The Great Tree of Avalon (6 page)

One of the sorcerer’s pale hands beckoned—and the big man suddenly straightened, his face tense. He strode briskly over to the tower, stopping just at the edge of the shadow. A trace of fear in his eyes, he asked, “Ye called, Master?”

“Mmmyesss, my Harlech,” spat the voice from the darkness. “I need something from you.”

A bead of sweat slid down Harlech’s brow, rounded his eyebrow, and disappeared in the scar that creased his wide jaw. In a voice barely loud enough to be heard over the sounds of pounding chisels and scraping stones from the quarry, he asked, “What do ye need, Master?”

“A slave. Mmmyesss.”

“Sure, sure.” Harlech wiped his brow in relief. He waved at the quarry pit—and beyond, at the huge dam that walled off the whole canyon. “We gots plenty o’ them. More every bleedin’ day. More ’n I kin—”

“Silence,” hissed the voice. “Not just any slave.”

Nervously, Harlech glanced back at the quarry pit. From its depths he heard the sounds of horses neighing and hooves slammed hard against stone. Then came the raised voice of a man—one of his slavemasters—more neighs, and a shout. Then the sharp crack of a whip, and the painful braying of a wounded horse.

Harlech grimaced, then turned back to the shadows. “Them beasts is gettin’ rebellious, Master.”

“Do not worry. It shall not be long now.”

“What sort o’ slave do ye be wantin’, then? I got plenty o’ four-leggeds, ’specially horses, does, an’ stags. Plus a bear er two, an’ jest last week I stole us a—”

“Silence, you blithering fool! Right now, mmmyesss. Or I’ll see how you sound with no tongue in your empty head.”

Harlech swallowed. “Aye, Master.”

A shrieking gust of wind swept suddenly over the canyon. The sorcerer’s white hands grasped the neck of his cloak, holding tight as the wind tugged at the hood and slapped against the cloth. Higher shrieked the wind, and higher still, swirling the surface of the lake until the canyon seemed like an open mouth, frothing white, that cried out in torment. Only after several minutes did the air fall still, and the canyon grow silent, but for the sounds of forced labor that echoed rim to rim.

The sorcerer lowered his hands at last. “Hear me well, my Harlech. I need a slave unusually smart, mmmyesss. Smarter than my ghoulacas—whom I have bred for obedience and ferocity, not cleverness.”

Seasoned warrior though he was, the mention of those killer birds made Harlech wince. Two ghoulacas had attacked him once, just for sport, and he had scars on his jaw and both arms to prove it. With their nearly transparent wings and bodies, and their enormous bloodred talons and beaks, it had taken all his fighting skills—and all his weapons—just to escape alive.

“Ah, I see you remember them, my Harlech. Then you might also recall that, for years, I have made them search the Seven Realms for something I want—the only thing I still need. But they have failed me time and again. Just as they have failed to kill my one great enemy . . . or to find my one great ally, the one I’ve been waiting for since I first heard the Prophecy. But none of that matters now. All that matters is what I want—my prize. And this time . . . there shall be no failure. Do you understand?”

“Aye, Master.”

“I could send you to do this task, couldn’t I, Harlech?”

“Aye, Master.” Anxiously, he touched the scar on his jaw.

“But no, I need you and all your men here to keep the slaves under control. We haven’t any time now for rebellion. But the slaves’ work is almost done. And when the dam is all finished—they will be finished, too.”

Harlech allowed himself a slight grin. He understood perfectly.

The white hands slashed the air. “So bring what I require! A slave who is smart enough to do my bidding. Who has some family or loved ones—so I can secure its loyalty. And who has some fight left, enough to survive a long journey, mmmyesss.”

Harlech frowned. “Some fight left, eh? Not many o’ those, Master.” He fingered the hilt of his rapier. “Iffen a slave gits too, ah, feisty, I uses him fer sword practice, ye see? An’ then they can’t walk none too good. Er run. No escaped slaves, though, this past three months . . . at least none that’s alive.”

The voice in the shadows merely grunted. “So long as most of them can still work, I don’t care what you do. But now, my Harlech, I need that slave.”

The man shifted his weight, his broadsword clinking against one of the daggers. “Can ye tell me anythin’ more about this task, Master?”

