by T.A. Barron
Peering at the misty portal, he wondered what secrets it held. And what secrets he himself held. Will I ever stop being Krystallus, son of Merlin—and become Krystallus Eopia, great explorer of Avalon?
The fiery green curtain crackled, undulating as if beckoning to him. Could it lead higher in the Tree, to places no one had ever seen? To realms not yet discovered? To the uncharted stars?
His eyes reflecting the portal’s green light, Krystallus knelt on the compacted cloud. Pulling his sketchbook out of his tunic pocket, he dipped his feather pen into the ink and began to draw a map. This one, different from any other map he’d drawn, showed masses of clouds, not land or water. Cloudscapes that rose, fell, merged, formed, and evaporated continuously, right before his eyes. This scene changed so rapidly, so fluidly, he found it necessary to sketch not one, but two, then three, then seven distinct versions—each one drawn a few minutes apart, each one showing a unique view of this realm of shifting mist.
Someday, he vowed, I will create a new kind of map for this realm, a map that constantly evolves. Yes—just like these clouds!
Quickly, he made a note of this idea (on the inside cover of the sketchbook, where he’d already scrawled many other ideas for new and better maps). Then, closing the book with a satisfying snap, he replaced it in his pocket.
And now, he thought, where should I go next? Impulsively, he picked seven petals from the emerald green flowers growing beside him. Placing their vaporous petals on his open hand, he considered them. One for each root-realm. Which shall it be?
Closing his eyes, he allowed the fingers of his free hand to roam across the petals. Finally, he picked one that felt just right—though he couldn’t even begin to explain why. When he opened his eyes, he gasped in surprise.
Shadowroot! He hadn’t expected that. The dark realm was the only one he’d never visited. No one he’d ever met, except Basilgarrad, had actually gone there and returned to talk about it. And Basil had ridden there on the wind. Why, there probably wasn’t even a portal to Shadowroot! Even if he tried to go there by portalseeking, he could easily be taken to somewhere else entirely. Or worse: His disassembled body could never be restored again.
Grimly, he set his jaw. I’m going to Shadowroot. If I can.
Taking one last moment to gaze at the lush, misty meadows surrounding him, he pushed their radiant colors from his mind. His thoughts focused on one color only. The color of eternal night.
Krystallus then strode right into the portal’s misty green curtain. Flames crackled, swallowing him greedily. With a burst of sparks, he disappeared.
20: FIRE IN THE SKY
Dragons live a long time. A very long time. But some things, deeper than memory, live longer.
Krystallus plunged forward, tumbling out of the fiery portal. He rolled on the hard ground, immediately smelling its strange aroma, much like crushed mint but more tart. Sitting up, he blinked his eyes. Beyond the ground illuminated by the flickering green flames, he saw nothing.
Nothing but blackness.
Dark sky, and even darker contours of hills, surrounded him. But for the portal behind him, there was no light anywhere. Not even the hint of a distant campfire. Or a home. Or life of any kind.
“Welcome to Shadowroot,” he whispered to himself, drawing his knees closer to his chest as he sat on the mint-scented ground. There was a note of triumph in his voice, to be sure. But there was also something else—something more like fear.
For there was, indeed, life here. If he believed the stories of the museos—the translucent, tear-shaped creatures who sang wondrous, deeply sorrowful songs—the realm they had escaped from held unimaginable terrors. Whatever evil had forced the museos to flee Shadowroot years before still haunted them today, giving their songs an undertone of dread. And that evil, no doubt, still remained in this realm . . . somewhere beyond the portal’s frail ring of light.
Maybe this is one time I’ll wait until later to draw my map! It wouldn’t show much, anyway. Unless, he mused, I can invent a new sort of map that reveals what can’t be seen. Finding that an appealing notion, he grinned—and made a mental note to add it to his list.
Slowly, he stood. Peering into the dark surroundings, he tried to see anything recognizable. Anything alive. But all he could see were layers upon layers of darkness. Realm of endless night, he thought, quoting some bard who had written a ballad about the escape of the museos. How did it go? He remembered only a shred:
Utter darkness haunts their dreams,
Fever from their flight.
