by T.A. Barron
The highlord’s orange eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the droplet. Slowly, very slowly, it started to expand, swelling into a silvery sphere that twirled brightly before them. The sphere reflected the light of the torches, as well as the brilliant colors of the shells and sea stars on the cavern walls. Yet it also radiated a different kind of light—a subtle, shifting light of its own.
“Hearrrrrken now, spherrrrre!” boomed Bendegeit. Then, his voice a whispery growl, he began to chant:
Write the unwritten,
Find what is lost,
Tell the untold.
Scry the forgotten,
Suffer the cost—
Open the fold.
Show what lies hidden,
Dark to the eye,
Wondrous or bleak.
Share now unbidden,
The ultimate why—
Truth do I seek.
Light and shadow began to whirl within the sphere, spinning and shimmering. For an instant, the globe brightened, as radiant as an exploding star. Then, inexorably, the light dimmed. Shadows darkened, blackness deepened, coalescing in edges and shapes that seemed devoid of light.
Darker than dark was the phrase that leaped into Basilgarrad’s mind. Without knowing why, he shuddered.
A figure appeared in the center of the sphere, blacker than the shadows that surrounded it. Long and sinewy, like a vertical snake, it seemed to be laboring somehow—not drinking, not eating, not working with tools. What could it be doing? Something requiring great strength and concentration. Perhaps . . . giving birth?
Something about the figure’s shape felt vaguely familiar to Basilgarrad. Yet he couldn’t begin to explain why. Because at this moment the shadow leech was not showing its bloodred eye, its identity remained concealed. Though Basilgarrad stared hard into the shimmering sphere, he could only be sure that his hunch was correct: All of Avalon’s recent troubles did have a single source, an identifiable cause. But exactly what that cause was, and where in Avalon it might be found, he did not know.
The dark image in the sphere started to fade, blurring into layers of shadows. Just as the image vanished completely, the sphere itself began to shrink, condensing down into the size of a single drop of water.
The highlord nodded, his jewel-studded visage grim. “Do you rrrrrecognize that wicked crrrrreaturrrrre?” he asked Basilgarrad.
Merlin’s great friend shook his head sadly.
“So tell me . . . do you underrrrrstand anything morrrrre now than you did beforrrrre?”
“Only this, highlord.” Basilgarrad’s voice rumbled so loud the cavern vibrated. “Somewhere, that creature is working evil—enough to threaten our whole world. I don’t know its plans, its powers, or even its name. But I do know one thing.”
“What is that?” asked Marnya, swimming closer.
Basilgarrad lifted his head high, stretching up nearly to the cavern’s ceiling. Light from the phosphorescent torches glinted on his scales and teeth. “Somehow I’m going to find that shadowy thing. Find it—and destroy it.”
With that, he bowed his head to Bendegeit. “To you, great highlord, I say, rule well.” He turned to Marnya, his eyes alight. “And to you I say . . . fly well.”
Basilgarrad turned and swam down the tunnel to the open sea. As he departed, the highlord and his daughter watched in silence. Both of them sensed that this unlikely visitor had changed their lives . . . and just might change something greater.
17: A FARAWAY BELL
A dragon’s ears are sensitive, so sensitive they can hear sounds many leagues away. But that is nothing compared with what can be heard with the heart.
The portal’s green flames sputtered, wavered, then bulged outward, pushing away from the twin stone pillars that bordered it. As the bulge expanded, it strained, quaking, as if the flames didn’t want to release the precious treasure they contained. But they couldn’t hold it back any longer. With a loud explosion of sparks, the fiery wall gave way. A bedraggled group of travelers—Merlin, Rhia, Nuic, and Lleu—tumbled out onto the bare ground.
Nuic, whose small round body had rolled some distance over dusty soil before coming at last to a stop, sat up frowning. His skin was streaked with gray and brown—whether from the dirt and dust or his mood, no one could tell. “Hmmmpff,” he grunted. “Remind me never to ride through a portal again.”
Rhia, rolling onto her back, glanced at the sputtering flames beside them. “If we don’t stop this blight from spreading, there won’t be any portals left to ride.”
