by T.A. Barron
Tempted as he was to say something about his own quest to relight those same seven stars, Tamwyn didn’t want to interrupt the tale. “What did he do instead? To enter the River?”
“He climbed to the highest point on the highest rrrrridge of Holosarrrrr, the place we now call Merrrrrlin’s Pinnacle, and left frrrrrom therrrrre.”
“But how?” The young man ground his foot into the dirt. “Do you know anything more?”
“Only this, I am afrrrrraid. Therrrrre is an old saying among my people:
“To swim within the Rrrrriverrrrr of Time
Thy soul must be worrrrrthy, thy motive sublime.
“Perrrrrhaps you possess those two qualities, Tamwyn Eopia.”
“And perhaps not!” Frustrated, he swung a punch at the air. “All you really have for me, then, is a legend. And a saying. They could be just one big lie.”
“They could be,” Palimyst replied. His fingers reached out and picked up one of his harps, carved from the burl of an old cherry tree. He hefted it, feeling its balance of wood, air, and strings. “Orrrrr they could be morrrrre like this harrrrrp: its surrrrrface shaped by morrrrrtal hands, but its essence made by immorrrrrtal trrrrruth.”
Tamwyn swallowed. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have spoken that way. It’s just that . . .” He ran a hand through his long black locks. “I had, for a moment there, such hope.”
The mammoth fellow placed three of his fingers, very lightly, on Tamwyn’s chest. “I still have hope. Rrrrreal hope. You may be just the one to do what only the wizarrrrrd Merrrrrlin has done—to enterrrrr the Rrrrriverrrrr of Time.”
He paused, studying his guest thoughtfully. “And to rrrrrelight, once again, those seven starrrrrs.”
Tamwyn started. “How—how did you know?”
Hefting the harp in his great hand, Palimyst replied, “To carrrrrve wood successfully, one must learrrrrn to rrrrread the grrrrrain. And each perrrrrson, like each piece of wood, has a special grrrrrain of his orrrrr herrrrr own.”
“Thank you,” whispered Tamwyn.
“No,” came the response. “It is I who should thank you. Forrrrr I neverrrrr expected, when this day began, that I would meet someone who is both so verrrrry small, and so verrrrry larrrrrge, at once.”
Tamwyn merely gazed up at him.
Palimyst growled deeply, then continued, “I have some gifts forrrrr you beforrrrre you deparrrrrt. Dirrrrrections to Merrrrrlin’s Pinnacle, forrrrr one. A good meal of frrrrresh frrrrruits, tuberrrrrs, and rrrrroasted seeds, forrrrr anotherrrrr. And in addition, a chant that I shall teach you, which will help to shield yourrrrr eyes frrrrrom brrrrrightness. I use it to worrrrrk with the hottest coal firrrrres in my forrrrrge, but you can use it when you rrrrreach the starrrrrs.”
Tamwyn touched the thick hair of his friend’s arm. “I won’t forget you.”
Palimyst roared with laughter, and with such force that the tapestry of the stars fluttered. “How could you everrrrr forrrrrget me? That is not possible.”
Then, using all his fingers, he quickly untied the strings from the harp. Pressing them into his guest’s hand, he declared, “One last gift, Tamwyn Eopia—forrrrr that harrrrrp you arrrrre making.”
His lips curled in what might have been a grin. “Frrrrrom one crrrrraftsman to anotherrrrr.”
PART II
12 • Song of the Curlew
To Brionna, the heavy wooden gates of the village of Prosperity seemed like the entrance to a dungeon. A dungeon that no living creature, certainly no elf, should be forced to enter. As they swung open, creaking horribly, she shuddered.
Even so, if she hadn’t been marched into the village as a prisoner, surrounded by a ring of green-clad men with bows and arrows ready to shoot, she would have been struck by how little this place resembled a dungeon. As she passed through the gates—along with the tall priest Lleu, the falcon Catha on his shoulder, and the little fellow Shim, who seemed more confused than ever—she entered a realm of greenery.
Not the greenery of the forest, which flourished just outside the gates. Nor even the greenery of emerging spring, which decorated the boughs of every living tree in El Urien. Rather, this was the greenery of a garden—a bountiful, productive garden.
