by T.A. Barron
The old man pondered for a moment. “Perhaps, Llynia, your enormous sensitivity to your surroundings—the very source of your gift—is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing for the great wisdom it gives you, and the Society you will one day lead. And a curse as well, for it probably magnifies whatever foolishness or incompetence is in your midst. Am I being clear?”
Slowly, she shook her head. Tamwyn could tell that while she didn’t want to seem stupid, she desperately wanted his advice. “No. I’m sorry.”
“My fault,” said Belamir. “I shall be more direct, then.” He breathed a sigh. “I think your problem may be the Society itself.”
Llynia sat back in her chair. “Really?”
“Really.” He placed his hand on her forearm. “It may be too backward, too caught up in old ways, for someone of your extraordinary skills. That, I fear, could be interfering with your gift.”
She swallowed. “Are you saying . . .”
“Merely that you have an open invitation to come here to the Academy, anytime you like. You could come only briefly, as my honored guest, just to clear your mind of distractions. Or you could stay longer. Yes, Llynia! You could even help me found a new and greater faith.”
She gazed at him uncertainly. “You really . . . think so highly of me?”
“Indeed I do.” He smiled at her. “Well now, I believe I have delayed you long enough. Shall we gather your supplies and your . . . er, companions?”
She returned the smile. “Yes, Hanwan. And thank you for what you said just now.”
“My pleasure.”
With that, they both rose from their seats. Belamir extended his arm and Llynia took it. Together, they walked out of the room, without so much as a backward glance at Tamwyn.
28 • Illusion
The heavy wooden gates of prosperity swung open, creaking loudly. Under the strong starlight of early afternoon, the travelers filed through, leaving the village behind. Ahead of them, the massive trees of the forest seemed to whisper uneasily.
Belamir himself saw them off, flanked by Morrigon, whose bloodshot eye seemed painfully swollen. With a look of worry on his face, the old teacher stood by the gates and waved his hand with the broken thumbnail in farewell. As the travelers marched into the trees, only two of them looked back: Henni, who was already missing his time feasting in those gardens; and Llynia, who seemed to be missing something else.
Tamwyn had agreed to Llynia’s request to find the highest hill around, so that she could take in the view and find something that would recall her vision of the Lady of the Lake. Normally, that wouldn’t be a tough assignment for a wilderness guide. But he found himself haunted by thoughts of the old cherry tree, the strange white lake, the deadly gray mist, and his mixed feelings about Belamir. So he walked distractedly into the trees.
Thud! Tamwyn’s foot caught the root of a rowan tree, and he fell flat on his face. He rolled on the mossy ground, shaking his head at his own clumsiness.
“Well,” said Elli, “we’re off to a great start.”
He sat up, pulling some moss from his mouth. “Would you like to lead?”
“No, no,” she said with a laugh. “You’re much more entertaining.”
Nuic, still quite red, shifted on her shoulder. “And after our talk with that humble gardener, we could use some entertainment.”
Tamwyn grimaced, then stood up with a clink of the little bell on his waist. Remembering Batty Lad, who had flown back just as they’d left the village, he peered into the pocket of his robe. “All right in there?” he asked. A thin, whistling snore was the only reply. So he closed the pocket and turned back to the forest, determined to give Elli nothing else to laugh about.
Soon he found the narrow path of a fox run. It led them through some thorny brambles, and then, as he’d hoped, to higher ground—a narrow, twisting hill more like the back of a great serpent than a ridge of land. They followed the hill for more than an hour, though it never broke out of the trees to give them a wider view. Then, to Tamwyn’s disappointment, it plunged back down again, leaving them in thicker forest than before.
Sweaty and discouraged, Tamwyn debated where to go next, when he spied a line of willows, their lacy branches waving in a subtle wind. Knowing that willows often grew by water, he turned toward them. A stream, maybe? The drought didn’t seem to have reached these depths of Woodroot—not yet, anyway. So perhaps there really was a stream under those boughs.
