Ultimate Magic

by T.A. Barron

  Ignoring her jab, he continued, “Vespwyn told me that he’d passed near the borders of the Marsh several times in recent years, and he’d witnessed something disturbing. Not just the usual moaning and groaning of marsh ghouls—who aren’t, in any case, as thoroughly bad as most people think. No, this was something worse, much worse.”

  “What?” asked Serella, her tone skeptical.

  “He didn’t say. The only words he used were ‘dark—too dark’ and ‘trouble for Avalon.’ He insisted on finding out more. And, over my objections, on going alone.” Krystallus pinched his lips, then said, “He never came back.”

  “So you want to find out what happened to him. That’s understandable. But he could have died a thousand different ways in that horrible place! What’s the point of risking your life, too?”

  “It’s those words—trouble for Avalon. Vespwyn didn’t say such a thing lightly. For him, protecting this world was the highest ideal anyone could live by. In that way, he was a lot like my father.”

  Serella blew a long breath. Softly, she said, “Just as you are.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. Although Merlin would never agree, that’s certain! Nothing I can ever do will change his opinion of me. Nothing. But anyway, that doesn’t matter.”

  Watching him, she raised an eyebrow.

  He squared his shoulders. “All that matters is helping Avalon survive! And when I put together what Vespwyn said with the rumors I’ve heard for too long now, I need to investigate. It could be nothing. Or it could be important—a key to our world’s troubles.”

  She brushed a spiraling curl of mist off her nose. “I can tell you need to do this.”

  “I need, at least, to try.”

  She nodded. “I only wish I could come with you. But I have to lead that expedition to High Brynchilla, you know, and the ships are sailing tomorrow.”

  “I know.” Reaching out his hand, he took hers, weaving his fingers into her own. “You’ll still be with me.”

  “How will you get there?” she probed. “That swamp is about as accessible as a fire dragon’s throat.”

  “The portal in northern Malóch. Just inside the desert, near the place bards call Hidden Gate. I can trek from there.”

  “Too bad you don’t have a magical map to guide you,” she said teasingly.

  “Right.” Humor played across his lips. “Next time I do something rash, I’ll check with you first.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  Serella waved her hand through the vaporous air, sending a small gust of wind toward the cliff wall. Its layer of luminous mist rippled and parted, revealing the moist rock underneath. She watched the undulating mist, her face solemn, then turned back to Krystallus.

  “And that,” she added, “is another thing I love about you.”

  16: WINGS

  Returning home can sometimes be the strangest journey of all.

  Basilgarrad flew over the high peaks of Olanabram, his enormous wings stretching wider than the blue-tinted glaciers below. Much as he would have liked to fly even faster, the dragon held his glides between strokes as long as possible, riding on the whistling wind, so that he wouldn’t outpace Marnya and Ganta. As it was, he could hear their labored breathing not far behind as they struggled to stay with him.

  Below, his shadow floated over the glaciers, snowfields, and summits of the peaks. Basilgarrad watched the changing scene, noticing how his jagged wings seemed to twist, shorten, and expand as the shadow moved across the steepest slopes. Just as he reached Hallia’s Peak, the summit where he’d parted with Merlin all those years ago, he felt a familiar tap on the edge of his ear.

  “Good to be back here, old chap.” The wizard’s voice, spoken right into the huge, pointed ear that he was holding tightly, rang louder than the whistling wind. Merlin ran his hand affectionately over the long green hairs that lined the ear’s edge, as if he were stroking a puppy. “We’ve seen quite a few adventures down there, haven’t we?”

  “We have,” boomed Basilgarrad, nodding his massive head as he flew. “Starting with your wedding.”

  “Right! I’d almost forgotten you were there—seeing as how you came disguised as a puny little lizard with dried up leaves for wings.”

  The dragon’s throat rumbled with laughter, sounding like an approaching thunderstorm. “The smallest package can sometimes hold the biggest surprise.”

  Merlin stroked the back of his friend’s ear. “Indeed. You’d have said the same about me if you had known me as a bumbling young man.”

  “As compared to the bumbling old man you are now?”

  “Look here, Basil. That sort of remark is, well . . .”