Within the high wooden fences that separated the village from the forestlands, wide cultivated fields were already sprouting vegetable stalks, vines, and the season’s first leaves of lettuce and spinach. Radishes, cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes, cabbages, and peppers were not far behind. The earliest squashes, deep green and gold, swelled in earthen beds. And on many of the houses nearby, window boxes held flowers even more brightly colored than the houses’ own painted walls.
Fruit trees blossomed, giving the air sweet aromas of apple, plum, and pear. Also in the air were the scents of budding lilacs, freshly turned soil, and the first hint of juicy grapes on the arbors. Leafy bushes, draped with new green leaves, bordered every pathway.
Many men and women, with black earth under their fingernails, worked in the fields. Aided by some strange, clattering machines that spewed fumes far less pleasant than apple blossoms, these people sowed new seeds, plowed furrows, and sprayed plants with liquids that Brionna could not recognize. Just as many people, however, were simply playing outdoors. Children and adults cavorted on the swings in front of a pale yellow school building. Others chased through the village trading center, hurdling newly made benches and chairs. Meanwhile, plump goats and sheep, penned in the communal stable, jostled each other playfully.
As Brionna and the other captives were led through the settlement toward the large stone building by the central courtyard, none of the villagers paused to notice them. Indeed, the prisoners’ arrival roused no more interest than a windblown leaf drifting to the forest floor. What could they be thinking? the elf wondered. Do they see so many prisoners that we’re nothing special? Or are the people of Prosperity so blind to their fellow creatures that they really believe none of this affects their own lives?
Even as they marched past a row of pear trees, the young curlew perched in one of the branches went on singing melodiously. So he, too, cares nothing about us, thought Brionna resignedly. Or about the war that’s going to happen.
Yet there was something sharp, almost urgent, underneath the bird’s spiraling melody. Brionna looked more closely. At once she saw something terribly surprising—and terribly cruel.
“That bird,” she cried out, stopping suddenly under the tree. “His foot has been tied to the branch! He can’t get away.”
“O’ course he can’t,” snapped one of the men as he jabbed her back with his arrow. “This way he’s got to keep on singin’ fer our people.”
“But that’s horrible,” she protested. “He should be free.”
“Know what we do to the ones we keep indoors?” the man asked with a delighted smirk. “We pokes out their eyes! Then they jest keep on singin’ and singin’, day and night.”
Brionna was so stunned by this idea that she couldn’t even speak.
“Keep on walkin’, elf-girl,” barked Morrigon. The malicious old man—if he was, indeed, a man—angrily pushed a low-hanging branch away from his bloodshot eye.
Rudely shoved from behind, Brionna started moving again. Not before she looked back at the imprisoned curlew, though. And made a silent promise that, if she ever found some way to free herself, she would also free him.
She traded glances with Lleu, whose expression showed that he was equally aghast. Catha, meanwhile, continued to flutter her wings and snap her beak angrily. Only the certainty that she would be shot down by one of the archers kept her perched on Lleu’s shoulder. And yet her actions made clear that she longed to plunge into battle, seeking bloody revenge—just like the person for whom she was named, the fierce warrior Babd Catha.
Shim, trudging beside the elf maiden, seemed to be in a daze. Yet Brionna could tell by his constant mutterings that he understood something had gone badly wrong. She wished, as she looked over at him, that he were suddenly his gian
t self again. As high as the highliest tree, as he would say.
Just as they arrived at the large stone building, she turned to face Morrigon. He grinned smugly at her—even as he rubbed his unnaturally pink eye. She glared back, thinking, I know what you are. A changeling! And I will find some way to stop you, if it’s the only thing I do before I die.
“On yer guard, men!” commanded Morrigon. “Whilst I go and report to Olo Belamir, ye can take these bags o’ dung to the guest quarters.” He chortled at his own choice of words. “And do yer best to make them feel ‘specially comfortable.”
With a sneer at Brionna, he added, “We’d like them to stay fer a long, long time.”
