by T.A. Barron
“The staff of Merlin! Are you sure?”
“Yessa, yessa, manny man. Allsy sure!”
Elli faced Tamwyn squarely. “If there’s any chance at all he’s right . . .”
“I know. We’ve got to check it out.” He swallowed, as light from the green flames flickered in his eyes. “But I’m worried about what this means for Scree.”
“Hmmmpff,” grumbled Nuic from the edge of the portal. “What you should be worried about is what this means for Avalon.”
37 • Musical Mead
Tamwyn heard the crackle of flames as he fell out of the portal. He tripped on the roots of the towering spruce tree and crashed to the ground (cushioned, fortunately, by years of fallen needles). Yet the strong aroma of resins that he smelled came not from those needles, but from somewhere within the portal of green flames . . . somewhere he longed to visit again.
Muffled squeals of anger came from his tunic pocket. “Sorry, Batty Lad,” he said with a smirk. “Guess you survived the journey.”
The mousy little face with vivid green eyes poked out of his pocket. “But almosty not the landing, manny man. Noeeee no no! Yousa lands right on me heady-head.”
Before Tamwyn could answer, Elli stepped out of the portal. Around her waist she wore the gourd that held water from the Secret Spring of Halaad, and in her arms she carried Nuic. The old sprite’s body vibrated with several shades of green—no doubt because he’d bent his portalling thoughts on Woodroot. Finally, Henni skipped through the flames, his eyes so swelled with delight that they nearly touched his circular brows.
Immediately, Tamwyn and Elli started looking around for the elf maiden Batty Lad had described. And, more importantly, for the staff! But other than the twin boulders that flanked the portal, the tall spruce, and the dense Woodroot forest beyond, they saw nothing. Even on the high, grassy hill that they could see rising above the trees, they saw no sign of anyone else.
“There’s no one here,” said Tamwyn, disappointed. He flicked one of Batty Lad’s cupped ears. “Are you sure you saw someone with a staff?”
“Absolooteyootly, manny man!”
“Hmmmpff,” grumbled Nuic. “Just a waste of time! That’s what comes of listening to a wild bat—or whatever sort of beast you really are.”
Batty Lad’s eyes flamed brighter than the portal, but he said nothing beyond some unintelligible squeaks.
Elli chewed her lip. “This is one time I wish we still had Llynia! Maybe she could see the future—tell us where to find the staff.”
“Bah,” spat the sprite. “I’d rather eat a bowlful of Tamwyn’s mud beetles.”
“Aw, be nice,” countered Henni. “I miss Lady Greenbeard.”
“Wait now,” said Tamwyn. “Whoever Batty Lad saw, maybe we just missed her. Before we give up and head for Fireroot, it’s worth a quick look around.” He bent low, looking for tracks or other trail signs. “She could have gone—”
“Look!” cried Elli. “Up there.”
She pointed to the grassy hill, where a lone figure had emerged from the trees below. Yet this was no elf maiden—and carried no staff. Tamwyn, watching the figure strut across the top of the hill, suddenly caught his breath. He knew that person, remembered him as clearly as he remembered that night outside Lott’s village when he’d slid into a dung heap to stay warm.
“The bard . . .”
At that moment, the bard swayed jauntily, making his sideways-growing beard glint in the starlight. He pulled off his wide-brimmed, lopsided hat. There, atop his bald head, sat the teardrop-shaped creature with bluish skin that Tamwyn also remembered well.
“He’s got a museo,” whispered Elli in awe.
“Eehee, eehee,” chuckled Henni. “Bet he turned blue from sitting under that ugly old hat forever.”
Nuic’s own colors shifted to a curious mix of blue and pink. “I wonder . . .” he mumbled to himself.
Just then the museo started to hum—a deep, vibrating sound that entered their ears, shook their bones, and echoed in their hearts. As had happened before, Tamwyn felt slightly giddy. Like musical mead, the museo’s hum poured through him, stirring so many feelings that he swayed on his feet. Elli, still holding Nuic in her arms, leaned her shoulder against his, and each of them balanced the other.
