by T.A. Barron
There is another weapon. . . .
Tamwyn winced.
“You are a sorry excuse for a wizard,” the dragon continued, lowering his voice to a thunderous growl. “Yet I am glad you have somehow survived. For it will be a pleasure to kill you here and now.”
Tamwyn could tell that only a few seconds remained before a bolt of black lightning would destroy him, as well as any hope to save Avalon.
Had he climbed so high, traveled so far, and endured so much—just to die like this? His mind raced through all the possibilities of what he might do. And yet . . . he saw no way to escape. He lacked the magic to fight. He’d even lost the staff, his best weapon.
Wait. That isn’t my only weapon.
Even as the lightning flared within the dragon’s eye, just about to strike him, Tamwyn jumped to his feet. In the same instant, he tore his dagger from its sheath. The blade—forged by elven metalsmiths ages ago in the land of Lost Fincayra, infused with power that could serve only the true heir of Merlin, and destined for battle against the tyrant Rhita Gawr—shone with starlight, as well as a deeper light of its own.
With a shout that he knew might be his last, Tamwyn lunged. Just before the bolt of black lightning erupted, he plunged his dagger into the very center of the dragon’s eye.
PUFFIN BOOKS
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First published in the United States of America as The Great Tree of Avalon: The Eternal Flame
by Philomel Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2006
Published as The Eternal Flames by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2011
Patricia Lee Gauch, editor
Text copyright © Thomas A. Barron, 2006
Illustrations copyright © David Elliot, 2006
Maps copyright © Thomas A. Barron, 2004, 2005, 2006
All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE PHILOMEL BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Barron, T. A. The Eternal Flame / T. A. Barron; with illustrations by David Elliot
p. cm.
Summary: Merlin’s grandson, Tamwyn, and his friends race to stop the warlord Rhita Gawr from destroying Avalon.
ISBN : 978-0-399-24213-7 (hc)
[1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Avalon (Legendary place) 3. Wizards—Fiction. 4. Fantasy.]
I. Title
PZ7.B27567 Ete 2006 [Fic]—dc22 2005058603
Puffin Books ISBN 978-0-14-241929-8
Design by Semadar Megged
Text set in ITC Galliard
Printed in the United States of America
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out , or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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To Mother Earth,
beleaguered yet bountiful
With special thanks to Denali Barron and Patricia Lee Gauch:
first to voyage to Avalon, first to reach the stars
Two Sparks, Two Flames, of Avalon
Listen to Creation’s morning,
Waking all around you.
Feel the spark of dawn within,
Breaking day has found you.
—High Priestess Rhiannon
Vengélano, power dark,
Fill this vessel with thy spark.
Let it wield Unmaking Knife:
Slashing, piercing, sowing strife.
Carving out the heart of life!
—Kulwych of the Pale Hands
A Half-Remembered Song
Fair Avalon, I cry farewell,
A death within me waking;
So many seasons did I dwell
In wondrous realms forsaking.
You are my home! My highest goal,
Kept firm beyond all shaking.
Your mist shall ever stir my soul,
A distant music making.
Prologue: The Unmaking Knife
Kulwych’s chortle, while no louder than the thin stream of water trickling down the cavern wall, was unmistakably mirthful. He rubbed his pale white hands together. In the throbbing light of the crystal beside him—the only light in this cavern far beneath the surface of Shadowroot—his scarred face glowed with anticipation.
“Soon,” he whispered to himself. “Mmmyesss, very soon.”
Spying a small beetle crawling across the dank stone wall, he reached up and snatched it. Slowly, he crushed its body between his thumb and forefinger, savoring each and every crack of its shell and gush of its organs.
“This is how I will deal with you, Deth Macoll.” He whispered the words with relish, imagining his long-awaited chance to kill the assassin. For he knew that Deth Macoll would soon return, seeking payment for the pure élano that he’d been sent to steal.
The sorcerer wiped the remains of the beetle on his cloak. Then, inspecting the smooth flesh of his fingers, he nodded confidently. “And that is how, mmmyesss, I will deal with anyone who dares to challenge me—the new ruler of Avalon.”
The crystal, resting on the stone pedestal by his side, pulsed with reddish light. Rays shimmered in the jagged scar that cleaved his face; within his hollow eye socket, scabs and swollen veins glistened. And once again, he cackled with mirth.
He knew that his master, the spirit warlord Rhita Gawr, had promised him such power, and had even used that phrase, the ruler of Avalon. In less than one week’s time, Rhita Gawr, now in the form of an immense dragon, would extinguish the pulsing star called the Heart of Pegasus—a star that was really much more than it appeared. And then, in a great moment of triumph, Rhita Gawr would lead an army of deathless warriors down from the sky. They would destroy the ragtag alliance of mortal creatures—elves, eaglefolk, giants, and any foolish humans still loyal to the Society of the Whole—who were now gathering on the Plains of Isenwy. Unless, of course, Kulwych’s own army had already crushed the mortals by then.
