. “You both still have family, though. Let’s not forget that. Elli, you have Uncle Nuic here—the best of friends, I can promise you.”

The pinnacle sprite wriggled in his chair and turned red around the edges of his face. “Hmmmpff,” he declared.

“And Tamwyn, you have—”

“A brother, if he’s still alive.”

“Yes, but something more.” She studied him with real affection, stroking his wrist. “You have an aunt. A great-aunt, actually, but that sounds positively too old! So you may, if you like, call me Aunt Rhia.”

Despite everything, Tamwyn just had to grin.

Rhia glanced at the nearest shaft of starlight. She waved her hand, and the blue-winged faeries gathered up all the platters, bowls, and cups from the table. “Do you know,” she said, “it’s nighttime already! Time for you youngsters to get some sleep, before your journey to Fireroot tomorrow.” Her gaze shifted to Nuic. “And time for us oldsters to catch up on the last few centuries.”

“Hmmmpff, pretty dull compared to the old days.” He waved his small arm toward Tamwyn and Elli. “Though they’re doing their best to make life more exciting.”

Just then Tamwyn felt a stirring in his tunic pocket. A bony wing emerged, followed by a mouselike face with glowing green eyes. “Nighty time, didja say say? Time for me to wakesa upsy! Yessa ya ya ya, manny man.”

Tamwyn stroked his head. “That’s right, it’s time you went out for some food.”

Elli shook her head in wonder. “He slept right through the fight with the ghoulacas, the mist, everything. Even dinner.”

“Ooee ooee, me me go getsy me own dinner, soony soon.”

Tamwyn continued stroking the little creature’s head as he turned back to Rhia. For her part, she was studying Batty Lad with considerable interest. “He’s, well...a friend,” Tamwyn explained. “Sort of adopted me.”

“I see,” she replied with a hint of amusement. “I can only wonder why.”

“Before we go,” he insisted, “there’s something else I just have to ask about.” Seeing her nod, he pressed on. “The stars. I’m still wondering . . . after the Age of Storms, when Merlin rekindled the Wizard’s Staff, just how did he get up there? And how did he bring the stars back to life?”

Rhia laughed again, and it seemed that bells were ringing inside the tree of mist. “Oh, my, you truly
are
your father’s son! I can’t answer those questions, my dear, at least not now.” She bent her head toward his. “I will just tell you this much, though. He traveled to the stars with the aid of a powerful dragon by the name of Basilgarrad. A great warrior—and friend.”

At the mention of such a mighty dragon, the little fellow in Tamwyn’s pocket squeaked in fright and pulled himself back down into the folds of cloth. He stayed in there, quivering, despite Tamwyn’s efforts to coax him out.

“Well, I have one more question myself,” announced Elli. “I’d like to know . . . is Merlin, your brother, still around?”

Rhia smiled sadly. “Yes, yes, he’s around. And he always will be, I suspect. But not anywhere in Avalon, I’m afraid. He’s fully occupied these days with the problems of mortal Earth. And what problems they have! So if we are to save Avalon, my dear, we must do it ourselves.”

She rose from her burl chair, her gown of woven vines gleaming in the rays of starlight. “You’ll be leaving early in the morning, though I’ll still be able to give you a hearty woodland breakfast. Then . . . you must seek the staff of Merlin. And find it—before that sorcerer does! So much depends on it.”

She ruffled her luminous wings. “Until then, my dears, dream on this:

“So find the staff of Merlin true
And you shall find the heir:
Like a brother to the darkened child,
The light of stars shall bear.”

Tamwyn opened his mouth to speak, but she raised her hand to stop him.

“No more questions,” she commanded.

He looked at her, almost smiling. “Yes, Aunt Rhia.”

32
•
Scree’s Plunge

Tucking back his massive wings, Scree plunged downward. Wind rushed against his face, blowing his streaming hair backward. He narrowed his yellow-rimmed eyes to thin slits, and clutched the staff tight within his talon. Then he screeched the cry of the eaglefolk—a cry that meant only one thing.

Death.

The two intruders, who had neared the jagged rim of the crater, froze. Just as his prey always did. Inwardly, Scree smiled. This was going to be as easy as nabbing a cliff hare for supper.

One of the intruders, the short and pudgy one, yelped in fright and threw himself behind a charred black boulder. A flame vent spouted fire and smoke right beside him, but he just huddled there, cowering.

The other one reacted differently. This one didn’t run and hide, or stand still, paralyzed with fright. No, this person instantly pulled out a bow and nocked an arrow.

Scree didn’t veer aside. This wasn’t the first time he’d faced flamelon archers, who came up here hunting for action—or for eaglefolk meat. Even if the bowman got off a shot before Scree reached him—which was unlikely, given Scree’s speed—he’d never hit the moving target. And never survive to shoot again. None of these flamelons, for all their boastful bravado, were any match for an eagleman defending his territory.