The bard kept strolling across the hillside, lopsided hat in one hand and museo on his head. Then, as the humming swelled louder, he began to sing in a low, melodic voice. It was hard to hear all the words, but Tamwyn was able to catch this much:
Beyond endless sea, world in a Tree
Holds a high secret,
Vast treasure troves—
Yet only the True ever shall view
Avalon’s secret:
The Thousand Groves.
The final phrase reverberated in Tamwyn’s mind. What does that really mean? The Lady wouldn’t tell me, but maybe this old bard will.
“Come on,” he said to Elli, gently stepping aside so she wouldn’t lose her balance. “Let’s catch up with him! Maybe he’s seen the maiden—or the staff.”
They raced for the hill, plunging through a mass of hip-high ferns. Underfoot, a family of silver-backed stoats scurried away, while a large hedgehog curled himself into a prickly ball. Soon they entered a grove of intertwined elms, whose slender boughs were splattered with red and yellow lichens. The terrain started to climb, and midmorning starlight pierced the uphill branches.
Tamwyn broke through the branches. Standing on the grassy slope, he looked around for the bard, but saw nothing. He couldn’t hear the singing any longer, nor even the haunting hum of the museo.
“For Avalon’s sake,” he swore. “Where are they?”
Elli, holding Nuic, emerged from the trees. She pulled a bunch of elm leaves out of her hair. “Any sign?”
“No.”
“Say, clumsy man,” called Henni as he burst onto the grass. “Bet you can’t beat me to the top.”
Before Tamwyn could answer, let alone start running, Henni charged up the slope. He leaped over a small ravine in the hillside, then abruptly halted. “Hooee,” he cried. “Come look at this!”
The others ran to join him. What they saw made them freeze in their tracks. In the ravine lay the sprawled, bloody body of an elf maiden with a honey-colored braid. Her face and arms had been slashed, and one of her pointed ears was nearly severed. Blood oozed from a deep gash in her side. She lay beside her longbow, as motionless as a fallen tree.
Tamwyn and Elli traded mournful glances. The elf had clearly died an anguished death.
“It’sa her. Yessa ya ya ya!” chattered Batty Lad, practically falling out of the pocket with excitement.
“But no staff,” said Tamwyn. “You’re sure about that, right?”
“Sure, sure, ya ya ya.”
Tamwyn glanced up to the crest of the hill where the bard had been only a moment before. Did he lead us here on purpose?
Elli stared down at the body. “Whatever happened to her?”
Tamwyn pointed farther down the ravine. There lay the twisted body of a ghoulaca, its nearly transparent wings splayed wide. A single arrow protruded from its head, just above its huge, curved beak.
“They must have attacked her,” said Tamwyn, his face grim. “And taken the staff.”
“If she really had the staff,” countered Nuic. “All we have is the word of this bubble-headed babbler in your pocket.”
Batty Lad’s green eyes flashed. “Me never na-na babbleabble, no no no.”
Tamwyn grimaced at the mutilated elf maiden. “They attacked her just as she came out of the trees onto the open grass. It’s amazing she got off a single shot.”
“Good aim, too,” said Henni, sounding unusually subdued.
Elli stepped into the ravine, bent down next to the elf, and took her hand. “Wait! She’s still alive.”
Quickly she unstrapped her water gourd. She poured a trickle into the dying elf’s mouth, then dribbled some more onto her severed ear and other wounds. The elf maiden gave a
sudden, sharp breath and then blinked her eyes. Even before the gash in her side had fully closed, she forced herself to sit up.
“Who . . . are you?” she asked, her voice shaky.
“I’m Elli. This is Nuic. And Tamwyn. And over there, Henni.”
The elf blinked several more times. “You . . . you . . . saved my life.” Suddenly she scowled. “But you should have left me to die.”
“No,” declared Elli with a shake of her brown curls. “Never say that.”
“But it’s true. I am the vilest wretch in all of Avalon.” Her deep green eyes searched Elli’s, then filled with mist. “Hear my story, then decide for yourself.”
With difficulty, she swung her legs around and leaned against the side of the ravine. “Brionna is my name. Brionna, whose grandfather—”
“Looked just like you in his youth,” interrupted Nuic. Ignoring her surprised expression, the sprite went on, “More sensible than most historians, your grandfather. Though that’s not saying much! But at least he had the sense to seek me out over a century ago, asking questions about ancient times.” He scratched his small tuft of hair. “Tell me, how is Tressimir?”