Evermore they hear the screams:
Realm of endless night.
Feeling something brush against his wrist, he started. In the wavering green light from the portal, he saw a tiny, triangular stain on his skin. Black as the realm around him. Suddenly frightened, he shook his arm, trying to shake off the stain—and whatever wickedness it carried.
To his surprise, the black mark lifted off his wrist and fluttered in the air. Erratically, it flew past his face before disappearing into the darkness. A moth! He watched it vanish—then caught, once again, that scent of crushed mint.
Bringing his wrist up to his nose, he sniffed. Mint flooded his nostrils—tart but also remarkably sweet. He grinned at his discovery—as well as his foolishness. So this realm, full of all that darkness and danger, also holds a fragrant little moth.
Curious to explore more of Shadowroot, he glanced over his shoulder at the flaming portal. The gateway that clearly he, Krystallus Eopia, was the first person to discover. And the first person to pass through unharmed. Another victory over that gloating Serella! Then, peering straight ahead, he stepped across the hard ground, to the very edge of the portal’s light.
Dark hills, barely distinguished from the lightless sky, stretched farther than he could see. So dark was this vista that he couldn’t even tell what was in the foreground and what lay far beyond. Everything merged into a thick soup of night. A soup that would, no doubt, hold more than its share of unusual spices . . . and deadly poisons.
Yet unlike a moment earlier, this scene didn’t make his heart race with fear. “Somewhere out there,” he said quietly, “is a tiny, mint-scented moth.”
Suddenly the sky changed. Arrows of fire, orange and gold, streaked high overhead, ripping the veil of darkness. Lightning? Falling stars? Krystallus caught his breath, gazing in awe at the fiery arcs.
No! he realized. That’s not lightning. It’s—
He paused, mind racing, trying to remember the words his mother had used to describe the creature who had come to his parents’ wedding. A creature who resembled a man, with enormous wings—wings that burned with bright orange flames.
Fire angels.
He watched, spellbound, as the flaming people soared overhead, leaving trails of glowing orange in the sky. Dozens of fire angels flew high above, lighting this otherwise darkened realm. Where are they going? he wondered. And why are they here?
Finally, as the last of the luminous creatures flew past, Krystallus lowered his gaze to see what this momentary burst of light could reveal about the lands around him. He saw, more clearly now, the rugged hills that surrounded this spot. They rose into mountains that seemed to pierce the sky. Evernight Peaks, he said to himself, already choosing the name he’d add to his map of this realm.
Below the hills, a dark lake rested, its surface as still as a mirror. Even with the streaks of orange flame reflected in its water, the lake seemed like a pool of liquid darkness. Under the surface moved ominous, shadowy shapes that were still darker. Lake of Shadows, thought Krystallus.
Just as the last orange light faded from the sky, he saw something else—something he’d entirely missed before. Bodies ! Bodies of—could it be?—elves!
Sprawled only a few paces away from the portal’s ring of light, the elves lay motionless on the ground. They were twisted, as if still writhing, their final agony etched on their faces. Several of them had died with their arms stretched toward the portal. Groping for a chance to
escape? From what?
Heedless of the encroaching darkness, Krystallus ran over to them. There were five, six, seven in all—and all of them were clearly dead. He clenched his jaw, partly out of sympathy for their terrible deaths from an unknown cause. And partly, he admitted to himself, out of disappointment that others had found this portal first.
In the final glow of light from the fire angels, he sensed a small movement. One of the elves—a woman with silvery blond hair—stirred ever so slightly. Her fingers clawed at the air, as her throat emitted a weak, dying gasp.
Krystallus stared at her, even as her form faded into darkness. For he knew that elf, knew her hair and her voice and her arrogant ways, which had often tormented his dreams.
“Serella,” he growled. Jealousy and resentment filled his heart, as relentlessly as the returning night filled the landscape.
