by T.A. Barron
Slam! Tamwyn smashed face-first into another wall. He rolled, scraping his face against some sharp stones, then spun downward again.
He fell, twirling as freely as a snowflake in a storm. Then his shoulder hit an outcropping. He whirled—and slammed into something hard, both legs twisted beneath him. He felt, vaguely, something wet running down his forehead and into his eyes.
Onward he rolled, gaining speed again, into the gullet of the mountain. Thwack! A sheet of rock exploded over him. The force propelled him into a dizzying spin. By now he could barely think, barely stay conscious.
Crash!
Tamwyn burst through a row of stalactites—and into daylight. He was tumbling, rolling down a hillside of something softer than stone. With a sudden crack, he bashed into a solid object, and stopped.
• • •
There was no way to tell how much time passed before he opened his eyes again. And felt the bolts of pain surging through his whole body. Every bone, every limb, every spot on himself, including his eyelids, felt broken, bruised, and battered.
Tamwyn tried to roll on his side, but the sharp pain in his back and thigh made him roll right back. He just lay there, eyes closed. Nothing could make me move now, he told himself weakly. Nothing.
Suddenly he remembered just what had happened to him. And he knew that, yes, there was one thing important enough, one motivation strong enough, to make him stir his broken body.
Revenge.
He opened his eyes. After wiping away the dried blood that stuck to his eyelashes, he forced himself to raise his head and focus on his surroundings. He lay on a hillside of pale green grass. A narrow cave—the bottom end of the Rugged Path—opened under the brow of the hill. Below it, a trail of dirt, broken rocks, and crystals littered the grassy slope.
Above Tamwyn’s head, a tall chestnut tree lifted a delicate tracery of branches. A bird—some sort of grouse—rested on a lower bough. And there, sprawled on the tree’s roots, was that blasted hoolah!
With all his strength, Tamwyn made himself roll over. He started to crawl to the hoolah, one agonizing bit at a time. “I’ll get you now, you pickled pile of twisted turds! You worthless, bog-brained waste of a—”
“Oohoo, eehee, that was some ride!” Henni roused himself and pulled his red headband off his eyes. He sat up, leaning on a bruised elbow—just in time to see Tamwyn bearing down on him. He started to roll away.
Not quick enough. Tamwyn grabbed him by the collar of his sack-shaped tunic and shook him hard. “Remember what I said about letting you live so I could kill you later?”
“Yes, eehee, that was funny.”
“Well, forget it!” Tamwyn growled, his eyes ablaze. “I’m not waiting any longer.”
Henni just grinned, crinkling his circular eyebrows. “Good, oohoo eehee. Dying is something I haven’t done yet.”
“I mean it, hoolah!” Tamwyn twisted up his collar. “You went too far this time.”
Suddenly a tall shadow fell over Tamwyn. He caught the smell of summer lilacs, piercingly sweet. Without releasing his grip on Henni, he turned, even though it pained every muscle in his neck and back.
Fairlyn stood above him. Though some more of her branches and twigs were broken, and bark had been scraped off her trunk, there was an unmistakable look of gratitude in her brown eyes. And standing beside her, seemingly unbruised, was Llynia. The priestess was actually smiling.
“Tamwyn,” she said, “you did it.”
He blinked at her, not knowing what was more strange—to hear her call him by name, instead of “lowly porter,” or to see her so happy.
“I did?” he asked uncertainly. “What?”
“Brought us here, of course.” She placed her hand upon Fairlyn’s slender trunk. “You found the path to Woodroot. My quest will succeed, I’m sure now. And all my hopes . . .” She stopped herself. “But look at you two, you’re all covered in bruises and blood.”
Tamwyn took a deep breath, despite the throbbing ache of his ribs. “Oh, I’ll be fine.”
“So will I,” added Henni, “if I’m not about to be killed, eehee eehee.”
Tamwyn just growled and tightened his grip on him. Then, facing the priestess, he asked, “You’re not hurt?”
Llynia smiled again. “No, no. Thanks to the sturdy boughs of my maryth here, who held me the whole way down. And to the bravery of you two, as well.”
“Bravery?”
“In going down first, of course! You cleared the way for us all. That was so courageous of you both, to dive right into the cave like that.”
