by T.A. Barron
This is more than a forest, he thought, as his bare feet padded over some springy bluish green moss. This is a world—as complex and connected to itself as the world of Avalon. He drew a full breath of the richly scented air, wondering if this land, too, had been touched by the same drought that had struck Stoneroot. Was it possible that this, the most lush and vibrant forest he’d ever seen, was actually more dry, and its colors more faded, than usual?
In a moment’s time, he picked up the winding trail of a deer. Despite his many bruises, he felt a sudden, intense urge to run along it, to stretch his legs and bound. But he made himself ignore the urge. This was a time to walk on human feet.
The trail led them to higher ground. The branches grew thinner, the ground firmer, and the going easier. Soon the scent of honey fern, thick and sweet, wafted over them. They came to a glade where long grasses tickled the trunks of some mountain ash trees, still laden with berries. Near the back of the glade stood one old cherry, whose trunk bent with the weight of many seasons.
Tamwyn stretched his sore back. “Shall we make a brief stop here? Just for a little rest, or a bite to eat.”
Henni, always ready for a meal, promptly agreed. So did Elli. Llynia, still sulking after her humiliation, said nothing. Fairlyn struck up a conversation with an elder faery who lived in the bole of a mountain ash—which, judging from her pleasant aroma, was going well. And Nuic went foraging around the glade.
As they sat eating berries (still juicy, if quite tart) and some spicy pepperroot found by Nuic, Tamwyn shifted constantly. With all his cuts and bruises, he just couldn’t find a comfortable sitting position. So he got up and walked around a bit. Soon he noticed an odd bulge in the trunk of the cherry tree. It looked like a gnarled burl, although he’d never seen a burl with so many interesting knobs and folds.
He strode over to take a closer look. Laying his hand on the cherry’s rutted bark, just above the burl, he peered closely. Suddenly he jumped backward. The burl—and the tree trunk around it—had moved!
Tamwyn watched, his eyes wide. The burl swelled larger, bulging outward like the skin on a pot of heated milk. Gradually, a narrow ridge formed down the middle. To either side, clefts sank into the bark. Deep within them, reddish sparks gleamed. And near the bottom of the shape, a thin line appeared, lengthening and drooping to one side.
“A face,” he said in amazement. “It’s a face.”
The thin line of the mouth opened slightly, showing wrinkled green lips. “Not so smooth a face as yours, young man, but good enough for me, the spirit of an old tree.” The voice crackled and popped like cherry branches in a fire.
Tamwyn looked around at the others over by the ash trees, tempted to show them what he’d found. But Elli and Henni had stretched themselves out on the grass, and Llynia had leaned against Fairlyn’s trunk, all taking naps. Nuic, too, had closed his eyes and was resting against Elli’s thigh. A thick gray mist was moving over them, covering them like an airy blanket. It almost seemed to be coming from the mountain ash trees . . . and was moving toward Tamwyn.
Turning back to the cherry, he said, “You must be very old.”
The mouth turned up a bit, and released a sound like scraping bark. “Buds and blossoms, young man! Older than you, I suppose, but not very old at all. Compared to the Great Tree, I am barely a sapling! Not old enough to be wise. Just enough to be sad.”
Tamwyn bent closer. He yawned, feeling a bit like a nap himself. To rest his weary body, he leaned against the trunk, careful to avoid the face. “Sad, master spirit? May I ask why?”
The old tree’s branches shrugged, and its leaves rustled in a sigh. “Because, young man, in all my seasons, the winter has always been followed by the spring. But now, I am afraid, the spring may never come.”
“Never come?” He felt suddenly afraid, and fought back another yawn. “Tell me why.”
“Do you not yet know, young man?”
“Know what?”
The branches stirred uneasily. “A butterfly free is alive forever. But a butterfly caught is a dead mote of dust.”
“I . . . I still don’t understand.”
“Then listen, young man!” The reddish eyes glowed. “There is right now, in this very forest, a threat to all . . .”