Yes—a small, silvery spring coursed through the willows. It glittered like a trail of shimmering stars, more luminous than any stream he’d ever seen. He stopped, gazing at the bright water.
Elli, struck by the same sight, halted right behind him. Suddenly she cried, “Look!”
As they watched in astonishment, the whole surface of the stream took flight—a liquid necklace that lifted into the air with a loud hum. Then, all at once, they realized their mistake.
“Spray faeries,” they said in unison, as thousands of the silver-winged creatures—tiny even for faeries—rose skyward. In just a few seconds, the entire flock floated up through the willow leaves, like rising raindrops, and out of sight.
Tamwyn and Elli traded glances, too amazed (for the moment) to remember their old animosity. As Llynia, Henni, and Fairlyn joined them, they turned back to the stream, which gurgled invitingly. All of them knelt to take a drink— except for Fairlyn, who just waded right in.
Nuic, meanwhile, hopped off Elli’s shoulder. The old sprite slid down the bank and sat on some smooth pebbles. As the cool water splashed against his back, his color changed to misty blue.
Tamwyn cupped his hands and splashed his face. “Ahhh. This is even better than that feast of Belamir’s.”
Elli looked at him doubtfully. “You really think so? You seemed to enjoy stuffing your face with melons.”
He was about to respond, when a sudden cry startled them both. It was harsh, like the screeches of eaglefolk—but higher and more rasping. They looked up at the strip of sky above the willow-lined banks. The screeching cry came again, louder this time. And in that instant, Tamwyn remembered the two times he’d heard that cry before: at the death of his mother, and at the moment he’d lost Scree.
“Ghoulacas!” he shouted. “Run!”
But it was too late. The air buzzed with wings—transparent wings that were just blurs, bearing nearly invisible bodies half as tall as Tamwyn. Though their wings and bodies were transparent, the ghoulacas’ bloodred talons and huge, curved beaks were easy to see. And easier to feel, as they ripped and slashed, trying to tear apart their prey.
More screeches echoed in the trees. Willow branches, snapped by savage beaks, splashed down into the spring. Fairlyn, who was taller than the others, tried to shield them by swinging her branches wildly. Even though several of her limbs were broken or bandaged, she still fought valiantly. Llynia, frozen with fear, huddled by her roots.
Tamwyn and Elli each grabbed willow branches and tried to fend off the attackers. But sticks were little use against those knife-sharp beaks and slashing talons. If Fairlyn hadn’t been giving them cover, they would have quickly been cut to bloody bits.
Henni fared much better. His slingshot, armed with pebbles from the spring, zapped many ghoulacas—one of them right in the eye, which sent it crashing down into the willows. Even so, there were at least five more of the killer birds, all of them eager for blood. As fast as he shot at them, jumping from bank to bank to avoid their talons, it wasn’t fast enough.
From his spot in the middle of the spring, Nuic surprised one ghoulaca by shooting one of his silver-threaded parachutes over its head. The bird squawked angrily, unable to open its beak through the tangled lines. But its talons ripped the air more violently than ever. It was all the sprite could do to roll down the waterway, barely out of reach.
As Nuic bumped up against Tamwyn’s leg, he lifted his liquid purple eyes to the young man. “Now would be a good time,” he panted hoarsely, “for one of your little illusions.”
Tamwyn, who was jabbing a willow branch at a hovering ghoulaca, shot him an astonished glance. “What? Are you mad? It’s no time for tricks!”
Then, all at once, he understood. Maybe, just maybe . . . with the strong starlight pouring through the gaps in the trees, he could make some fire—fake fire. And hurl it at the killer birds.
He held his branch high so that its tip caught the light. Never before had he tried to make a trick fire with anything so big—let alone while he was under attack. The biggest one he’d ever done was the knot of wood shavings he’d thrown at Elli. But he had to try! If Fairlyn’s swinging arms could just hold off the ghoulacas long enough . . .
He focused on the glowing wood, willing it to grow brighter. And brighter. And brighter still. Be a flame! he called to it. Be a burning star!