Into the building they shuffled, always surrounded by wary archers. Although the eyes of Brionna, Lleu, and Catha roved constantly, searching for some way to escape, they found nothing. The guards lit a pair of torches, then led them along one darkened hallway after another until they reached a stone stairwell. Down the dank steps, slippery with slime, they marched. Even if she hadn’t seen their descent, Brionna could tell, from the chill in her elven bones, that they were deep underground.
When at last they reached the bottom, the men shoved them into a dark, windowless cell. Its only dim light came from a torch, jammed into a niche in the stones outside the cell’s barred door. Beneath the torch, one of the men planted himself on a stone bench—after he threw Brionna’s longbow and quiver into a dark corner by the stairs.
“Ye won’t be needin’ them anymore, elf-girl,” he said with a loud guffaw.
Before she could even begin to respond, another man slammed the cell door closed. He slid the heavy iron bolt. The men’s crude laughter echoed in the stairwell as they departed, leaving behind the guard on the bench.
“Well, me guests,” rasped the guard with a smirk. “Too bad we fergot about yer dinner.”
He kicked at the floor, spraying flecks of mud through the bars of their cell door. “Unless o’ course ye can eat dirt.” With another guffaw, he pulled his own dinner out of his satchel: a large flask of foul-smelling brew. And then, with no further thought of the prisoners, he began to drink.
13 • Pincers and Fangs
Within the cell, Brionna spun around angrily. Moving with the easy agility of her people, she sat down on the dirt floor and crossed her legs. She sighed, her expression shifting from rage to dejection.
As she leaned back against the rough stones, she could feel her old scar from the slave master’s whip. As terrible as that time was, she thought glumly, at least I could still see the stars and breathe the open air.
Far less gracefully, Shim slumped down beside her. Across the cell, Lleu remained standing. The gangly priest rested his shoulder against the wall, as if he could somehow push it aside like an unlocked door. Catha stayed motionless on her customary perch, her eyes unusually dull.
“That Morrigon,” grumbled the elf. “He’s the changeling, I’m sure of it.”
“By the light of Dagda,” exclaimed Lleu. “That eye of his! I’m sure you’re right.”
Shaking his head, Lleu slid down to the floor and folded his arms across his chest. “If only we could somehow break out of here and find Belamir. If he knew the truth, he would be horrified. He’d no sooner tolerate a changeling in his midst than he’d allow himself to be used as a pawn for Kulwych—and Rhita Gawr—at the battle of Isenwy.”
Brionna shrugged. “You have more faith in that man than I do. He’s the founder of Humanity First, remember?”
“Yes, but he is also wiser than his movement has become. Much due to that changeling, I’ll wager. If only I could speak to him! I’m sure he would help us.”
“Face the truth, Lleu. We have totally failed! We never should have come here to this village. Now we’re just going to rot in this cell while our friends all risk their lives to defend Avalon.”
Lleu chewed his lip for a while before answering. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, yet steady. “As long as we are alive, there’s still a chance we can find some way to talk to Belamir. And convince him not to send his followers to Isenwy. Brionna, there’s just too much at stake to give up now.”
She said nothing.
Hours passed. The sullen group remained silent. Only the snores of the guard, sprawled on the bench in a drunken stupor, broke the stillness.
“Owww,” cried Shim suddenly. He rolled aside, grabbing his rump. “I’ve been stingded!”
Brionna glanced over at the spot where he’d been sitting. Spying a round hole in the dirt floor of the cell, big enough to fit her thumb, she shook her head. “Gouger ants,” she said sympathetically. “They bite hard.”
“Especially when someone sits on top of their front door,” added Lleu.
Shim scrunched his nose as he patted his tender posterior. A trickle of blood stained his torn leggings. “Those antly beasts! Gave me a bigsy bite, they did.” He gave Brionna a forlorn look. “And Rowanna, I was just thinksing it couldn’t get any worse.”
“Don’t worry, Shim. We’ll get out of here somehow.” Yet even as Brionna spoke the words, she knew she didn’t believe them.
Nor did Shim, apparently. Whether or not he’d heard what she said, he hung his head miserably.
“Well, well, so these are my new guests.”