Tamwyn felt suddenly dizzy. He dropped to one knee, even as the gray mist flowed over him. He never heard the rest of the tree spirit’s words, just as he never heard his own body collapse on the ground.
25 • Shrunkelled and Stingded
Tell another story, Granda! Please? Just one more.”
“You just don’t give up, do you? A good quality, Brionna, even in a five-year-old. You got it from your mother.”
“She always said I got it from you, Granda.”
He just looked straight at me with those shiny green eyes. The same color eyes as I have. Yes—me, his granddaughter. And someday, his scribe . . . when I learn how to write, that is. Then I’ll be Brionna, personal scribe to the famous elf historian Tressimir. What an honor that will be!
I smiled, sitting there on his lap. Because the very best honor of all was just being right there, right then, the one child in the whole world of wood elves to hear his stories. Sometimes before he even wrote them down! I reached up and patted his fluffy white beard. “Please, Granda?”
He pulled on his ear, the one that was more pointy at the top. Like a spruce tree on a mountain peak, as Granda liked to say. “Well, Brionna, how do I know you’re going to stay awake long enough? Can’t tell a story to someone who’s asleep.”
“I won’t, Granda! Really I won’t.”
His green eyes twinkled. “Won’t stay awake?”
“Won’t sleep! At all. Ever. Ever and a half!” I smiled my prettiest smile, the one he always said reminded him of a fox who’s figured out how to steal a grouse’s eggs from the nest. “Please, oh, please?”
He pulled on his ear again. “Your good mother wouldn’t approve, you know. She always put you to bed on time—one hour after starset, without fail. That’s the right way to raise a child! And here I am, making you stay up late to hear my stories.”
“But you’re not making me,” I squealed, tugging on his beard. “I love your stories, you know I do! And Mama would want me to stay up for them. Now that I’m so big.” I straightened up on his lap. “See? I’m almost a grown-up.”
He grinned down at me, but I couldn’t help seeing something sad in his face. Somewhere down inside his eyes. He just looked at me for a while, then said, “She’d really love to see you so big.”
Something about his voice, the way it shook, made me open up my arms and hug him around his middle. Granda hugged me back. Then the silliest thing happened: I started to cry. Right there, my head against his chest.
“I m-miss her-er,” I said, and now my voice was the shaky one.
“So do I,” he whispered.
For a long time we just sat there, quiet as a tree in winter. And then Granda stroked the back of my head and patted the wreath of ferns I’d made that morning. Finally, he spoke again.
“So, Brionna, a story. Shall I tell you the one about how Serella, the first queen of the wood elves, discovered how to travel through portals? Or the one about the Lady of the Lake—how she first appeared in the forest of El Urien?”
I wiped my cheeks on his robe—his favorite one, made from riverthread grass. It always felt so soft, and smelled like lemon balm. “No, tell me the one about the little giant who always wanted to be big.”
He grinned at me, not so sad this time. “You mean Shim? Who helped Merlin become a wizard? He always wanted to be big, you’re right: as big as the highliest tree.”
“Yes, Granda, yes! That’s him.”
He drew in a deep breath. “Well, that story began long ago, even before Merlin planted the magical seed that beat like a heart—the seed that sprouted into Avalon. It was a strange, misty morning when . . .”
• • •
Brionna woke up with a start. She blinked her eyes
, which felt oddly raw and puffy. Must have been some of this cursed dust—ash from the volcanoes, probably—that was everywhere in Rahnawyn. Even down here in the so-called forestlands. Rightly was this realm called Fireroot in the Common Tongue!
She sat up, propping her back against the smooth, hard bark of an ironwood tree, whose red needles were stirring in the first breeze of morning. “They call this a forest?” she muttered to herself. “Nothing but a few trees, some fire plants, and whatever burned-out stumps are left from the last forest fire.”
Spotting a small orange blossom growing amidst the ironwood roots, she nodded. “And you, little firebloom. How could I forget you, this realm’s only flower?”