  “At a loss for words, are we?” the dragon teased. “Or are you simply searching for one of your tangled strings of long-worded wizard’s babble?”

  “Babble? By the breath of Dagda, you insult me! If I ever use strings of long words, it’s merely . . .”

  “What?”

  “A serendipitous concatenation of happenstance, that’s what.” For good measure, the wizard added, “Indubitably.”

  Basilgarrad’s great head bobbed slightly. “I see.”

  Above them, the sky began to ripple with rays of golden light, the daily display of starset. As the stars of Avalon grew dimmer, bright hues painted the sky as well as the snowy lands below. Basilgarrad’s shadow, like those of the two smaller dragons behind him, seemed to sail across a frozen sea whose waves glittered with gold.

  “Basil,” said Merlin, a new urgency in his voice, “I think it would be wise to stop somewhere for the night.”

  “Stop somewhere?” roared the green dragon. He swiveled his ears in surprise, nearly knocking Merlin off his perch. “We have no time to lose!”

  The wizard yelped and clutched the hairs inside the dragon’s ear, barely hanging on. Cursing quietly, he pulled himself upright. At last, he stood again—this time with both arms wrapped around the ear, his blue robe fluttering in the wind. Deep inside his beard, Euclid clacked his beak angrily, scolding him for being so clumsy.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” grumbled Merlin. He reached a hand toward his beard, meaning to scratch the tufted feathers atop the owl’s head—then suddenly realized he could get nipped and pulled his hand away. “Try to show some understanding, will you?”

  In answer, the owl gave a savage snap of his beak.

  Frowning, the wizard turned back to Basilgarrad’s ear. “It’s going to be night very soon,” he explained. “The Marsh will be terribly dark. The worst possible time to attack.” He chewed thoughtfully on a few strands of his beard. “I have a feeling we’re going to need every bit of daylight we can find in that accursed place, just to keep our bearings. Let alone to fight that monster.”

  Basilgarrad’s brow furrowed, bending the green scales under the wizard’s feet. “But our time is short enough already! Something horrible is happening there, even now. I can feel it.”

  “So can I, old friend.” Merlin tapped the back of the dragon’s ear. “But waiting until dawn isn’t going to change anything.” Under his breath, he muttered, “I hope.”

  The dragon growled so fiercely that his whole neck and head vibrated, almost making Merlin lose his balance again. “All right, then. We’ll land for the night. Somewhere close to the Haunted Marsh, but not so close we’ll be discovered.”

  “I know just the place,” replied Merlin. He leaned into the hollow of the ear, whispering his idea.

  Before he had even finished, the dragon tilted his wings and angled downward. Close behind, Marnya and Ganta followed. Meanwhile, the night deepened. The world grew swiftly darker, broken only by the faint glitter of starlight on the dragons’ wings. They seemed to be descending into another world, one made of steadily darkening shadows.

  17: THE BLACK GASH

  Where, I wonder, was Dagda on that night we needed him most?

  Shifting the angle of his great wings, Basilgarrad descended rapidly. All around him, night deepened, cloaking th
e lands below in mysterious veils of gray and black, streaked now and then with shimmering silver from the stars. If he hadn’t known where he was flying, he couldn’t have been certain whether those dark veils covered mountains, forests, or seas.

  He was in no mood, however, to appreciate the scenery. His voice rumbled as his powerful claws raked the air, clutching at nothing—signs of his overwhelming frustration. Why couldn’t they simply plunge into the Haunted Marsh and attack that miserable beast of darkness right now? Before it could do its next terrible deed, whatever that might be?

  Because that would be stupid, Basil. The wizard, who had heard the dragon’s frustrated thoughts, shot back a blunt reply. I really think—

  You think too much, came the equally blunt retort, cutting him off. I agreed to wait until morning, but I didn’t agree to like it.

  Merlin, his arms wrapped around the dragon’s ear, sighed heavily. He glanced down at the silver stars that embroidered his robe’s flowing sleeves. In the constant wind of flying, the sleeves flapped and fluttered, making the stars seem to shimmer—as if they were, themselves, connected to the quivering lights in Avalon’s sky.

