by T.A. Barron
Gwirion’s jaw trembled, along with his soulfire. “May I ask you a question that has long burned in my mind?” Seeing the luminous faces nod, he touched his Golden Wreath. “I have heard that this wreath is more than a symbol of leadership, that it also carries a special power. But what that is, I know not.”
Dagda and Lorilanda glanced at each other. Then Dagda spoke again.
“It is the power to guide you safely to the Otherworld.”
“Your realm of the spirits?” asked Gwirion in disbelief.
“Yes,” replied Dagda. “Like Ogallad before you, you may sometimes need to enter one of the seven flaming doorways to our world. If you are wearing the Golden Wreath, you shall survive the journey and find us waiting.” He paused, scrutinizing the winged man. “You are wondering why you might ever need to do this.”
“I am.”
“Because your people’s new responsibility, the great story Lorilanda described, shall be to serve as eternal guardians of the stars. To guard all the flaming doorways into Avalon that surround us here and now. To make certain that if Rhita Gawr should ever try again to enter your world, your people will warn all the rest of Avalon.”
Gwirion’s face shone almost as bright as those of Dagda and Lorilanda on high. “As well as do our best to send him back to the Otherworld.”
Lorilanda laughed, turning the sound of the stream into a lilting waterfall. “That attitude is why we have chosen to give you this new role.”
“And why we have also chosen,” added Dagda, lowering his voice, “to give you something else. Your people’s true name.”
Gwirion rocked backward, nearly slipping on Basilgarrad’s scales. The fulfillment of the prophecy!
“From this day forward,” declared Dagda, “you shall no longer be known as Ayanowyn—but as Hie Connedan. Do you know what that means, in the most ancient language of Avalon?”
“Starkeepers,” whispered Gwirion. “Guardians of the stars.”
Tamwyn nodded. “Fits you, my friend.”
Gwirion, first leader of the Starkeepers, said nothing. He merely gazed at Dagda, Lorilanda, and the glittering lights around them.
Slowly, Lorilanda turned, so that she no longer faced Tamwyn, Gwirion, and Basilgarrad. Instead, she faced the uppermost star in the line of seven stars that formed the Wizard’s Staff. Whispering quietly, she spoke to that star. Although he couldn’t understand any of her words, Tamwyn sensed in his bones that they contained deep magic.
All of a sudden, the uppermost star flashed brilliantly. Then it did something so unexpected that Tamwyn caught his breath. The star began to elongate, stretching downward, until its fires merged with those of the star just below. After a few seconds, the Wizard’s Staff had changed dramatically. Now, instead of a row of seven equally bright stars, it consisted of five equal stars topped by one remarkably tall flame.
“A torch,” said Tamwyn, astounded. “It looks like a torch.”
“Indeed it does,” answered Lorilanda. “Long may it burn bright, as a reminder to all of what happened today. And now this constellation, like Gwirion’s people, shall gain a new name. Henceforth, it shall be called the Eternal Flame.”
Her voice fell to a whisper as she added, “And it has only come into being because of a mortal man who always dreamed of climbing to the stars.”
Tamwyn swallowed.
Lorilanda, revered goddess of birth, flowering, and renewal, gazed down at him for a moment. Then she continued, “You have both light and dark within you, as the name Dark Flame suggests. In that way you are no different from any other human. Much wisdom can come from understanding and balancing those two sides, Tamwyn. But the balance is essential.”
Her image wavered, as if a chill wind had blown across the sky. “For in these dreadful times for your world, the darker side of your species has grown powerful. Too powerful. That is why arrogance and greed have flourished, why some humans have deemed themselves superior to all other creatures, and why those same humans have nearly destroyed the fragile bonds that hold this wondrous world together.”
She heaved a sorrowful sigh. “Even now, a fierce battle is ending in the lands below, on the Plains of lsenwy. The forces who cherish Avalon have prevailed, I am relieved to tell you. But their victory has come only at a terrible cost. And even with that victory, the deeper seeds of disaster—arrogance and greed—remain. They need only another season of darkness to flourish once again. For they are seeds ever present in the human soul.”