Having secured Avalon, the precious world between all worlds, Rhita Gawr would then turn to his next conquest: mortal Earth. That would leave Kulwych alone to dominate Avalon. To rid it forever of the foul stench of Merlin. And to remake it however he chose.
His lone eye studied the crystal on the pedestal. Small as it was, this crystal of corrupted élano—vengélano, as Rhita Gawr had named it—held unfathomable power. It could destroy any flesh, poison any water, crumble any stone. More important, it could guide the spirit warriors of Rhita
Gawr, for the warlord had called to them through the crystal, even as he had bound them to its power.
“And now,” whispered the sorcerer, “you shall do one thing more.”
Reaching into the pocket of his cloak, he pulled out a savage-looking claw, the parting gift of Rhita Gawr before he’d flown off to the stars. Black and shiny as the dragon’s own scales, it was, in fact, only the tip of a claw, though it was still as big as Kulwych’s whole hand. Its curled tip narrowed to a point sharper than a dagger; its base showed the gouges of teeth, since Rhita Gawr had bitten it off his own foreleg.
Deftly, Kulwych tied a leather cord around the claw, making a simple necklace. He fixed the knot with a sturdy spell of binding. Then, recalling the words that his master had taught him, he concentrated all his will on the corrupted crystal, lifted the claw, and began to chant:
Vengélano, power dark,
Fill this vessel with thy spark.
Let it wield Unmaking Knife:
Slashing, piercing, sowing strife.
Carving out the heart of life!
A faint crackling sound started to come from the claw, as if something smoldered deep inside. Louder the sound grew, and louder, swelling steadily until it echoed throughout the cavern. Abruptly, all the noise ceased—just as a small red spark appeared on the claw’s surface. It spread swiftly, like molten lava, replacing the black sheen with a dull red glow.
“Excellent,” gloated the sorcerer. He examined the glowing claw, twirling it in the throbbing light. “Here is a weapon fit for a great warrior. Mmmyesss, and a great ruler.”
PART I
1 • To Ride the Wind
Jump? thought Elli, incredulous at her own folly. Am I really about to jump off a cloud?
A sharp gust of wind suddenly rocked her forward, making her swing her arms wildly just to keep her balance. Her feet—submerged in the moist, spongy cloud where she and Nuic had rested—dug in more firmly. For a breathless moment, she teetered there on the edge, before finally managing to stand still again. Yet her heart kept pounding.
For she had glimpsed what lay below her: a bottomless swirl of mist, vapors, and nothingness. She was, indeed, about to leap off a cloud. And there were only shreds of mist to break the unending plunge.
“Well, Elliryanna?” snapped the pinnacle sprite at her feet, his liquid purple eyes squinting with doubt. “Are you ever going to do it? Or are you just going to wait here until we both sprout wings?”
“I’ll do it, Nuic.” With difficulty, she swallowed. “Just not yet.”
“Hmmmpff,” he replied. Slowly, his skin color darkened to leaden gray. “Maybe I should try to plant an herb garden while we wait.”
Elli didn’t answer. She merely gazed out at the misty realm of Y Swylarna, commonly called Airroot, that seemed to stretch forever before them. One hand clasped her belt, touching the silken strip torn from High Priestess Coerria’s gown. The strip fluttered in the breeze, along with the hem of Elli’s simple Drumadian robe and her thick brown curls.
Although made of mist, the airscape before her held as many shapes and colors as any realm of land. Green, gold, and lavender ribbons of vapor wrapped around the denser clouds. In the distance, scores of spiraling forms rose higher, twirling endlessly: the Dancing Ground of the Mist Maidens. Beyond these airy figures, an enormous flock of birds—joined by a few vaporous sylphs—flew toward a brilliant blue patch of sky that glowed like a starlit sapphire.
And as she watched, she listened. To the steady swish of winds all around; to the deep whooshing of the Air Falls of Silmannon; to the eerie, sucking sound of a distant maelstrom; and to the long, rippling notes of aeolian harps—music that always reminded her of Tamwyn. Thinking of their brief meeting in her dream, and their even briefer kiss, she blew a long sigh.
But the sound she heard more clearly than any other was the fearful pounding within her chest. Jump? Into that? she thought, shaking her head.
Suddenly she remembered the shrill scream of Deth Macoll, when the assassin had fallen off a cloud much like this one—and plummeted to his death. Instinctively, her feet crept back from the edge. She had only moved a tiny bit, but Nuic had noticed. Though he said nothing, his skin darkened to the color of a storm cloud.
Just then the wind slackened. Now, instead of the ceaseless rush of air, she felt just a gentle tickle on her brow, almost a caress. In that instant, she recalled the old bard who had appeared so unexpectedly—and his soulful song about what wind that blows. Those eyes of his, so old and yet so young, had made her want to trust him, although his notion of leaping off a cloud and riding the wind had seemed utterly preposterous.