She touched the pointed orange petals. Only now, after eight or nine days in Fireroot, was she beginning to see a new side of the flamelon people who lived here. Perhaps some of their fiery, aggressive culture stemmed from this harsh, volcanic land. And perhaps one reason they worshipped Rhita Gawr, god of war, was that after a fire—and, sometimes, a battle—new things began to grow. Things like this delicate little flower that thrived on ground just scorched by flames.
By her feet, she saw the remains of last night’s dinner— the same dinner that she and Shim had eaten every day now for more than a week: salamanders. If salamanders hadn’t been the only food they could find, she never would have done it. For eating them meant swallowing those long, leathery tails—as well as swallowing her own vegetarian principles. But having cast aside most of her principles already, she hadn’t agonized too much about tasting meat.
Catching the creatures had also proved difficult. Although salamanders just love intense heat and are often found relaxing in the middle of flame vents, the heat turns their normally bluish skin bright orange, making them harder to see—and catch. Brionna and Shim had only succeeded by using some ironwood branches to flick the little beasts out of the flames.
Then came the problem of how to cook them! Brionna knew from Granda’s tales that Fireroot salamanders had to be boiled, since flame vents weren’t hot enough to roast them. It was Shim who thought of using a broken piece of ironwood bark, which was so hard that it resisted fire, to make a pot (what he called “a smallsy bowl”). After they’d found the bark, and a warm spring with rust-colored water, the rest was simple.
She worked her shoulders. That long cut on her back, a gift from the whip of one of Harlech’s surly men, still burned. As did her hatred of Harlech—and even more, the sorcerer. Why did he stay always hidden, cowering in that cloak? And why did he want to control all that water? Couldn’t he just take what he needed from the River Crystillia?
So why am I helping him? She chewed her lip, knowing the answer. The same answer as always, no matter how many times her mind ran through this circle of questions. Granda.
Raising her head, she peered through the ironwood needles to the dark line of cliffs beyond. All across the ridge, tongues of fire shot upward, while dark plumes of smoke belched out of caverns and crevasses and then rose into the sky. Somewhere up there, she knew from the sorcerer, she would find the crater with towers like crooked teeth. And somewhere in that crater . . . the staff that meant life for Granda.
She craned her neck and looked at the sky, streaked with reddish clouds and darkened by smoke. Yet she could still see, glinting through the haze, the constellation that haunted her every step. The Wizard’s Staff now had only five stars, and one of them seemed to be flickering. Soon, she knew, there would be only four left. And very little time left to save Granda—ten days at the most.
Using her sleeve, she wiped off some soot that she could feel on her cheek. Pointless, you elvish fool, since there’s even more soot on your robe. Then she turned to the shallow gully where Shim had slept last night.
Gone!
Brionna sprung to her feet, grabbed her cedar bow and the quiver of arrows, and stalked around to find some sign of the little giant. She didn’t have to go far. Just down the hill from their campsite, she saw a small pair of legs—and a very large rump—sticking out from a hole in the trunk of an old ironwood.
As she approached, the legs started kicking wildly. The rump jumped and jiggled. And Shim’s muffled voice started shouting inside the trunk.
He’s stuck! She frowned. Is this really the same heroic Shim that Granda used to tell me stories about?
Striding over to the tree, she put down her bow and arrows and grabbed Shim’s legs (not at all easy with his violent kicks, let alone his baggy leggings). She pulled and pulled, but he wouldn’t budge. So she planted her foot against the tree trunk and, with all her might, heaved backward.
A loud shhluuurp!—and Shim popped out of the trunk. Both of them fell back onto the ground, sending up a cloud of ash. Brionna rolled over to look at Shim . . . and nearly choked.
His entire head—including his wild pink eyes, white hair, and potato-size nose—was covered with sticky yellow syrup. Honey! It dripped over his ears, across his shoulders, and down his thick woolen vest. Clumps of ash, broken needles, and shards of bark stuck out everywhere. He looked more like a strange, glistening mound of yellow goop than anything alive.
