by T.A. Barron
Before it would have the pleasure of destroying the wizard and the dragon, it would first perform a stunning feat. A feat it had labored long and hard to be ready to achieve. A feat that would ensure the conquest of Avalon.
Doomraga bent its vast bulk, then rose up vertically. Like a titanic tower of darkness it rose out of the Marsh, turning its lone eye toward the stars. The monster stood there, swaying, as it searched through the clouds of fumes rising from the Marsh, looking for one particular place in the sky. At last, it found the spot: a black gash that had once held the constellation called the Wizard’s Staff, a group of stars that Rhita Gawr had caused to go dark.
The red eye flashed brighter than ever before, turning the whole marsh the color of blood. Then, from the darkened constellation on high, came an answering flash—equally red, equally terrifying. It lasted only an instant, but that was long enough.
Doomraga’s final task was about to begin. And that meant, the monster knew well, Avalon’s freedom was about to end.
It released another gargantuan roar, so loud that even the stars above seemed to tremble on high. This time, though, the roar came not from anger, but from sheer exertion. For Doomraga was delving into its deepest reserves of strength, calling on all its dark powers, to do what Rhita Gawr had commanded. That task would require every drop of its evil magic—magic that, like its own body, had swollen in proportion to Avalon’s suffering.
Concentrating its power, the towering beast stood above the Marsh. Even before the echoes of its roar faded away, it started to make a new sound—a deep, rhythmic groan that throbbed with urgency. With every pulsation of the groan, ripples of darkness coursed through the monster’s body, moving from its bloodshot eye down its full length to its base in the pit of corpses. Like a bloated worm rising vertically out of the swamp, it swayed ominously with every groan, every ripple of dark magic.
As it labored, vapors started rising out of the Marsh. They wrapped themselves slowly around Doomraga’s body, growing thicker with each vibration. In time, they began to pulse with the same eerie rhythm, crawling over the monster’s skin like ghostly serpents.
At the same time, the marsh ghouls lifted themselves out of hiding and encircled their master. They swirled around its midsection, their shadowy forms moving in a frightful dance. To the rhythm of their master’s groans, they started to chant, repeating a single word over and over and over.
“DOOMraga, DOOMraga, DOOMraga, DOOM,” they chanted. The relentless drumbeat of their voices pounded across the Marsh. “DOOMraga, DOOMraga, DOOM.”
From the monster’s inner core, halfway down its tubular form, a dark thread erupted. Slowly at first, then with gathering speed, the thread stretched skyward. Made from concentrated dark energy, it shot sparks of black lightning, crackling as it expanded.
The growing thread passed right through the ring of ghouls. They didn’t slow their rotations or cease their chants, but merely shifted to allow the thread to pass. Higher and higher it stretched, reaching steadily toward the stars. Black sparks sprayed from its length and then fell into the Marsh, sizzling as they struck the rancid pools.
Beneath its rhythmic groans, Doomraga chortled with satisfaction. Everything about this thread was working just as Rhita Gawr had promised. And something else was working, too—something that no one else in Avalon yet understood.
Another thread of evil energy had emerged from one of the darkened stars of the Wizard’s Staff, a star that was actually a passageway to the Otherworld of the Spirits. The realm of Rhita Gawr. Right now, as Doomraga’s thread reached higher, the other thread stretched downward, growing even more rapidly. And when, before long, those two dark threads connected . . .
Doomraga’s groans swelled louder. Partly from the added strength of anticipation, the taste of certain victory. And partly, as well, from the knowledge that with that victory would come the most delicious meal of all.
Revenge.
14: LUMINOUS MIST
Sometimes I can see most clearly when I close my eyes.
You what?”
Serella’s shout of dismay echoed around the mist-shrouded cliffs. Never one to hide her feelings, the proud queen of the elves stared, aghast, at her climbing partner.
Krystallus cringed. He took a step backward—a rather small step, since they were standing on a narrow ledge of rock that jutted out from the cliff wall. Not to mention the fact that the ledge was more than two thousand man-heights above the floor of the canyon.