Yet . . . down inside, in his innermost self, he felt a different emotion. One he never would have expected to feel, certainly not for Serella. Sympathy. Not for her as a fellow explorer, but on a deeper level, as a fellow living being.
Hesitating no longer, he rushed to her side. Tripping on one of the other darkened bodies, he barely kept his balance, reaching her just as total darkness descended. He kneeled down, placed his hand upon her back, and felt the barest quiver of a breath. Then, sliding his arms underneath her, he stood, lifting her limp body.
Staggering toward the portal’s flames, Krystallus forced himself to concentrate on his next destination—Waterroot, the home of Serella’s people. If he could just get her back to her realm, where elven healers could tend to her, she might yet survive. Waterroot, he thought, conjuring memories of its iridescent waves, cool currents, and salty air.
Yet even as he crossed into the ring of green light, he couldn’t entirely push from his thoughts the strange place he was leaving. Or, hefting the body in his arms, the strange prize he was taking with him.
21: STRANGE THOUGHTS
After all these years, the only thing I know for certain is that I don’t know anything for certain.
Staggering out of the portal, Krystallus didn’t even notice the crisp breeze that struck his face, let alone the sharp, briny smell of seawater. Exhausted from his journey, he kneeled on the wet, barnacle-covered rocks that surrounded the portal and carefully set down Serella’s body. Waves from the sea sloshed against the shore only a few paces away, spraying her boots and leggings.
Completely lifeless, she seemed, her face a sickly gray color and her eyes still open but unseeing. Some sort of black, shadowy lines creased the skin of her neck and brow. Gazing down at her, Krystallus noticed for the first time the deep forest green color of her eyes.
Placing a hand on her torn blue tunic, just below her neck, he felt for any breathing. Not a trace. He leaned over her face, trying to feel even a slight rush of air from her nose or mouth. Again—nothing. When he placed a hand on the side of her neck, checking for a pulse, he did no better.
Serella showed no sign of life. She lay motionless on the rocks, her silvery blond hair arrayed around her head like rays of light.
To his own surprise, Krystallus felt a sharp pang of disappointment. Probably because I worked so hard to get her here, he surmised. Should have left her where I found her.
He had, indeed, worked hard to keep her essence tied to his own throughout the journey. It felt sometimes that the portal’s fires wanted to rip her away, to carry her off to some other destination. Or to swallow her life energy and merge it forever with that of the Great Tree. At such moments, Krystallus had fought hard to keep her with him—harder than he could now explain, given that she was not someone he cared for. She was, after all, his bitter enemy, someone who had never missed a chance to humiliate him.
Yet now, as he looked down on her face, serene even with the marks of death, he couldn’t quite feel his old resentment toward her. She had clearly suffered in dying from whatever had attacked her in Shadowroot. And she had, in fact, been a worthy competitor. A foe, yes, but not really wicked. She was just . . .
A seagull glided above them, screeching, as he searched for the right word.
Better. He gulped, realizing the truth. She was always better at exploring than me. Serella had been the first to find Brynchilla, first to make contact with the flamelons—and now the first to face the perils of Shadowroot. She always had the heart of an explorer.
So she wasn’t his enemy, after all. Or even merely a competitor. She was really something more, something he couldn’t quite name.
Sadly, he reached for her neck again. Maybe he’d feel a trace of a pulse this time? Just as his hand touched the soft skin of her throat—
“Get him!”
Hearing the gruff voice, Krystallus turned around—just in time to see three elves running up the rocky beach, about to pounce on him. Even as he started to stand, they drew their long knives and spears. And their angry, wild-eyed faces made their intentions perfectly clear.
“Stop him!” cried one elf. “Before he escapes into that portal.”
“Tried to strangle her, he did.”
“You killed our queen!”
Krystallus barely gained his footing when another elf dashed out from behind the portal and leaped onto his back. Collapsing, Krystallus and his foe rolled down the slippery rocks into the shallow water. Dodging a punch, Krystallus kicked the elfin the chest, hard enough to send him sprawling backward into the waves. He spun around to face the other attackers.