Tamwyn traded a glance with Henni, who looked just as surprised as he did. “Er, well, we didn’t exactly . . .”
“Don’t be modest now,” she declared. “You did a great service there, for both me and the Society. If Elen the Founder were here, she’d embrace you in thanks.”
“Not too hard, I hope,” muttered Tamwyn, rubbing his ribs.
Llynia drew herself up regally. “You have proved that my faith in you was justified.”
“Faith?”
“Why, yes, in your ability as a guide.”
Tamwyn would have laughed if his chest didn’t hurt so much.
“I always knew you could rise to that challenge,” she continued on in a dignified tone. “As the Cyclo Avalon says about the true believer’s faith:
“Harder than stone,
Stronger than bars;
Deeper than seas,
Higher than stars.”
She patted Fairlyn’s trunk. “And even though my dear friend here didn’t always share my faith in you, what you did has given her a great gift, as well. The sight of her homeland! She hasn’t seen her beloved Woodroot for many years now, since she first joined me at the Great Temple.”
The sweet scent of lilac blossoms swelled. Fairlyn’s large eyes moved to the sight beyond the chestnut tree. Tamwyn, for the first time, trained his gaze in that direction. What he saw made him catch his breath.
Hills upon hills of forest greenery stretched before him, rising into rolling blue ridges that melted, at last, into the sky. Mist rose in twirling spirals from the trees, along with the songs, whistles, and cries of more kinds of birds than he’d ever heard before. Some of the trees had lost their leaves for autumn, while others—oaks, maples, and birches especially—wore leaves of striking brilliance. It was almost too much to believe . . . but maybe the trees here really did change colors with the seasons.
Ah, but there were so many colors in this forest! Nothing he’d ever seen in Stoneroot—or before that, in Fireroot— came close. Swaths of gold, orange, scarlet, and pink wove themselves into the mesh of green. There were other colors, too: late-blooming flowers, or fruit dangling from some of those boughs. Maybe somewhere out there is a Shomorra tree, the one bards sing about that grows every kind of fruit you can imagine.
A flock of tangerine faeries, their wings the reddish orange color of the fruit they nursed throughout their lives, lifted off some nearby branches. They glittered brightly against the blue sky, which seemed a bit more clouded and misty than in Stoneroot. Judging from the brightness of the stars, it was midmorning here. This was the first time, Tamwyn realized, that he’d ever seen the sky of Woodroot. Or, as the bards would say, El Urien.
He looked upward, scanning the stars of this realm. Right away, he was struck by the different locations of the constellations here. There was Pegasus, flying high, though he seemed to be turning a corner at the edge of the sky. The Twisted Tree still stretched out its long branches, but nearer to the western horizon. There were some new constellations, as well, forming shapes that he didn’t even recognize.
Only the Wizard’s Staff sat in its familiar place—and its now-familiar condition. The sight made Tamwyn cringe. What in Avalon’s name was going on? Why was this happening—and why now?
He stared worriedly at the sky. Since the third star had gone dark two days ago, the whole constellation seemed to be pulling apart. Its four remaining stars, two groups of two, had
a great gap between them. He shook his head: The Wizard’s Staff was broken.
He turned back to the vista of endless forest—hopefully, as someone might turn to the face of a friend. But even as he breathed in the forest air, sweetened by lilac, he couldn’t forget his anxiety. Stars were dying! And Avalon itself might be dying, too.
Suddenly he noticed a new sound. Beneath the ongoing melody of birds singing and branches clacking, he heard a strong but distant rumble. It sounded deep, very deep, like a great river that boiled with rapids.
He turned. There, by the horizon, he saw the foaming white top of a geyser. Not just any geyser, either. He knew from all the tales he’d heard that there was only one fountain in all of Avalon so vast and powerful: the White Geyser of Crystillia, near the northern reaches of Waterroot.
So I was right, after all! He grinned in satisfaction. The three realms must all come together, up here at the top, like roots joining the trunk of a tree.
“Look,” he said to the others, releasing his grip on Henni at last. He pointed at the geyser, large enough that it could be seen and heard so many leagues away. “The White Geyser. And there, see that redrock canyon? That must be the Canyon of Crystillia, where the white water flows down to . . . Wait now. What’s that?”