From the darkness came a low, mirthless laugh. “To bring me the prize. Mmmyesss! It is something very special, my Harlech. Something I once found, then lost—and have finally found again.”

“What, Master?”

Again came the laugh, merging with the swelling wind that battered against the stone tower. “Something that holds the power . . .” The pale hands squeezed the air as if they were strangling someone. “Of Merlin himself.”

4
•
Hot Wax

Claaaang!

The great iron bell rang out, echoing all across the Drumadians’ compound. This was no small feat, since the compound covered several leagues of gardens, tree-lined walkways, monuments, meeting halls, dormitories, craft centers, shrines, and other facilities of the Society of the Whole. Sometimes, when the wind blew strong, the bell’s clanging could even be heard beyond the outer walls, in the countryside of Stoneroot.

Many a bard had sung the story of this bell. Made from the belt buckle of a giant, melted down by the breath of a fire dragon, molded into shape by the hands of dwarves, and exquisitely decorated by faery artisans, it symbolized the Drumadians’ most basic ideal: unity and cooperation among all creatures. Some believed that the Buckle Bell, as it was fondly known, had been the idea of Elen the Founder. That would make it almost as old as the circle of stones that formed the compound’s Great Temple . . . and nearly as old as Avalon itself.

The elderly priestess who stood beside the bell right now, wearing woolen earmuffs to protect what little hearing she had left, didn’t look much younger. Priestess Hywel’s few remaining strands of white hair bounced with each new clang. They also bounced with every wave of her hand, which was her signal to the team of eight obedient dog faeries—all with walnut brown fur, white wings, and dangling pink tongues—who pulled the bell rope on command.

Hywel had lived in the compound longer than anyone— including High Priestess Coerria, now almost two hundred years old—and had been an Elder since before some of the other Elders were even born. And yet, though she bent low to the ground, her sharp eyes scanned everything nearby for any signs of disarray. For she took very seriously her title, Dean of Timeliness and Decorum—especially where young apprentices were concerned.

As the bell’s final note faded away, over two dozen apprentices came running from different directions. For it was time to stop their classes, memorization work, craft projects, or service to their mentors: Formal Prayers were about to begin. And no one ever,
ever
missed Formal Prayers.

Hywel watched closely as the apprentices approached the Buckle Bell. Her back straightened ever so slightly, as she felt a surge of pride at seeing the new generation of her beloved Order. Of course, she’d never reveal that pride to any of
them
. But as she watched, her old eyes glowed like the candle that burned in the holder by her feet—a candle that every senior priestess or priest carried today, the Flame of Faith holy day.

All the apprentices, young women and men alike, wore the traditional garb of Drumadians: greenish brown robe, leather sandals, and a wooden clasp at the throat, carved in the shape of an oak tree. And all of them were joined by their
maryths
—distinctive companions whose loyalty would last as long as their lives as Drumadians. Hywel’s own maryth, a rather ancient grass snake wound around her forearm, also watched the approaching crowd.

And what a crowd it was! Since, by Drumadian law, maryths could be any kind of creature but human, the young priestesses and priests were joined by a complete menagerie of does, stags, birds, beetles, dogs, cats, lizards, sprites, dwarves, faeries, and even a couple of tree spirits. These maryths, like the many who had bonded with Drumadians in the past, were as varied as all the creatures of Avalon. In fact, it was often said that maryths had just one quality in common: absolute devotion.

The apprentices, in turn, bowed respectfully to the Elder. One teenage boy, who had shoved his friend jokingly a few seconds before, got shoved back just as he bowed. His foot kicked Hywel’s candle, splattering hot beeswax on his shin. He winced—but his pain was less from the burning wax than from the burning look he got from the old priestess.

Slowly, the crowd dwindled as apprentices and maryths shuffled down the intricately carved wooden steps that led to a small, open-air theater: the Shrine of Elen. Here, they knelt before a statue, carved from the trunk of an oak tree, of Elen binding the leg of a wounded troll child. Just as the last person arrived, the whole group started to chant—the very first of a long litany of prayers to the Founder that would last all morning.

Everyone spoke in perfect unison. Listening from her post up by the bell, old Hywel almost smiled. For no one lagged. No one forgot a phrase. And, of course, no one was absent.

Except for Elli.