She paused, peering intently at the young man. “What makes this danger so terrible is that humans tip the balance of your world. No other species can make such a difference, for good or ill. If humans can live in harmony with other forms of life, the world rejoices. If not, the world suffers—and may not survive.”
Tamwyn scowled. “Which means that Avalon will always be at risk, as long as humans live here.”
“Or as long,” Lorilanda added, “as they have not yet learned to control their darker side.”
“That could be forever!” Tamwyn shook his head, discouraged, sweeping his hair across his shoulders. “Surely we didn’t endure all this just so it could happen all over again! Too many people have been killed, too many dreams have been destroyed.”
He squeezed the torch. “I wish you could take every last one of us humans out of Avalon! Bring us somewhere else—until we can live in harmony with our fellow creatures. That’s the only way Avalon will ever be safe, the only way something like this won’t be repeated.”
“We could not do that,” Lorilanda reminded him gently.
“I know, I know! The barriers between the worlds, the right to choose our own course. That’s why you and Dagda couldn’t help us. Even Merlin couldn’t come back to help us. But who will help us, if you can’t? Who will take humanity out of Avalon?”
Neither of the gods responded. A silence as vast and deep as the sky itself fell over the immortals. Beneath them, Basilgarrad continued to ride the winds, soundless but for the flapping of his slightly torn wing and battered scales.
It was Tamwyn who broke the silence, as he answered his own question. “We will do it ourselves,” he said with grim resolve. “I will lead humanity out of Avalon! At least, I will try. And if I succeed, we will go through that star doorway that is still open, the one that leads to Earth.”
“And after you have gone,” added Lorilanda, “we will make good use of that magical spark that you yourself released, for it still burns within us. We will send it into that star to rekindle the flames.”
“To close the doorway.” Tamwyn’s throat tightened so much it hurt. “I just wish that the only way to save Avalon was not to lose it.”
Now Dagda’s face seemed to draw closer in the sky. His eyes glowed warmly, and when he spoke, his voice sounded so tender that Tamwyn could almost feel a great arm wrapping around his shoulders. So real was this sensation, in fact, that Tamwyn’s pack seemed to move in response, jostling the broken pieces of Elli’s harp.
“Perhaps, one day, humanity might return to Avalon. That would be possible only after your race has learned how to tame its impulses toward arrogance and greed, which will be extremely difficult. Yet it is possible, nonetheless.”
The young man peered up at Dagda—yearning, but afraid, to hope.
“And so, Tamwyn, even though the doorway will close behind you, it remains open just a crack.”
“A crack,” he whispered. “So our chances are very small.”
“As small as a spark,” offered Gwirion, rustling his fiery wings.
Tamwyn turned and gazed into the eyes of his flaming friend, grateful for all he saw there.
“You must remember this, however.” The voice of Dagda had deepened, sounding both stern and somber. “This task must be done completely or not at all. Those humans who refuse to leave, who will not follow you to mortal Earth, will never be able to have any children of their own. Thus the last traces of humanity in Avalon will disappear.”
Somberly, Tamwyn
nodded. “So the message I bring my people holds grief as well as hope, loss as well as gain. I may have rekindled the stars, but I will soon darken many people’s lives. Maybe I really am, more than anything else, the child of the Dark Prophecy.”
Lorilanda’s radiant face grew larger and closer than ever before. “No, my dear Tamwyn, you really are, at your core, the true heir of Merlin. The true savior of Avalon. But in order to succeed, you must also bring about Avalon’s end—not as a world, or as an ideal, but as a particular kind of place.”
“Yes,” agreed Dagda. “The one place in the whole universe where humanity and all other creatures live together in harmony.”
“It is aplace that existed for a time,” Lorilanda whispered gently. “And may yet exist again.”
Her eyes gleamed anew, with a light that came from somewhere beyond the stars. “That is why, even as you are the child of the Dark Prophecy, you are also the true heir of Merlin.”
With that, both her face and Dagda’s began to shrink. They compressed farther and farther, until all that remained was a single, glowing spark. It floated in the sky—luminous, lovely, and alone. Tamwyn knew that it would remain there until his task was done.
He turned to Gwirion. “Farewell, my friend. I know you cannot come with me to Earth. But you’ll be with me nonetheless.”