She answered in a whisper. “He is dead . . . or will be soon.”
Nuic’s liquid purple eyes seemed to harden into ice. “Tell us your story, Brionna. All of it.”
She gave a nod. Blood-matted hair brushed her pointed ears. “Granda and I were captured. Taken from our home in El Urien and turned into slaves.”
Elli shuddered. “Who did this to you?”
Brionna gazed at her for a long moment, seeing another place and time. “The sorcerer—the one with pale hands. I don’t know his name. He’s been using slaves to build a dam, big enough to hold back the waters of Crystillia.”
Elli and Tamwyn looked at each other, recalling everything they’d seen in the misty crystal of the Lady of the Lake.
“Granda was beaten. Nearly killed. The sorcerer told me that he’d spare his life if I, if I . . .”
“Stole the staff of Merlin,” completed Tamwyn. His fists clenched. “Is that right?”
“Y-yes. I went to Rahnawyn, to a fiery crater—with Shim.” Reading the question in Nuic’s eyes, she nodded. “The same Shim who knew Merlin long ago. I thought he could help me find the staff. But he’s not a giant anymore. He’s gotten smaller somehow. And deafer.”
“Hmmmpff,” grumbled the sprite, wriggling free of Elli’s arm to stand on the grass. “He couldn’t have gotten any stupider.”
For the first time, a spark of something besides sorrow and remorse appeared in Brionna’s eyes, then vanished. “He is stupid, yes. But loyal. I hated to deceive him.”
“What about the eagleman you stole it from?” demanded Tamwyn.
Brionna’s face went pale. “He was fearless, and stubborn. As well as—”
“My brother.” Tamwyn fixed her with his gaze. “Did you harm him? Shoot him with your arrows?”
She looked away.
“Tell me!”
Slowly, she turned back to him. “He was diving at us, about to kill us. I had to shoot! But he’s still alive. I’m sure of it.”
He ground his foot into the short green grass of the hill. “He’d better be.”
“Even at the end, when he tried to stop me, I couldn’t shoot him again.” She bit her lip. “I just shot very close to him, to make him leap aside. I knew he’d fall, he was still so weak. And then I took the staff and ran back to the portal.”
Tamwyn growled deep in his throat. “Back to your master, you mean. But he tricked you, didn’t he? Sent his little birds to meet you. And they took the staff! So now, thanks to you, the sorcerer has everything he needs to rule Avalon—or destroy it, if that’s his plan.”
She hung her head between her knees. “I told you I deserve to die.”
Tamwyn peered down at her. Gradually, the lines of his face softened and his fists relaxed. “No, you don’t. You were just . . . trying to save someone’s life.”
Elli gave him a knowing look. “That’s something you understand very well.”
“Right,” he said, a touch of new color in his cheeks. “And Brionna—you were stupid, too. Really stupid.” He sighed. “Something else I understand very well.”
He straightened up and looked over the crest of the grassy hill. A few wispy shreds of clouds blew across the sky, like faded trails of smoke. He could almost hear the whistling wind up there—just as he could almost hear that painful, moaning wind near the white lake. “We’re not far from the sorcerer’s dam now, are we?”
“No,” said Brionna glumly. “A few hours’ walk.”
“Well then,” he declared. “Point me in the right direction.”
Brionna stiffened. “What are you going to do?”
“Get the staff back, of course. Before White Hands can make a crystal of élano.”
“But no! You can’t fight him alone.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Elli reached over and helped the elf maiden to her feet. “You thought his brother was stubborn?”
Tamwyn started to say something to Elli, but she pressed her finger against his lips. “I’m coming, too. Don’t even try to talk me out of it.”
“But . . .”
“I’m coming, you big oaf.”
He sighed. “All right. But what about you, Nuic?”
The pinnacle sprite went reddish purple. “Think I’d let you go off alone and botch this one? No chance.”
“And you, Batty Lad?”
“Me no fightsy, manny man. No fightsy ghouly-waca birds.”