Even as the bell began to toll, the young priestess, a newly admitted apprentice third class, had slipped out of sight. Ducking behind the apprentices’ dormitory, she had hidden among the burly roots of an ancient elm until the clanging finally ceased. Then a strange light came into her hazel green eyes. She ran a hand through her mass of brown curls—as thick as a faery’s garden—and darted off. As quietly as a wood elf she moved, making no sound but the soft jangle of the handmade harp slung over her back.

And one more sound: the gruff
hmmmpff
that came now and then from the small pinnacle sprite who rode on her shoulder. At this moment, Nuic’s whole body—perfectly round but for his tiny arms and legs—darkened to brown, so that he looked almost like a second head upon her shoulders.

“Hmmmpff. Skipping out of prayers again, are we?”

“Sure,” answered Elli with a soft, melodic laugh. She padded past the Temple of Seven Fountains—now just seven trickles of water—before saying more. “No one will miss me, with everybody crowded into that little shrine. Not even that old goat who loves to yell at apprentices.”

“Now, now,” chortled Nuic, his color brightening a shade. “No disrespect to your elders! Just because Hywel caught you out picking raspberries the other day, when you were supposed to be in recitation class, there’s no reason to get rude.”

Elli suddenly swerved, hiding behind a cart full of squashes, carrots, and tomatoes—just in time to avoid a stern-faced priest carrying a tall candle. Right beside him trotted his maryth, a deep blue unicorn whose horn glowed dimly.

Turning toward Nuic, she whispered, “You were right there with me, as I recall, soaking yourself in the stream while I got those berries.”

Nuic’s color went misty blue, as if his round body was still immersed.

“Right you are. I deserved that little bath, after two weeks of being your maryth! Why, I’ve never worked so hard— teaching you about herbs, reminding you where you’re supposed to be, and most of all, trying to keep you from getting expelled from the Order. Though I don’t know why! It’s bound to happen anyway, at this rate.”

Again, his color darkened to brown. “Hmmmpff. I should have stayed in that pitiful little stream, even after that old goat told me to get out and do more to keep you out of trouble.”

Elli’s eyes narrowed. “How come you can call her an old goat, and I can’t?” In a mischievous tone she added, “Aren’t you being disrespectful to your elders?”

“For one thing,” grumbled the sprite, “I’m at least six or seven centuries older than she is. So she isn’t my elder. Not even close! And you, who are just sixteen, should appreciate that. And there’s another thing.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “That old goat really is an old goat.”

Elli started to laugh, when a pair of priestesses, deep in conversation, walked by the cart of vegetables. Each of them carried a beeswax candle, shielding it from breezes with an open hand. Behind one priestess glided an owl, gray wings fluttering with every swoop; behind the other shambled a medium-size brown bear. As they passed the cart, the bear grabbed a carrot and started munching—but not before giving a sly wink to the two fugitives behind the cart.

“Let’s get moving,” said Elli with a shake of her abundant curls. “Before someone else sees us.”

“Right. Maybe even someone with enough rank to expel you—and send me back to the mountains once and for all. Someone like High Priestess Coerria herself! Or that young twit who’s trying so hard to become the
next
High Priestess.”

This time it was Elli’s skin that darkened, going from its usual ruddy complexion to something more like beet red. “Llynia. No one—not even the Chosen One to succeed Coerria—should be that stuck on herself.”

Nuic reached up, grabbed a small tomato in his hand, and chewed it thoughtfully. “They say Llynia’s the youngest Chosen One in ages—since Elen’s own daughter, Rhia, almost a thousand years ago.”

“She’s the
stupidest
one in ages,” muttered Elli. “The day before you came to the compound, she made me wash all the floors and windows of the woodworking lodge. Twice! And do you know why? Because I dared to speak to her maryth, a tree spirit, without asking Llynia’s permission first!”

“Hmmmpff. I guess if Hywel’s an old goat, then Llynia’s a young ass.”

Elli grinned. Nuic might be as rough as a mountain boulder sometimes—and as hard to make smile—but she really did enjoy him. Even like him.

“So tell me something, Nuic. What made you come here, anyway? Why did you ever leave your home way up there in the hills to become a maryth?”

“Boredom, that’s all.”

Elli frowned, not believing that for an instant. But she knew that Nuic wasn’t about to tell her more. Why he came to the Society of the Whole was a secret known only to him—and perhaps to High Priestess Coerria, who for some reason had assigned him to Elli.