All of them stared at the large blot of white inside the canyon. On the other side of the Rugged Path, in the mountains of upper Stoneroot, he would have thought that such a wide expanse of white must be a snowfield. But here, in lower altitudes, that wouldn’t be right. A low cloud, maybe? Filling the canyon to its rim? No, the white blot was too flat, too evenly spread over the canyon.
“It’s a lake,” declared Tamwyn. “Full of white water from the Geyser. But . . . it looks wrong somehow.”
“Wrong,” echoed Llynia.
Apparently Fairlyn agreed, for her smell had turned dark and smoky. Then she tapped both Llynia and Tamwyn on the shoulders and pointed with one of her blossom-studded arms to the far rim of the canyon—where the forest of Woodroot bordered the lake. Or should have bordered the lake.
Tamwyn bit his lip. There was also something very wrong about that stretch of forestland. He couldn’t quite tell what it was, except that it looked all brown and gray instead of green. Dust clouds rose from a gust of wind; no mist twirled anywhere. And as the wind raced over that blighted spot, there came a distant sound, deeper even than the endless rumble from the fountain. It was a sound, he felt sure, of a heartrending moan.
“What . . .” he asked aloud. “What is it?”
No answer came but the long, low moan of the wind.
“Whatever it is,” said Llynia, “it’s wicked. A disease, perhaps.” Then, with a hint of pride, she declared, “I shall ask the Lady of the Lake about it. This afternoon, or tomorrow at the latest, when we meet at last.”
“Hmmmpff,” grumbled a familiar voice. “Now we know which direction the Path runs.”
All of them spun around to see Elli standing on the grass with Nuic on her shoulder. Neither of them looked battered, or even disheveled, in the least. The pinnacle sprite was glowing a proud shade of purple.
Llynia didn’t seem pleased to see them. She scowled, for which Tamwyn felt grateful. It had been quite unnerving to see her smiling so broadly when she’d arrived.
He turned to see Elli scrutinizing him. “You’re looking handsome,” she said with a smirk. “A rough ride?”
His eyes narrowed. “I just wanted to get some bruises on the rest of my body to match the ones you gave me.”
“Good job.”
She laughed, and to Tamwyn’s surprise it was a sound as sweet and lilting as a meadowlark. He’d never heard her laugh before . . . and this wasn’t at all what he’d expected. How could someone so mean-spirited have a laugh so joyful?
“How did you two get here, anyway?” he demanded. “You both look like you just floated down that chute, not fell down with the rest of us.”
“Good guess, master guide.” Nuic’s purple shade deepened. He raised one arm and flicked a gleaming silver thread off his hand. That was when Tamwyn noticed the large mass of silver threads that lay on the grass behind them, reaching almost to the mouth of the cave. Crumpled though they were, the threads still held the shape of a parachute—which he’d seen before in the wilderness, attached to windblown seeds and the backs of cloudskipper birds.
“You made yourself a parachute?” he asked incredulously.
Nuic frowned at him. “You’re not the only one who can do tricks, you know.”
Tamwyn blushed beneath his bruises.
“How do you think we mountain dwellers get from one pinnacle to another? Going up is hard enough, hmmmpff. But going down, it’s much easier to float than climb.”
“Look,” said Elli, gazing at the rumpled hills of greenery that were so alive with life. “Such a beautiful forest.”
Nuic, whose eyes had strayed to the strange white lake, muttered, “Even such beauty, Elliryanna, can hide grave danger.”
“Danger?” asked Henni, looking around eagerly.
Tamwyn was about to smack the hoolah, when a tiny face, lit by green, poked out of his pocket. “Hoowah-wah-wah,” yawned Batty Lad. “Me lovey do a good sleep.”
“You slept through all that?” Shaking his head in wonder, Tamwyn stroked the creature’s big cupped ears. “You’re the best sleeper I ever met.”
“Ooee yessa, manny man. But me stilla having bumpsy-umpsy dreams.”
“Fine, then. Why don’t you go back to sleep for a while? Where we are now, it’s still morning.”
“Ahoowah-wah,” came the answering yawn, and Batty Lad vanished again in the pocket.