He nodded. “Finally, someone with a bit of sense.” He stroked the little fellow’s cupped ears. “I’ll miss you, my friend.”
Batty Lad frowned at him. “Me no leavey weave, manny man! Me just no fightsy. Rides inside your pocket, me will, me will. Yessa yessa ya ya ya.”
Tamwyn shook his head, then turned to Henni, who was flicking pebbles into the dead ghoulaca’s open beak. “And you? It’s all right to leave, you know.”
The hoolah stared at him, aghast. “Leave?”
“I mean, there’s going to be some fighting. Tough fighting. You could really get killed this time.”
Henni thought for a moment, twisting the woven red band on his forehead. “Sounds fun.”
“No,” said Tamwyn firmly. He strode across the grass and put his hands on Henni’s shoulders. “It’s not fun. And I think you’ve started to realize that yourself, which makes you probably the only hoolah in Avalon who understands the difference between life and death! But really, Henni, hoolahs just aren’t made to fight other people’s battles, are they? You shouldn’t come.”
Henni stuck out his chin. “I wouldn’t miss it for all the balloonberries in Avalon.”
Seeing there was no use arguing, Tamwyn let go. He turned back to Brionna. “So point the way.”
“I’d rather show you myself.” With the graceful quickness of an elf, she retrieved her longbow and quiver. “That is ... if you’ll have me.”
He met her gaze, then slowly nodded. “Let’s go.”
“About time,” grumbled Nuic, who had resumed his perch on Elli’s shoulder.
Together, they marched up the hillside. Cool grass swished against Tamwyn’s ankles, but he didn’t notice. For his attention had turned again to the sky. To the shredding clouds . . . and beyond, to the Wizard’s Staff.
Only one star remained. And it was throbbing, pulsing like a painful wound.
38 • Death on Wings
Deep in the shadows of his stone tower on the canyon rim, the cloaked sorcerer seemed just a black blot within the darkness. Only his hands, pale and smooth, caught enough light to be seen. They were stroking something with care, almost affection: a gnarled wooden staff.
The sorcerer’s thin fingers slid down the length of the staff, brushing over every grain and whorl of wood. Neither the shaft nor the knotted top showed any sign at all of magic, or anything special, but the sorcerer released a thin, hissin
g laugh. “You cannot hide your powers from me, staff of Merlin! I can feel them, mmmyesss, even now.”
He squeezed the shaft as a man would squeeze his enemy’s throat. “And regrettable though it is to destroy such a powerful tool of magic, I shall destroy you. Mmmyesss! After I use you for one simple task.”
He tilted his cloaked head upward, scanning the air. The bloodred talons and beaks of more than twenty ghoulacas, circling above, flashed in the starlight. Death on wings, they were. Their nearly transparent forms smeared the sky as they passed overhead, while their angry screeches echoed across the canyon, the dam, and the huge white lake.
A sharp wind gusted, wailing even louder than the birds. The sorcerer clutched at the neck of his cloak to keep his head covered. “Cursed wind,” he spat. “I will be your master soon enough!”
He continued to peer skyward, past the ghoulacas and the swirls of red dust whipped up by the wind, to the stars beyond. Only one star remained in the constellation he knew so well—and it was already flickering weakly. Beneath his hood, he smiled in anticipation.
“My lord Rhita Gawr has done his work well on high, mmmyesss. As I have done well below! Soon, very soon, the entire world of Avalon, root and branch, shall be ours.”
Harlech’s wide bulk climbed out of the quarry pit below the tower. He stepped over to the sorcerer, his heavy boots stained with blood, his weapons clanking against each other with every stride. Just at the edge of the shadows under the tower, he stopped.
“Everthin’s ready, Master, jest as ye wanted.”
“The dam?”
“Aye, Master. Jest one more line o’ stones to set.” He nodded at the top of the dam, where several rows of chained horses, wolves, oxen, deer, and dwarves labored to haul enormous blocks of stone into place. Their eyes looked vacant, their faces gaunt. Whether they stood on two legs or four—or, in the case of one chestnut mare with a badly swollen foreleg, three—they bent their weary backs to the slave masters’ cracking whips. “They’re near done.”