The bowman shot. Just as Scree had predicted, the arrow was easy to dodge. He lifted one wing ever so slightly, causing himself to bank to the side. Wind ruffled his feathers— and the arrow whizzed past.

Scree plunged again. Rage flooded his mind. He screeched louder than before, his cry echoing across the smoky cliffs.

By the time he saw the second arrow speeding toward him, it was too late. This bowman, whoever he or she was, was canny enough—and swift enough—to fire a second shot just when Scree banked to avoid the first. And Scree had veered right into its path.

As the arrow struck his wing, just above the joint, his screech turned into a shout of excruciating pain. He swerved, trying to pull out of his dive. But his whole right wing burned. He couldn’t lift it. Couldn’t pull out in time!

Towers of rock spun before him. And jagged cliffs—too close, too close! He knew, in that final instant, that he was going to hit hard. Too hard to survive.

•  •  •

Scree opened his eyes. He saw only dark sky—night dark, clotted with smoke. So he was on his back, then. Still in Fireroot . . . and still alive. Their mistake! Whoever had shot him should have killed him when they had the chance. He’d make sure they would regret what they’d done.

He realized in a flash that he’d regained his human form. And that he must have shifted back to human shape after hitting the ground. He could feel arms at his side, not wings. And legs, not talons.

Talons! All of a sudden he remembered the staff. He’d lost it!

Keeping silent, so as not to alert his attackers, he tried to roll over. But the instant he moved his right arm, a jolt of pain seared him. It was all he could do not to shout out loud. Then he noticed the bloody strip of bark cloth tied above his elbow. That was strange. Why should intruders shoot him out of the sky and then take time to bandage his wound?

Never mind. He needed to find his staff. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he forced himself to sit up.

“So then, you’re awake.”

The speaker was a tall woman, slim and strong: the one who’d shot him! She sat by a flame vent, warming her hands in the chill night air. Her eyes, not fiery orange or upturned at the corners like those of flamelons, reflected bright green in the firelight.

Scree winced against another jolt of pain as he sat all the way up. A wave of dizziness washed over him. But he held himself steady. His eyes darted about, searching for the staff. His staff.

That was when he caught sight of her ears. Pointed at the top, they were. Elf ears! He’d never seen an elf before; none lived in Fireroot. But he’d heard tales about some who came here to explore the realm’s volcanoes and jeweled caverns. He cursed himself for not taking into account the possibility that his intruder might have been an elf—and an expert shot.

Then he saw the staff. It lay on the ashen ground by the elf’s legs, just a body’s length away. Close enough that, if he moved quickly enough, he could—

“Don’t try it,” she said sternly. In an instant, she stood, moving with speed and grace he’d never seen in any flamelon. Almost as soon as she was on her feet, her longbow was off her shoulder and nocked with a fresh arrow, pointed straight at his chest. “Any unfriendly moves, and I’ll have to waste another arrow on you, eagleman.”

“Betterly you obey whatever she wantses,” declared another voice.

Scree turned to see what looked like an overweight dwarf waddling toward them. His nose, bulging like a burl on an ironwood tree, glistened with a shiny yellow coating—which seemed almost like dried honey. “She’s a meanly one when she has to be! Honestly, truly, horribly.”

Scree shook his head—both at this babbling idiot and at the dizziness that was gathering again. He turned back to the elf woman. “What are you going to do with my staff, you scum?”

Her green eyes flashed. “Take it.”

“No!” Scree cried, his arm and head throbbing. “I haven’t guarded it for all this time just so you could steal it.”

“Then I really will have to shoot you.” She drew back her bowstring.

With all his strength, Scree forced himself to stand. He stood before her, staring straight into the arrowhead, utterly defiant. Though his head pounded and his legs felt like broken twigs beneath him, he tried not to sway.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “A slave of Rhita Gawr?”

For the first time, her gaze wavered. She bit her lip, then replied in a slightly hoarser voice. “Who I am doesn’t matter. And you won’t believe this, but I’d rather . . . rather let you live than die. So now that I know you didn’t bleed to death, I’ll just take the staff.”

Before Scree could speak again, the fat dwarf waved his hands. “Bake the staff? No, Rowanna. That would be all too splinterly!”

He suddenly frowned, pushing his finger into his ear. “Waitly, now. You didn’t say
take
the staff, didly you?”

She gave a grim nod.

“But Rowanna! Isn’t you some bittily confusedness? Methinks we is just going to
uses
Merlin’s magically staff. Not steals it.”

She glared at him, green eyes flashing. “The plan has changed, Shim. I’m going back to that cursed white lake, and taking it with me.”

In that instant, several things happened at once. Scree lunged, even as dizziness surged through him. The elf woman released her arrow. And Shim wailed in anguish.