Everyone in the cell turned to see the source of the deep, gracious voice. Standing just outside the barred door, next to the sleeping guard, stood a white-haired man in a gray robe smudged with dirt. A string of garlic bulbs hung around his neck, while trowels, clippers, and other garden tools hung from the hooks and pockets of his robe. Dirt packed every wrinkle of his weathered hands, right down to his broken thumbnail.
“Belamir!” Lleu’s delighted cry echoed inside the cell. The priest leaped to his feet, so quickly that Catha barely hung on to his shoulder. “We must speak with you.”
The old man smiled, his face creasing like plowed furrows. “I am happy to hear what you have to say.” The smile faded. “Although I have been told that you came here to harm me.”
“No, that’s not true.” Lleu wrapped his hands around the bars on the cell door. “We have come only to help you! To keep you from unwittingly serving that warlord of the Otherworld, Rhita Gawr.”
The gardener stiffened. “Hanwan Belamir is no servant of Rhita Gawr.”
“But your man Morrigon is.” Brionna rose and took a step toward the door. Her eyes burning with intensity, she declared, “For he is no man at all. He is a changeling.”
Clearly shocked, Belamir faltered, placing his dirt-crusted hand against the door for support. “A . . . what?”
“A changeling,” repeated the elf maiden. “He has influenced your followers, and perhaps you as well, to do some terrible things.”
“Such as destroying the Drumadian compound,” interjected Lleu. “And gravely wounding High Priestess Coerria.”
Even more taken aback, Belamir’s whole face twisted. He looked deeply pained, so much that he seemed about to burst into tears.
Instead, he burst into laughter. Hearty, bellowing laughter.
The captives watched him, aghast. When at last he stopped, he studied them from the other side of the cell door, his eyes dancing with mirth. “You think that Morrigon’s swollen eye means he is a changeling?”
“Yes,” insisted Brionna and Lleu as one.
“Well then,” said the gardener in a much quieter voice, “what if I told you that I already know about the changeling in my village? That I already perceive his every move?”
“You do?” asked Lleu, releasing the bars. “Then why haven’t you stopped him?”
“And destroyed him,” added Brionna.
Hanwan Belamir drew a long, thoughtful breath. “Because, my dear guests, the changeling in my village . . . is me.”
As Lleu and Brionna both stumbled back in surprise, he broke into more laughter. Then, waving his badly broken thumbnail before their faces, he whispered, “A swollen eye is not the flaw you should have noticed.”
A sudden gasp came from outside the cell. The guard! He had woken up—just in time to hear the most startling news of his life. He started to rise from the stone bench.
Instantly, Belamir shifted shape and pounced on the wretched man. He had no time to cry out. So fast did the changeling move, even keen-eyed Brionna couldn’t see more than a blur of claws, fangs, and spurting blood.
Three seconds later, the mutilated body of the guard lay sprawled on the floor. And the gracious old man in the gardener’s robe stood again outside the cell, panting only slightly. Yet now all traces of kindness had vanished from his face.
“Wretched fools,” he hissed. “All of you! Humans, so easily perverted by arrogance and greed. Elves, so oblivious to the world beyond their borders. Eaglefolk, so full of pride and their precious sense of honor.”
He spat on the bloodstained floor. “That is what I think of all of you! And soon it won’t matter what I think, for Kulwych and I will destroy every last one of you.”
He leaned closer, spittle dripping from his lips. “You consider yourselves so intelligent. So very clever. Yet one lone changeling is more clever than all of you put together! How else did I create this entire village? And this movement, this mockery of human superiority? How else, good priest, did I dupe your former colleague Llynia into doing my bidding?”
A smile of satisfaction on his face, he made a gentlemanly bow. “Now, dear guests, I must leave you. I prefer to let you die here, in all your wretchedness, than to kill you straightaway.” He wiped his lips on his sleeve. “For I will soon have the pleasure of killing many more of your kinds—on the fields of Isenwy.”
With that, the changeling turned and climbed the stone stairs, taking care to hobble like an elderly man. Brionna and Lleu watched, stunned by what they had seen and heard. Eventually, they sank back down to the floor. Shim, who had witnessed enough to understand, merely shook his head morosely.