“But we have the solution!” cried Lleu triumphantly. He practically bounced to his feet beside her. Straightening his frayed brown tunic, the simple garb of a priest, he added, “Your brother has the crystal of pure élano, remember? The blight is as good as ended.”
“Not so, Lleu.” The wizard’s voice, still weary from the strain of obtaining the crystal, sounded heavy with doubt. “I have the crystal, yes. But it will do no good if we can’t set it in the right place.”
The others’ heads turned toward Merlin. Slowly, legs wobbling, he stood. Leaning heavily against his staff, he surveyed the desolate scene around them. Except for the flickering green flames between the stone pillars, there was no movement, no sign of life. For as far as he could see, the landscape consisted of skeletal trees devoid of leaves, empty gullies without a trickle of water, and ashen soil.
“What do you mean, the right place?” asked Rhia as she, too, clambered to her feet. Her suit of woven vines, now almost completely brown, crackled as she stood. Leaves, brittle and dry, crumbled and fell to the ground by her bare feet.
Merlin swung around to face her. Twisting the tip of his staff into the lifeless soil, he said grimly, “The blight has expanded, both in size and power, since we left. Just look around us—so much devastation.”
Wearily, he sighed. “For the crystal to work, I’m convinced we need to place it precisely in the center of the blight. I don’t mean the physical center, but the magical center. The place where the blight really began, its true origin. That’s the only place where this dark magic can be fully stopped. And that’s far from here, very far.”
“How do you know that?” his sister demanded.
“I can feel it.” He put one hand upon his chest. “Right here.”
“Well,” suggested Lleu, stepping closer, “can’t we just go there? To a portal that’s closer to the center?” He glanced at the fire, weakly sputtering between the pillars. “This isn’t the same one we entered, the one that took us to the white lake. If we just ride back to that one, we could—”
“I refuse,” grumbled Nuic, his little hands balled into fists.
“Even if we tried,” said Merlin, “I doubt it would work. These portals around Woodroot are all suffering from the same dark magic, whatever its source, that’s afflicted the land. We barely made it here as it was! I wouldn’t want to enter another portal until they are restored to power—or else we might never come out again.”
“For once,” Nuic muttered, “you’re talking sensibly.”
Rhia studied her brother. “What about your power of Leaping? Could you send yourself there, with the crystal?”
Slowly, he shook his head, sweeping his black hair across his shoulders. “No, Rhia. I can barely stand, let alone Leap! That whole experience at the lake . . . I’m so drained, there isn’t a chance.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the crystal. Its seven facets, gleaming radiantly, shone like pure light in his hand. Closing his fingers around it, he muttered, “There must be a way. There must.”
He caught his breath. “There is one way! That is, if Basil didn’t run into trouble.”
Knowing what had occurred to him, Rhia nodded. “Call him! We can ride him to the center of the blight.”
Shuffling across the dusty ground, Nuic’s color darkened. “Maybe we should try the portal after all. Riding that clumsy serpent is like riding a nightmare.”
“Hush,” said Rhia, lifting the sprite. “He’s
our best chance.”
“Then we’re as good as dead,” he grumbled, settling into the bend of her arm.
Merlin raised his eyes skyward. His bushy brows drew together; concentration creased his brow. “Basil, old boy . . .” he said pleadingly. “Are you anywhere near Woodroot? If so . . . I could use a ride. Sometime soon. Very soon.”
“How about right now?” boomed a thunderous voice that rolled out of the southern sky.
As the group wheeled around, a shadow appeared in a high, spiraling cloud of dust. The shadow solidified, then out of the cloud burst Basilgarrad, Avalon’s mightiest dragon. His enormous wings seemed like twin islands floating on the air, though no island could bend and twist with such grace and flexibility. He banked a turn, the scales on his chest glistening green. Arching his back and tail, he coasted to a landing on the ground beside Merlin and the others.
“Hmmmpff,” growled Nuic. “What took you so long?”
Basilgarrad, seeing the look of urgency on Merlin’s face, didn’t answer. Within seconds, the group had climbed aboard his massive brow and were flying swiftly northward. Merlin, holding tight to one of the dragon’s ears, scanned the lifeless landscape below, as the wind swept past. Searching both outward and inward, he seemed to be wrapped in a shroud of deep concentration.