  Basilgarrad glanced behind, checking on their winged companions. Despite the deepening gloom, he could see Marnya’s blue scales glittering as she moved her flippers. Would he soon regret having taught that water dragon how to fly? Would this battle prove too much for even her adventurous spirit?

  He frowned, scrunching the scales of his snout. Questions like that he couldn’t begin to answer. The future remained hidden, as impossible to see as young Ganta, who was flying somewhere behind Marnya.

  A flash of blue, brighter than her luminous scales, caught his attention. Marnya’s eye! For an instant their gazes met, connecting them across that distance, while their eyes glowed in the darkness like a sapphire and an emerald.

  Only because he sensed the nearness of land, Basilgarrad turned away. Just in time, too. A large, undulating shape loomed right below them. He tilted both wings backward to catch the air and slow himself for landing.

  “There it is,” said Merlin into the dragon’s ear. “The great sand dune I told you about. We’re only a few leagues from the Marsh, just a short hop over the desert. But behind this dune, we can wait for dawn in secret.”

  The dragon lifted his head and arched his back as he prepared to hit the ground. The trick wouldn’t be landing safely, despite the dark of night. No, the difficulty would be landing quietly—setting down his enormous body without making noise that could alert their enemies.

  Wind rushed across Basilgarrad’s face, much warmer than before. All at once he thought of another warm wind, his wandering friend Aylah. Could it be her? He sniffed the air, searching for the wind sister’s familiar scent of cinnamon.

  Alas, he smelled only sand, sand, and more sand. He flared his nostrils and snorted in dismay. When would he finally forget about her? She had left Avalon forever, and told him so herself. Why couldn’t he just believe that?

  Slam! His massive chest struck the valley of sand beneath the dune. He skidded forward, grinding across the desert, pumping his wings backward to slow down. Sand sprayed in all directions, blocking out the stars and swirling like a storm.

  He came, at last, to a stop. Sand rained down on his back and wings, plinking against his scales. Merlin, still clutching the dragon’s ear, shook his head to shake the sand out of his beard. But he shook so hard that Euclid screeched and flew out of the tangled gray forest where he’d made his nest.

  In the deep darkness, it was impossible to see where the owl flew. Thanks to the constant clacking of his little beak, though, it was easy to follow his flight with great precision. This was, Basilgarrad suddenly realized, a flight path unlike any he’d ever encountered.

  Yes, Basil, offered Merlin upon hearing his companion’s thoughts. Euclid is indeed flying in geometric patterns! Why, there’s his square—and there, a pentagram. Can’t you hear him clack his beak at all the angles? The wizard chuckled. That’s why he isn’t clacking now. He’s doing a circle.

  “But why?” asked the dragon aloud. “What’s the purpose of flying”—he paused while the owl cut a sharp corner of an octagon, dangerously close to the dragon’s eye—“like that?”

  Merlin shrugged as he pulled his staff out of the loop in his belt. “Who knows? You might as well ask the original Euclid, a bright young fellow I met in Greece—an intriguing place, if you like wearing baggy robes and laurel wreaths all the time—just why he spent so much time drawing shapes. It’s impossible to tell.”

  An abrupt grinding noise kept Basilgarrad from responding. A new spray of sand filled the air as Marnya landed, skidding to a halt beside the green dragon. He lifted his right wing so she wouldn’t slide into it, then lightly draped it across her back. With the tip of his wing, he gently tapped the smooth scales on her shoulder.

  Just then, with a flutter of small wings, Ganta, too, landed. Yet he chose to touch down not on the sand, but on the tip of Basilgarrad’s snout.

  “I’m here, master Basil,” the little fellow proudly announced. He took several gulps of air, then added, “Right here with you.”

  “So I see.” The great dragon lifted the corner of his mouth in a slight grin, since Ganta’s pluckiness reminded him of his own when he, too, had been small.

  “When do we fly into battle?” Ganta asked, eagerly tapping his tiny claws on the scale beneath him.

  “At dawn,” rumbled his uncle, not happily. He snorted for emphasis, blowing a gust of sand.

  Euclid screeched at the sound. He instantly cut short a parallelogram and flew, instead, back to Merlin’s beard. With one final clack of his beak, the little owl plunged again into the tangle of hairs, burrowing inside.