“You what?” she repeated, even louder this time—so loud that pebbles broke loose and clattered down the rocky face. Although she was many leagues away from Avalon, in the distant world of Fincayra, her voice might have reached all the way to the Great Tree and stirred its highest branches. At least that was how it seemed to Krystallus, who backed up to the very edge of the ledge.
“Now, now,” he protested, fidgeting with the climbing rope around his hips. “Let me explain.”
“You’ve explained enough already.” Serella glared at him, her deep green eyes ablaze. “You gave away the map—the only one of its kind, the most magical map ever known! After all you went through to win it from that horrible old hag, Domnu—”
“Shhhhh,” he interrupted her, shaking his head. “Don’t throw her name around. This is her realm, you know. She could appear at any moment.”
“I don’t care,” snarled the elf queen. “She could materialize out of these misty cliffs and it wouldn’t bother me.”
To emphasize her point, she slapped her open hand against the cliff wall, scattering the veil of mist that coated its surface—like every other surface in Lost Fincayra. Ever since this land had been saved by Merlin long ago, and had merged with the spirit realm, a layer of luminous mist covered everything. Fincayra’s trees, rivers, canyons, and even its people, carried that vaporous sheen. Cloudskin, as people called it.
It was that unusual misty quality, together with Fincayra’s celebrated history, that made this place such an exotic destination for travelers. Yet given the great difficulty of getting here—the route required mastery of several unpredictable portals (including one hidden deep inside an ocean of mist)—Fincayra was very seldom visited. Only the most seasoned explorers took the journey . . . and nobody fit that description better than Avalon’s adventurous duo, Serella and Krystallus.
“Look here,” said Krystallus with a shake of his white mane. “I thought we came all the way here for a pleasant day of climbing in Eagles’ Canyon. Not for a fit of shouting.”
“I’m not shouting!” yelled Serella. She frowned. “Just—er, well, protesting. Your absolute idiocy!”
“Look, I—”
“How could you ever give that map away?” She stamped her boot on the ledge, spraying shreds of glowing mist in all directions. “You might as well give away that stellar compass I gave you.”
“Never!” he objected.
Stepping closer, Krystallus reached out his hand and touched the coil of sturdy elven rope that she wore slung over her shoulder. He ran a finger down the rope, as silky smooth as the stalks of purple ribbonflax from which it had been woven. Then, very gently, he continued to run his finger along the length of her arm.
In a much quieter voice, he said, “I’d never give that compass away, for any reason.”
She raised an eyebrow, her face full of doubt.
“And not because of the marvelous things it can do,” he continued. “Nor the fact that I’ll need it someday to climb up to the stars.” He peered at her. “No, I’d never give it away . . . because of who gave it to me.”
She shook her arm, tossing his hand aside. “How am I supposed to believe that? If you gave away a magical map that can only be used once—there’s no telling what you’ll do next.”
“You’re not listening!” he growled, his voice rising again. “I did it to help Basil. In his fight.”
“His fight?”
“Yes, Serella. I told you already! He needs the map. To try to save . . .” He paused
to clear his throat. “Everything he’s been fighting for all these years.”
“Which is what?” She scowled at him so fiercely that the pointed tips of her ears turned crimson. “What exactly is so precious, so important, that it was worth giving away your map?”
“Avalon! All those places that Basil and my fa—, er, Merlin—care so much about. Love so dearly.”
Serella’s face softened. Cupping her hand, she slid it across the canyon wall, filling her palm with mist. The luminous vapors rested inside her hand like a small, glowing cloud.
“This mist,” she said gently, “belongs to Fincayra. It covers these cliffs the way it covers everything else around here. But even if we can’t see the cliffs, they are still there.”
He furrowed his brow. “What are you getting at?”
“Sometimes,” she went on, looking at the small cloud within her hand, “people are like that. All we notice is what’s on the surface—the pain, the mist that covers our deeper feelings. Not the feelings themselves, the hard rock beneath.”