“There!” he cried at last. “That’s the spot.”
He pointed ahead, at a round, gray patch of land. Not even a skeletal tree or a leafless shrub grew there. The soil looked even more drained than what they had seen elsewhere—totally sapped of nutrients, like a bloodless corpse. A stale, putrid smell wafted toward them, making Basilgarrad scowl.
Nevertheless, he landed in the middle of the deathly patch. Clouds of dust rose all around them as he touched down, clogging the putrid air. Yet no one, not even the sprite, complained. The stakes were too high. Almost before Basilgarrad came to a stop, the wizard started to climb down.
Merlin walked over to an especially ashen spot. His face haggard, he looked much older than his years; like Rhia’s brittle suit of vines, he suffered along with this once-bountiful realm. Carefully, he pulled the luminous crystal from his tunic.
Supported by his staff, he kneeled down and placed the crystal on the ground. Peering into its radiant facets, he said quietly, “Bring life back to this land . . . I beg of you.”
Slowly, the wizard stood. He glanced uncertainly at Rhia, then at Basilgarrad. Anxiously, he twisted his staff into the dead ground. Seconds passed, seeming like hours. Nothing happened.
More time passed. Still nothing happened.
Basilgarrad’s ears trembled. He thought he heard something—a distant chiming sound, like a faraway bell.
The sound swelled, growing stronger, until everyone else could hear its sonorous ring. Rhia caught her breath, realizing that the dead vines on her arm had started to bend and twirl, as if nudged by a gentle breeze. Only there was no breeze, at least not the physical sort that stirs the air. Rather, this was a stirring of the soul, an awakening of life.
All at once, the crystal began to vibrate. An explosion of light, both white and green, suddenly burst from its center—spreading outward in glowing circles that expanded like ripples on a pond. Farther the ripples spread, and farther, passing through the ground, reaching toward the horizon.
Meanwhile, the vines on Rhia’s suit continued to move, turning toward the crystal, just as flowers turn toward the light. The vines grew more supple, even as hints of green appeared in their stems and leaves. Rhia’s eyes danced, for she could feel their life returning. Even crusty old Nuic, resting in the crook of her arm, began to turn a subtle shade of green.
The bell’s chiming grew stronger, ringing all around them, vibrating in the air. From the soil, meanwhile, a single green shoot pushed skyward, breaking out of the ground, reaching for freedom. Higher it rose, and still higher. More shoots sprouted nearby, then more, until the ground seemed to boil with greenery. Hundreds of plants, then thousands, pushed upward, twisting with vitality and celebrating new life.
Leaves in great abundance grew from the branches and twigs of once-dead trees. A new sound filled the air—the liquid rush of flowing water, rising from underground springs, splashing down rivulets. Now the wind stirred the boughs of the reviving forest, rustling the leaves and stroking the bushes and grasses. In time, all these sounds—of bells, of water, and of wind—merged into one melodious song.
“Alive,” whispered Merlin, his voice hoarse but full of new energy. He turned toward the deepening vista of woodland stretching to the horizon on every side.
“Alive,” echoed Rhia, running her hand over the living vines that embraced her arm.
For now, thought Basil, recalling the image of the writhing black shape he had seen in the water dragon’s lair. Darker than dark it seemed—and, even now, amidst so much new life, it cast a shadow upon his heart.
So awash in thoughts was he that, like the others, he didn’t notice the small black leech that crawled out of the ground near the crystal. Quivering with anguish, the leech managed to flash its bloodred eye only briefly, sending some sort of message before it died.
18: A CHILLING SOUND
Plans, like seedlings, need some sort of light to grow. Unless they are plans that thrive, instead, on darkness.
Deep in the Haunted Marsh, a sudden cry erupted. Screeching horribly, echoing among the rotting corpses of the pit, the cry reverberated in the foul night air. Every creature within earshot froze at the sound, quaking with terror that slid slowly through the marrow of their bones. Even creatures without bones, such as the marsh ghouls, trembled in fear.