Wham! The butt of a spear struck him hard on the temple.
Krystallus teetered, dazed. Then another sharp blow to the head knocked him over. He splashed into the shallows and lay there, facedown in the water.
22: THE CHOICE
How I love to gamble! To roll dice, to take a risk, to trust in luck. Especially when what’s at stake belongs to someone else.
When Krystallus awoke, the feeling wasn’t pleasant. His head throbbed, as if boulders were constantly slamming his skull. His stomach churned with swallowed seawater, and his mouth was rank with the stench of his own vomit. And his new surroundings didn’t bode well.
He lay on the stone floor of some kind of cell. When, after much effort, he brought his eyes into focus, he looked at his tattered tunic and leggings—and checked for his precious sketchbook, which was still in his pocket. Around him he saw only stone walls, floor, and ceiling, unbroken but for a bolted door and a barred skylight high above his head. On the floor beside him were two items of furniture: a rickety stool and a bucket, made from a large seashell, that held some water.
Dazed and nauseated, he forced his wobbly limbs to crawl over to the bucket. Plunging his head into the water, he tried to rinse away the smell of retch. But even that small amount of effort was enough to cause the boulders to strike his skull again.
Head throbbing, feeling more dizzy than ever, he collapsed onto the stone floor. Then, despite his effort to resist, he vomited again. Seawater and shreds of kelp gushed out of his mouth, making a rancid puddle on the floor. Dark shadows crept into his mind, obscuring any thoughts. As the shadows deepened, he lost consciousness.
When he awoke again, the cell seemed darker than before. At first, he thought he was on the edge of losing consciousness again. Or had he somehow returned to the endless night of Shadowroot? Gradually, he realized that, no, this darkness lay outside himself. And it wasn’t the constant, oppressive darkness of that dangerous realm. He was, judging from the sound of waves crashing somewhere beyond these walls, still in Waterroot.
Ignoring the continuous throbs in his head, he rolled over onto his back. That alone took all his strength. Through the skylight, he saw the dim glimmers of stars through the hazy air. He lay on the stones, panting from exertion.
Footsteps echoed in a corridor nearby. The heavy iron bolt in the door slid open. Krystallus closed his eyes, pretending to be still unconscious.
Booted feet entered the cell. Someone stepped over to him and roughly shoved his shoulder. It took all his self contro
l for Krystallus to keep his eyes closed. Enraged, he wanted badly to leap to his feet and teach the intruder some manners. But he knew enough to resist. In his current condition, he probably couldn’t even stand up, let alone challenge anyone to fight. He remained motionless on the floor, heart pounding.
“Looks like yer prisoner’s still half dead,” said a voice that sounded like river rocks grinding against each other.
“When he wakes up, he’ll wish he was totally dead,” another voice replied with a loud guffaw.
“Right as a rudder you are, mate! I hear the queen wants to see him the second he comes around.”
The queen? thought Krystallus. So she’s alive?
“Took a while to wake up herself, she did. But the healer told me that she woke up real fast when she heard how they caught him trying to strangle her. Her first command was ‘bring him to me.’” Another guffaw. “And believe me, she ain’t planning to serve him high tea.”
“She looked madder ’n a hooked shark, she did! Saw her myself when I brung some healer goods to her royal chamber.”
Someone kicked Krystallus on the thigh. He kept his eyes closed, trying not to wince.
“Leave him, now. Yer going to have other chances to kick him, I’ll wager.”
“Right.” A loud guffaw. “After Serella has him shot, stabbed, drowned, and keelhauled.”
Laughing raucously, the two elves left the cell. The door slammed and the iron bolt slid shut.
Hearing their bootsteps as they walked away, Krystallus opened his eyes. Above the fray of questions in his mind, he tried to focus all his attention on just one: How could he possibly escape?
Stone walls on every side, as well as above and below. Nothing but a wooden stool and a big, bowl-shaped shell. What chance did he have to get out of this place before Serella had him killed?