And then he spoke. He opened his mouth, licked a gob of honey off the bottom of his bulbous nose, and said, “How tastily happy is I! Something justly tells me, Rowanna, that drippingly good honey was in that tree.”
He leaned forward, his hands squelching on the ground. “And you knowsy what else? This Firerootly honey is warm, like it’s been all toastily.” He licked some more off his nose and smiled. “I haven’t felt so gladly since I started shrunkeling!”
Despite everything else, Brionna just had to laugh. “You look like a tree that honey grows on.”
Suddenly his smile vanished. “A bee without any clothes on? Wellsy now! That’s not very nicely, Rowanna. You maybily is beautiful, in an elvishly way, but you should learn some mannerlies.”
She didn’t try to correct him, knowing it would be useless. All she could do was guide him over to the warm spring and help him wash up. Or else he’d soon pick up so much dirt and bark and sticks that he’d be unable to move, stuck to the ground like a wild-eyed boulder.
But Shim had something else on his mind. He tried to scratch his head, but succeeded only in pulling out a sticky clump of hair. “A bee, you says? Maybily you’re right. These Firerootly bees stingses most badly, I hears. Hot stingses, like burningly coals.”
He shuddered, sending drops of honey flying in all directions. “Oh, how I hates to get stingded by bees. Hates it! Always have—yessily, and always will. Certainly, definitely, absolutely.”
Brionna stood and offered her hand. “Come on. Let’s get you washed.”
He squinted at her through a layer of honey. “Gets me squashed? No thanksfully. Even shrunkelled, I is too bigly for that! But now that I thinks about it, maybily I should finds that stream and gets washed.”
Brionna could only glance up at the dark, smoky cliffs above them—and shake her head.
26 • Master of the Skies
High above the smoky cliffs, a great black shape soared. It sliced through the red-tinted clouds like a dagger, sometimes veering to one side or the other, sometimes plunging straight down to attack its prey. Cliff hares who caught sight of that shape scampered instantly for cover. And any that heard its screeching cry—part eagle, part human—froze in fear, unable to move even a whisker. For that was the cry of an eagleman in flight: the most terrifying sound in this region of sheer cliffs, flame vents, and smoldering volcanoes.
Scree raised his right wing, banking a sharp turn over the ridge. Wind blew his long brown hair against his human head, and flattened the rows of silver feathers that covered his chest as well as his powerful legs and sharp talons. By bending his upper wing—what would, in his human form, be his forearm—he swept low across the ridge. As air rushed over his feathers, their red tips glowed as bright as the flame vents below.
How he loved to fly! To ride the wind, to sail the skies like a feathered boat that claim
ed no port. And knew no anchor.
“But that’s not true, and you know it,” he said to himself. “You do have an anchor.”
He glanced down at his right talon, and the staff it held. That staff had been on his mind all day long, weighing him down.
Most days, when he soared above the cliffs, he thought about flight—the surge of the wind, the power of his wings, the feeling of freedom. Or he thought about finding his next meal: cliff hare or wild boar. And, of course, he thought about spotting intruders, whether they walked, like men—or flew, like ghoulacas.
But today . . . he was thinking about the staff. The gift of a wizard, entrusted to his care. He remembered exactly what had happened the moment he’d held it in that whole new way, the moment he’d spoken those powerful words: I am the true heir of Merlin.
He tilted his left wing, circling close to a pinnacle of black rock—so close that his wingtip nearly brushed its edge. Dark smoke, reeking of sulfur, belched from its top. He caught an updraft and climbed up, up, up toward the stars, until he could look down on everything below. The charred ridges, the smoking vents, the tallest volcanoes—all stretched far beneath him. He was the master of the skies.
He leaned to one side, catching the full force of the rising wind. And then he flapped his powerful wings once, twice, three times. His speed increased; the wind roared in his ears. Like a shooting star, he soared across the cliffs. Black ridges, orange flames, red clouds—he sped past all of them, hurtling faster than anything alive.
Free! He was truly free. Yes, even with the staff he carried. Even with everything he now knew . . . about himself, and his own destiny.