The huge, swollen leech who had uttered that cry was, itself, quaking. But not with fright. No, that great beast, darker than all the shadows around it, quaked with rage. Absolute rage. Wrath oozed out of its every pore, sliding down its skin like poisonous perspiration.
Doomraga cried out again—with rage, as before, but also with something else. Something more like determination.
“That miserable green dragon and that wizard he carries,” it uttered in a chilling whisper. “Meddlers. Troublemakers. We will destroy them, my master and I. Yes . . . just as we will destroy their world.”
The monster’s bloodred eye flashed, briefly illuminating the marsh. For minutes thereafter, the rotting bodies and corrupt beings nearby glowed with a dull red hue. They pulsed, like dying stars, throbbing with the evil light.
Marshaling all its power, Doomraga returned to work. Its body started to bulge, expanding with rhythmic bursts of energy. Soon, the leech knew, it would achieve its most astonishing feat. Out of its new body would emerge a great new force, a most potent weapon, a power that would reach every corner of Avalon.
With that glimpse of the future, Doomraga quaked once more. This time, however, it did so not in rage . . . but in laughter. A deep, bone-rattling laugh arose from its core, echoing across the marsh.
19: THE MISTY PORTAL
Sometimes it’s best not to know what lies ahead. Or even to guess.
Misty colors aglow, thousands and thousands of flowers trembled in the breeze. Intense purple, deep green, luminous pink—these and many other colors flashed brightly, covering ridges that rolled all the way to the horizon. Like most flowers in Airroot, they grew on the dense, compacted slopes of older clouds, where the airy soil was thick enough to support their roots. But here, in the oldest clouds of the realm, they had spread across misty meadows that rose and fell as far as anyone could see, making the clouds themselves gleam like crushed rainbows. No wonder, then, that bards had come to call this place the Cloud Gardens.
On one ridge in particular, where emerald green flowers painted the slope, color radiated. Here, green saturated the air above the flowers as well as the flowers themselves, glowing in the vapors that spiraled up from every blossom. And this radiant green seemed more than just color. Richer, brighter, it looked almost like a kind of flame. Green flame—rising out of the flowers, the mist, and the magical air.
The portal, shimmering with a strange sort of fire that was partly mist and partly light, was unique in all of Avalon. No other portal’s flames matched these. And no one but the mist faeries and sylphs who lived near the Cloud Gardens, floating above the flowered ridges, knew it even existed. The misty portal remained a secret, undiscovered by outsiders and unused by anyone.
Until now.
The vaporous fire crackled loudly, shooting green sparks that flamed bright before tumbling down to join the emerald flowers. There, with a watery hiss, the sparks melted away. The portal’s fire, meanwhile, snapped and sparked more intensely than ever, like flames on a rolling boil.
The misty portal suddenly parted, opening into a deep green hole. Out of that hole reached a shape—a long, slender finger. Then came other fingers, knuckles, and the palm of a hand, emerging slowly. The hand groped, feeling the air outside the portal—as if testing to make sure the air really existed.
All at once, the hand lunged forward. Arm, shoulder, and head pushed through the curtain of mist, as a tall man stepped forward. He stood on the slope, luminous with flowers, looked around himself, and nodded.
“So,” declared Krystallus, “there is a portal into Airroot.” His rugged face creased in a grin. “How very disappointed Serella will be that I, not she, found it first.”
He studied the shimmering portal, gazing at it as intently as a master jeweler would gaze at a new kind of crystal. “Flames of mist,” he said with wonder. “This is why I travel all the time—to find places like this.”
He pushed off his brow a lock of hair, whiter than most clouds. And frowned, thinking of someone else—a man whose hair was as black as a raven’s wing. For he knew there was another reason why he traveled constantly: to get away from his father. Not just the man, but his image, his reputation.
His shadow. A shadow that stretched from one end of this world to another, always touching Krystallus, always obscuring him. He squeezed his powerful hands into fists. Would he ever step out of that shadow? Or would he always be, as the elf queen Serella had said, just “the son of someone great”? Was his yearning to travel nothing more than a desire to escape?