  “Dawn will come soon,” promised the wizard, his voice grim. “In some ways, too soon.”

  “What do you mean by that?” demanded the dragon.

  “I feel we’re flying blind—and not just because it’s nighttime. Mainly I wish we knew more about this monster—especially where its power comes from.”

  “How would that help?” asked Marnya, shifting anxiously under Basilgarrad’s wing.

  “If we understood the source of its power, we might know better how to fight it.” He twirled a strand of his beard—down at the bottom, well out of reach of Euclid’s beak. “As it is, we know almost nothing.”

  “We know it serves Rhita Gawr,” offered Marnya. “Maybe all its power comes from its master in the spirit realm.”

  “Originally, yes.” The wizard shook his head glumly. “But once it arrived here in Avalon, it must have found another source. Fortunately for all of us, there is no direct link between Avalon and the Otherworld of the Spirits. If there were,” he said in an ominous tone, “its power would be . . . unthinkable.”

  “And unstoppable.” Marnya glanced at her chosen mate. “Even the incredible strength of Basilgarrad would be no match for an immortal like Rhita Gawr.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” he rumbled, flexing his mighty tail to lift the deadly knob into the air.

  Ganta pranced across the dragon’s nose. “That’s the spirit!”

  “Not if we want to survive tomorrow,” countered Merlin. He started to pace on the sand at the base of the dune. “We need more than courage to win this battle, I’m afraid.”

  Basilgarrad lowered his massive head to the sand. Without thinking about it, he used his magic to produce the sweet, lingering smell of lilac blossoms, a smell from his youth in the fragrant forest of Woodroot. Something about that smell never failed to cheer him whenever he felt despondent.

  Marnya jolted to attention, her head erect. She sniffed the air several times. “What is that smell?”

  “It’s your talented friend there,” explained Merlin. “Among Basil’s many skills is—”

  “This totally useless one,” finished the dragon himself. He cocked an ear toward the wizard. “He casts spells, I cast smells. One can change the world; the other . . . a breeze. Not fair
, is it?”

  Marnya raised her flipper and, with its webbing, touched his great brow. Stroking his scales, she said quietly, “Not every power is measured by brute strength, my dearest. Sometimes, one little smell can lift a mood—and that, in its own way, could change the world.”

  Gratitude shone in Basilgarrad’s eyes. While he said nothing, it didn’t surprise Marnya that, an instant later, the smell of lilacs suddenly vanished. In its place wafted a new aroma—the unmistakably briny smell of the sea.

  “The ocean,” she said with a dreamy sigh.

  “Not just any ocean,” the green dragon remarked. “Can you smell the hints of iridescent algae and gillywoggle kelp? That, Marnya, is found in only one place. True?”

  She nodded, making the scales of her nose glisten with starlight. “The Rainbow Seas. My home.”

  In the dim glow of the stars above, they looked at each other for a long moment. It didn’t occur to either of them how odd it was to be smelling the salty scent of those colorful waters here, in a faraway desert where any rainbow would be overwhelmed by the gloom of night. All that mattered was that, for this moment at least, they were together.

  Merlin stopped pacing. His voice wistful, he said, “Once, long ago it seems . . . I looked at someone that way.” He swallowed. “And I lost her too soon.”

  Marnya turned her sleek, blue-tinted face toward him. “Hallia,” she said gently. “Did you know that she is revered in dragon lore? As the only person of her kind who ever raised a dragon from infancy?”

  “My mother!” piped Ganta excitedly. He slapped Basilgarrad’s snout with his little tail. “You’re talking about her.”

  “That’s right,” answered Merlin. “She raised your mother, Gwynnia, with all the great care she gave to our own son, Krys—” He caught himself, and pinched his lips. “To someone else she loved.”

  Basilgarrad’s long neck trembled as he released a deep growl. “He is still your son. In more ways than you know—or will admit.”

  Though Merlin’s downturned face was too dark to see, the dragon had no doubt that his old friend was frowning. “Perhaps,” suggested Basilgarrad, “the time has come for you two to meet again. A fresh start. A new future.”