“To sleep like that,” observed Tamwyn, “he must have a very clean conscience.”
“Or a very thick skull,” said Nuic. “So now, are we going to see this mysterious Lady, or just stand here jabbering all day long?”
“I was just about to suggest we go,” declared Llynia. “Down there, in the deepest forest. That must be right.”
“Hmmmpff,” grumbled the sprite. “Ready to get lost, are we?”
The priestess shot him a murderous glance, then started walking down the hill, toward the thickest greenery. “Come on, Fairlyn, let’s go.”
The tree spirit didn’t seem to hear. She was still staring at the blighted rim of the distant canyon, smelling like the remnants of a forest fire.
24 • Just Listen
Halfway down the grassy hill, Llynia paused for the others to join her—though her expression was anything but patient. “Come on! Do you think the stars are going to wait for you?”
Elli came first, carrying the sprite (now dark green, like the forest spreading before them). She also bore two water flasks that she’d remembered to take down the Rugged Path... and a look of fascination at the rich woodland they were about to enter. Just behind her came Henni, limping slightly but clearly enthused about having new terrain to explore. Fairlyn followed, cradling her broken branches against more solid ones, emitting a rather uncertain, boggy smell.
Last of all came Tamwyn, looking less like a seasoned woodsman than a bruised and battered vagabond. He hobbled down the hill, sore in every part of his body. The quartz bell on his hip, crammed full of dirt from the Rugged Path, hardly clinked at all.
“I’m certain this is right,” announced Llynia confidently. “All we need to do is head into the deepest part of the forest. Then, from my vision, I will know the Lady’s lair.”
She glanced around at the skeptical expression of Nuic, the worried eyes of Fairlyn, and the outright doubt written on the faces of Elli and Tamwyn. She started to say something, perhaps to ask for advice, but caught herself and threw back her shoulders proudly. “Let’s go.”
Down the hill they marched, with Llynia in the lead. Soon they entered a thick patch of ferns, waist-high on the humans and chin-high on the hoolah. The slope leveled out, and a moment later, sweet-smelling cedars towered over them. All of a sudden they were surrounded by such a jumble of trees,
shrubs, and leafy plants that they could barely see two paces ahead. Even the sky showed itself only in rare patches between the layered boughs. Very little starlight drifted down to the forest floor, usually in misty beams that lit only a narrow slice of air, so it seemed almost as dark as night.
Llynia crashed ahead through the growth. Heedless of the others in the group, she bent branches to pass and then released them without warning, so they slapped whoever happened to be walking behind. She strode right into a clan of light green faeries, who were hovering around a stand of pear trees, using their nurturing skills to help the last fruits of the season fill with flavorful juices. But her sudden appearance frightened them, and the whole clan flew off in a frenzy.
She plowed ahead, tripping on downed branches and moss-covered stones. Suddenly she ran into a hawthorn tree hidden behind the leafy boughs of a maple. One of the hawthorn’s branches poked her in the head, just above her eye.
Llynia yelped in pain. Without turning around, her voice quaking with humiliation, she asked, “Does anyone know how to get through this cursed jungle?”
“Yes,” said Tamwyn with a sigh. “Listen to it. Just listen.”
“Are you mad?” the priestess huffed. She swatted a maple leaf out of her face. “We need to see better, not hear better.”
“Wrong.” He stepped over to her, ducking under the hawthorn branch. “Trees and plants have their own language, just like the faeries or the . . .” He swallowed. “The deer. To learn their ways, it’s more important to listen than to speak. If you want to find the deepest forest, and listen well enough . . . the forest itself will tell you.”
Despite herself, Elli felt touched by his words. She whispered to Nuic, “Even an oaf like him knows more than she does.”
The old sprite merely scowled. “That’s not saying much.”
“Here,” suggested Tamwyn, pulling a tangle of vines off Llynia’s leg. “Let me show you.”
He moved ahead into the forest, stretching out his senses. He felt the slope and texture of the ground under his feet; noted the types and heights of the trees; and smelled the changing aromas of resins or fruit or fox’s den. And above all, he listened. To the swish and clatter of branches, the undulating whisper of the wind, the footsteps of scurrying animals, the cries of birds on wing, and so much more.