The tip of his branch suddenly sparked—and then exploded in mock fire. A ghoulaca that had swooped too close screeched in fear and tried to veer aside. With a whoop, Tamwyn charged after it, brandishing his stick that seemed to be aflame. Other ghoulacas, sensing some new danger, halted their attack.
Then the fire went out. Tamwyn cursed and and trained his thoughts again on the branch. But this time he was standing fully exposed, without Fairlyn’s waving arms to shield him. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t concentrate. The ghoulacas were still hesitating, frightened by what they’d seen, but he knew it would not last long.
Burn, you! he commanded. Yet not even a faint glow appeared.
He threw the branch aside. “Follow me!” he cried to the others. “Into the trees!”
Fairlyn, still waving wildly, reached down an arm to help Llynia to her feet. Elli grabbed Nuic, while the hoolah grabbed a last handful of pebbles. All of them ran after Tamwyn, who had plunged through the willows. The ghoulacas screeched and attacked again, slashing their talons furiously.
In desperation, Tamwyn scanned the forest for the thickest growth. There! A stand of midsize spruces, mixed with some broad, leafy trees. He ran that way—even though he knew that a few trees wouldn’t hold back their assailants for long.
Bursting through the spruce branches, he tried frantically to find better cover. Then he heard a cry from Llynia. One of Fairlyn’s broken branches had caught on a tree! He turned and raced back. It took both his hands—and Llynia’s, too—to free Fairlyn’s limb. By that time, the ghoulacas were practically on top of them, snapping branches just above their heads.
“Look!” cried Elli. She pointed to a pair of dark, berry-laden trees among the spruces. Mountain ash! And flowing fast from that direction, a rolling bank of thick gray mist.
Tamwyn’s eyes met Elli’s. Both knew this was the end of their journey, the end of everything. Just as the mist covered them, Tamwyn wished he could have done better—with his fire trick, as well as his guiding. And most of all, with his short, wasted life.
Everything went dark, as dark as the vanished stars. As dark as a dead torch.
PART III
29 • The Hand of Greeting
Tamwyn blinked, even as the thick mist submerged him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, and could only feel the heavy wetness of the blanketing fog. By the Thousand Groves! I’m still alive!
Clearly, this mist was very different from the deadly variety the travelers had met before, among the mountain ash trees. This mist was more physical, almost a solid thing . . . with a will of its own. It tugged on them, leading them irresistibly—to where, none could guess.
Tamwyn tried to pull free, to force his legs to move in a different direction. But the pull of the mist was far too strong. He stumbled along, tripping over roots and branches, his quartz bell clinking against his water gourd. This mist was taking him wherever it wanted. Maybe it didn’t knock him out, as the other one had, but it still seemed every bit as dangerous.
Then, all at once, the mist cleared. Like a veil of vaporous threads it pulled apart, leaving thousands of luminous shreds in the air. Starlight, shining through the wisps of tearing mist, seemed somehow brighter than usual, and scattered into countless rainbows by the vapors. As a result, Tamwyn and the others found themselves blinking in the sudden brightness that surrounded them.
Then, out of the radiant mist, a blue lake appeared before them. Bluer than a sapphire, the lake sparkled as mist swirled around it. In its very center, a spiral of mist rose out of the still water, rising and reaching outward with long, undulating limbs, until it looked like . . .
“A tree!” exclaimed Elli. “A tree of mist.”
Despite Nuic’s customary scowl, his liquid purple eyes shone. So did Tamwyn’s, as he stood beside Elli and the sprite. Nearby, Fairlyn’s own limbs were now smelling like sweet apple blossoms. Llynia, standing by her maryth’s trunk, had started to smile mysteriously.
Only Henni, who was disappointed to have the excitement of battle no longer, wore a glum expression. He cast his gaze around the misty shores of the lake, slingshot poised for action, looking hopefully for any more signs of ghoulacas.
The tree of mist, sprouting from the center of the lake, solidified before their eyes. Bark, branches, and leaves all hardened, faceted like crystals that reflected the water’s deep blue. Before long, the whole tree stood fully formed.