Krystallus swallowed. “You’re saying . . . this isn’t really about the map?”
“Right.”
“And it isn’t really about Avalon?”
“Right . . . at least, that’s not the most important part.”
Krystallus, bewildered, ran a hand over his forehead and through his long white hair. “Then what is all this about? If not the map, or Avalon, what else could it be? I don’t have a clue.”
Her eyes, forest green, peered at him. “Go deeper. To the hard rock beneath.”
“Maybe . . . ,” he began, then caught himself. “No, that’s not it.”
Serella’s eyebrows lifted, but she didn’t speak.
He scuffed his boot along the ledge, plowing through the layer of mist. Hesitantly, he asked, “You don’t think this is about Merlin? My relationship with him?”
She merely gazed at him.
“But that’s absurd!”
The gaze didn’t waver.
“Really, Serella. That’s ridiculous. Impossible.”
His brow creased. “How . . . could this possibly have anything to do with Merlin?”
She cocked her head to one side, making her silvery blond hair spill over one shoulder. “He is your father, you know.”
“Even if he never acted like one,” grumbled Krystallus. “Why, even when I was little, he made it clear that I . . .”
“Go on.”
“That I wasn’t as important to him as all his special places! His special world!”
The elf maiden nodded. “Avalon.”
“Yes, Avalon.” He clenched his jaw. “He treated me as badly as . . . well, as . . . his father treated him. Made me feel he loved his world, Avalon, a whole lot more than . . .”
“His own son.”
Surprised by the power of her words, he drew a sharp breath. Blinking his eyes, he muttered, “Cursed mist! Fogging my vision.”
“Right,” she said softly. “Mist can do that.”
He stared at her. “I’m a grown man, Serella! Explorer. Founder of a college for mapmakers. You really believe it still hurts me that Merlin loved those places so much? And you really believe that’s why I gave the map away?”
“Not why you gave it away.” She blew slowly on the cloud in her palm, making it melt into the air. “But why you can’t bring yourself to admit that you gave it away to help Avalon. The world you love every bit as much as Basil does. And every bit as much as your father does.”
Krystallus scowled. “That’s absurd! Far-fetched. Idiotic.” He squeezed his fists, then slowly relaxed them. “And . . . absolutely right.”
Serella leaned closer and kissed him tenderly on the lips. “That’s what I love about you. You may be a slow learner . . . but at least you’re honest.”
His eyes narrowed. “And you know what I love about you?”
“What?”
“That you’re so easy to beat in a climb!” He gave her rope a tug. “Come on. I’ll race you to that next ledge up there.”
Before he’d even finished talking, Serella had turned to the cliff wall and found her first handhold. Krystallus grinned, then did the same, grasping the rock that lay beneath the mist.
15: AN INSTINCT
I would wager a mountain of dragons’scales that rash boldness will always appeal more than wisdom. And if you somehow survive the boldness, you might become a bit wiser.
Like a pair of oversized spiders, Krystallus and Serella climbed the cliff wall. A constant cascade of mist poured over them as they worked their way higher, washing over their heads and backs, soaking their tunics and leggings. As they raced up to the next ledge, their hands and feet barely touched a hold before reaching for the next one.
After several minutes of uninterrupted climbing, neither one of them had pulled ahead. And neither showed any sign of slowing down. Meanwhile, both climbers continued to pant hard, drip with sweat and mist, and strain every muscle from their fingertips down to their toes.
An eagle glided past, nearly brushing Serella’s back with an outstretched wing tip. The bird’s mighty screech echoed across the cliffs. Yet even that explosion of sound didn’t break the racers’ concentration. Without a second’s pause, they kept on climbing.
For years, they had raced each other, challenging themselves to go higher or faster or deeper, in many varied places. Whether they climbed the misty cliffs of Fincayra, swam between the islands of the Rainbow Seas, dived for luminous fish in the Swaying Sea, or hiked to the summits of Stoneroot’s high peaks, they always raced. Not merely to win, but to enjoy the exhilarating sense of pushing themselves to their limits.