And still seemed that way.
The breeze tickled her chin. To her surprise, she heard in her mind the bard’s very words, almost as if he were whispering into her ear.
It’s quite simple, really. You just stand at the edge of a cloud, hold tight to your magic crystal, and think hard about where you want the wind to carry you.
Quite simple! Elli shook her head. It really was preposterous.
And yet . . . the old bard’s words had reached her somehow. They had even convinced crusty old Nuic. On top of all that, there didn’t seem to be any other explanation for how the bard himself got around, moving so quickly from one realm to another.
She twisted one of her curls, wondering. Even though her common sense—and all her better judgment—told her that this whole idea was idiotic, it just might work. After all, the crystals that she and Nuic wore held enormous power. In the opinion of Rhia, the Lady of the Lake, they possessed more magic than anything else in Avalon—save perhaps Merlin’s staff, the legendary Ohnyalei.
Or perhaps, she thought with a shudder, the crystal of élano that was now in the hands of that murderer Kulwych, who served Rhita Gawr. For that crystal, unlike the pure one that she carried, had been turned into a terrible weapon. Who could say whether the person who wielded it could ever be stopped?
Yet that, she knew, was her task. To find Kulwych, who was hiding somewhere down in the deepest mine of the darkest realm. And to use whatever powers she and her crystal could muster to prevent him from destroying Avalon.
But she had too little time to do all this! Less than a week, if she had figured correctly. Just as Tamwyn had far too little time to find his way to the stars and stop Rhita Gawr.
In the distance, the music of the harps’ vaporthread strings swelled louder. Their tones seemed more clear now, as well as more urgent. As Elli listened, the strings rose to a high, warbling pitch that sounded like a desperate plea.
A memory of Tamwyn flashed across her mind: He was showing her the partly carved harp that he’d been working on, hoping to give it to Elli if they actually made it through all this alive. More than ever, she felt sure that destroying Kulwych’s crystal would also help Tamwyn succeed. After all, the corrupted crystal was the tool of Kulwych, who was himself the tool of Rhita Gawr. Somehow, in a way she couldn’t begin to guess, succeeding in her quest could possibly help Tamwyn succeed in his.
She drew a deep breath and stepped closer to the edge. Grimly, she glanced down at Nuic, who nodded impatiently. And then—
She jumped.
For an instant she hovered in the air, just long enough to see Nuic also leap off the cloud. Then she began to fall! Tumbling, twirling head over feet, she plunged downward faster and faster. Air whooshed past, flapping her gown and yanking her hair. Tears streamed from her eyes. Panic suddenly flooded her mind, obscuring all her thoughts.
Except one. A voice broke through, a voice she recognized as the bard’s. Think hard, he had said. Think hard about where you want the wind to carry you.
Calling on every bit of will she possessed, she fought back her panic and concentrated on Shadowroot, that realm of eternal night. No one but dark elves and death dreamers—and now the sorcerer she sought—chose to live there; very few had even dared to explore its terrain since the fighting that had closed its only portal and destroyed the City of Light. Darkne
ss was the soul of this realm, hiding its mysteries forever.
Still falling! For an instant Elli’s concentration shattered, and the air tore at her as she plummeted down, down, down. Without thinking, she grasped the amulet of leaves that held her crystal. With all her remaining strength, she bent her thoughts again toward Shadowroot, and the task she wanted so badly to accomplish.
With a sharp jolt, her falling ceased. The wind seemed to stop, to vanish completely. Then she felt herself lifting, floating like a feather in an updraft.
All at once, she realized the truth. The wind hadn’t vanished. It was simply supporting her, bearing her body in its invisible arms. Though she could feel it no longer, it was all around her, carrying her with ease.
She was riding the wind.
Not far above her, Nuic floated. His own tiny hand clutched the green jewel of the Galator, while his color had changed to a contented shade of blue. Turning toward Elli, he gave a wry grin. She could almost hear his gruff voice saying, Took you long enough, Elliryanna.
The wind swelled beneath them like a rolling wave. Swiftly it bore them, through airy avenues between clouds, and through shimmering veils of mist that burst into circular rainbows as soon as they approached. They rode over clouds and under them, rising upward at times and swooping downward at others, always moving steadily northward.
Over the Harplands they flew, listening to notes that now seemed as lilting as a child’s laughter. To the east, Elli could see the massive, curling cloud that Nuic called Windwhistle Point. And on the horizon, a splash of violet and scarlet made her wonder whether she had glimpsed the famous Cloud Gardens of the faeries.
Slowly, the shreds of mist around them began to thin. The air grew clearer, as well as drier. Elli caught a faint whiff of sulfur, like eggs gone terribly bad. The wind carried them over a huge, lumbering cloud—and all of a sudden she saw volcanoes below.