Then, upon its glistening trunk, an image started to appear. The image of a woman! She stood as straight as the trunk, though she was clearly quite old. Long, silver hair, curling like shreds of mist, fell over the shawl that was draped across her shoulders. Beneath the shawl, her gown of textured green seemed to glitter—though not as much as her vibrant, gray-blue eyes.
Suddenly, the woman’s image stepped right out of the trunk. Unlike the tree itself, she didn’t look solid. They could see through parts of her flowing green gown to the tree and shore beyond. She started to walk straight toward them, her bare feet on the water, each footstep sending a slender ripple across the lake.
Elli gasped and put her hand on Tamwyn’s forearm. Then, realizing what she’d done, she instantly withdrew her hand. To her relief, Tamwyn was so captivated by the strange sight of the misty woman that he hadn’t noticed.
“At last,” declared Llynia with satisfaction. “My vision comes true! It is the Lady of the Lake.”
Her smile broadened. Any remaining traces of humiliation and fear from the ghoulacas’ attack melted away from her face, vanishing like mist in the morning. In a voice both confident and proud, befitting of one whose ascension to High Priestess was now assured, she said, “She comes to welcome us. See? Even now she lifts her hand in greeting.”
The vaporous image of the Lady of the Lake paused on the water, just a few steps from the shore. And then, to the wonder of Tamwyn and Elli, she did indeed raise her hand. She held it there, palm out to the travelers.
Nuic, his color a dark shade of brown, scowled at Llynia, who had raised her own hand in return. That was when the Lady spoke, her voice misty but unmistakable.
“You shall not enter.” She thrust out her palm—raised not in greeting but as a command to stop. “Go away, all of you!”
“B-but,” stammered Llynia, suddenly crestfallen, “you brought us here.”
“I merely spared you from your attackers. But I do not invite you into my lair. Nor do I have either the time or desire to speak with you more.”
She turned and started to walk back across the lake to the tree. Around the shore, the mist began to thicken. Soon it would cover them and carry them off to another place.
“Wait!” cried Llynia. “We need your help.”
The Lady’s glistening form kept walking away. Watching her go, Llynia struck her fist into her palm. “It’s all Coerria’s fault! She tricked me into making this quest . . . this folly.
Damn! She’s ruined everything.”
Elli whirled and faced her. “She didn’t trick you! She gave you every chance to stay at the compound. You’re the one who wanted to go—for yourself more than the Society.”
Llynia’s cheeks went red, then purple, while her chin turned the color of greenish mud. “Yo
u, you . . . wretch! You have no right to speak that way to your superior. No right at all! You should have stayed a slave in Mudroot! That’s where you belong, groveling in the—”
Angry though she was, Elli just turned away from the fuming priestess. Before the Lady of the Lake disappeared, she had to try again—while there was still a chance. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted across the water, “We need your help, good Lady! To find the true heir of Merlin.”
To her surprise—as well as everyone else’s—the departing enchantress stopped. She turned around, standing in front of her crystalline tree. Then, her voice scornful, she demanded, “What do you even know about the true heir of Merlin? Or for that matter, the child of the Dark Prophecy?”
In a flash, Elli recalled the secret that High Priestess Coerria had shared with her—a secret that had come from the Lady herself long ago. How did it go, now? Something about a brother . . .
She started to speak, when Llynia elbowed her aside. “Forgive this presumptuous slave girl, your grace. Obviously, the heir of Merlin and the child of the Prophecy are mortal enemies. Opposites. One pure, the other defiled.”
The lips of the misty woman pressed tightly together. She surveyed them for another instant, then turned again to go. Reaching the trunk, she stepped inside. At the same time, thick gray mist billowed inward from the shore, covering the branches of the tree and stretching toward the travelers.
“Wait!” cried Elli in desperation. “They’re not opposites!” As Llynia spun around to counter her, and thick mist flowed over them, Elli shouted: “The heir of Merlin is like . . .”
Heavy mist blanketed her, muffling her voice. With all her strength, she called: “Like a brother! Like a brother to the darkened child.”