At last they neared the ledge. Krystallus jammed the toe of his boot into a notch, transferred his weight to that foot—then heard a loud craaack. Suddenly the notch broke off, sending shards of rock bouncing down the cliff into the canyon far below.
Krystallus cried out in surprise. He leaped aside and groped desperately for a new hold. Just as he started to slip—
Found it! His fingers plunged into a narrow seam, sturdy enough to hold his weight so that he wouldn’t join the shower of shards. While his elven rope, secured to the cliff face, would have kept him from tumbling all the way down to the canyon floor, it couldn’t have kept him from being badly injured. Or, even worse in his mind, from losing this race to Serella.
Hearing his cry, the elf maiden did something she hadn’t done since their race began. She paused. Not for long, just for a heartbeat—enough time to be sure that her favorite climbing partner was not going to fall to his death. But that brief pause was enough to give Krystallus the edge.
He continued to climb, never hesitating. By the time Serella resumed, he was already a few hands’ lengths ahead. Though they moved upward at an identical pace, finding new holds beneath the layer of mist, he maintained his slight lead.
Krystallus’s fingers grasped the lip of the ledge. He pulled himself up, despite the quaking muscles of his arms and shoulders. With a groan that mixed exhaustion and pride, he lay flat on his back, both his legs still dangling over the edge. As thoroughly tired as he was, he still had enough strength to grin.
Right after that, Serella hoisted herself onto the rocky ledge. Like him, she collapsed onto her back; like him, she panted ceaselessly. But unlike Krystallus, she didn’t grin.
Instead, she wore a full-blown smile.
“Not fair!” she exclaimed through heaving breaths. “I think . . . you staged . . . that whole thing. Just . . . to slow me down.”
“Think so?” He raised himself up on one elbow and gazed at her. Panting heavily, he asked, “Isn’t that why . . . you kissed me . . . back at the start? A trick . . . to wreck . . . my concentration?”
Serella, too, propped herself up on an elbow. Green eyes glittering, she replied, “Smart man.”
“Well, then, I guess . . . I owe you one.”
She cocked her head, puzzled. “You mean . . . a trick?”
“No.” He slid nea
rer on the ledge, sending a wave of mist across her body. “I mean this.”
He leaned over and gave her a kiss, alive with passion.
“There,” he announced, pulling away. “Now we’re even.”
“No.” She shook her head, scattering the mist that had settled on her hair. “I think I won.”
He grinned once more. “I’ll try to do better next time.”
“You’re doing fine.”
Abruptly, his joviality vanished. “Not really, Serella.” He glanced at the eagle, now merely a distant silhouette gliding through the canyon, then turned back to her. “What you said to me back there—you were right. About . . . my father. And how much I love Avalon.”
She sat up, pulling her knees toward her chest, all the while studying him. “You want to help somehow?”
He nodded, swishing his long mane against his shoulders. “It’s too late, I fear, to help Basil. And too late to do anything with that map. But it’s not too late—”
“To do something utterly crazy,” she completed. “Am I right?”
“My specialty.” Though he tried to sound lighthearted, he didn’t succeed. “It’s a long shot. But it could, perhaps, be useful.”
“What are you thinking?”
Krystallus drew a deep breath of misty air. “I’ve been hearing, for some time now, about strange things happening in the Haunted Marsh.”
“The Marsh?” Despite being a veteran explorer of treacherous places, Serella frowned. “That’s the last place you should go if you want to do something helpful. It’s just a wasteland—and a death trap.”
Rubbing the stubble on his chin, Krystallus replied, “That . . . and maybe something more.”
“Like what?” she asked with a scowl.
“Almost a year ago, one of my best young mapmakers, Vespwyn—”
“I met him,” she interrupted. “He was with you that time we trekked to the birthplace of sylphs in Airroot.”
“Right. Well, you remember, then, he had the heart of a true explorer.”
“As much,” she admitted, “as anyone who is not an elf.”