Gwirion’s flames crackled. “You, too, in your own way, are a Starkeeper.”
Tamwyn smiled ever so slightly. “May your story be long and glorious.”
“As may yours! And, by the fires of Ogallad, may we meet again.”
The flaming wings opened, and Gwirion took flight. At the same time, the great dragon tilted his wings and plunged downward, bearing Tamwyn on his final journey home.
35 • Out of Avalon
Moments later, Tamwyn and Basilgarrad descended from the sky above the Plains of Isenwy. When the survivors of the battle saw an enormous green dragon approaching, the last, scattered skirmishes abruptly ceased. Battlers froze; weapons fell still. All eyes turned upward, and the air filled with shouts of wonder and fear.
At first, the gobsken cheered raspingly, certain that this was, indeed, Rhita Gawr himself—and that he had arrived just in time to save them. And to secure the victory that had nearly been lost. Meanwhile, eaglefolk called among themselves as they circled the battlefield, preparing to fight this new foe. The remaining ghoulacas reacted differently: At the first glimpse of the dragon, they shrieked and tried to escape from this huge winged predator. Elves and Drumadians raised their swords and bows, grimly ready for a final battle that they knew they could not win. Yet a few of the elves, who were most learned in the long history of Avalon, marveled at the dragon’s resemblance to the famous Basilgarrad, hero of the War of Storms and friend of Merlin. Flamelons, for their part, immediately guessed that a warrior dragon had decided to join the conflict, though none of them knew which side it might favor.
The shouts only grew louder as Tamwyn and the dragon landed on the mud flats just outside the battlefield. Gobsken, gnomes, and ogres, seeing a man standing boldly atop the dragon’s head, knew at once that this great beast had not come to help them. Most of them shrieked with fright and ran off, while others fell to their knees and begged for mercy.
At the same time, the surviving allies of Avalon cried out with joy. Then they began to gather around the new arrivals. From the oldest man to the youngest woman, from the tallest giant to the smallest faery, they surrounded Tamwyn and Basilgarrad, jostling each other to look more closely—without getting too near to the immensely powerful dragon.
Tamwyn raised his torch, shimmering with magical fire, high into the air. Beneath him, the scales of Basilgarrad’s head and wings shone like emeralds aflame. Almost at once, the crowd fell silent.
He hesitated before speaking, searching the mass of faces before him for the one he most wanted to find. But Elli was nowhere to be seen. Had she, he wondered, perished in her quest? Or was she still alive, but far away from here?
“Avalon is saved,” he declared at last, his voice ringing across the battlefield. “But that is true only because of the heroism of everyone here on the ground—and of my brave friend Basilgarrad in the sky.”
The great green dragon snorted with approval, as a murmur of wonderment arose from the crowd.
“Rhita Gawr has been banished to the Otherworld,” Tamwyn continued. “The doors of flame have been closed behind him. And Dagda and Lorilanda have celebrated this moment by reshaping the very stars of the Wizard’s Staff.”
He pointed his torch, as if it were the burning arrow of a compass, at the new constellation. Above all the gasps and exclamations, he announced, “Behold! A great torch on high, shining down on Avalon. The gods have named it the Eternal Flame, for it burns as bright as our highest aspirations.”
For a moment Tamwyn’s face reflected the stars’ radiance. Then his expression turned grim. “Yet all is not well in our world. The scourges we have just survived will someday return, unless . . .”
He paused, gathering the strength he needed to finish the sentence. “Unless humanity leaves Avalon.”
To the stunned audience, he explained his tragic revelation. He told how the stars were, in truth, doorways to other worlds, and how the Great Tree connected all of them. He described his conversation with Dagda and Lorilanda—about Avalon, its many wonders that came with great fragility; and about humanity, its many gifts that came with great frailty. He explained that humans alone could tip the balance between good and evil, and conveyed the bitter promise that any people who did not choose to leave this world would never bear children. Finally, he revealed the possibility, slim though it was, that one day in the future, humanity might be allowed to return.
“And so it is,” he concluded, “that to save our wondrous homeland, we humans must leave it.”
He strode across the dragon’s massive snout, then nimbly climbed down. Planting his bare feet on the muddy ground, with the torch blazing beside him, he studied the anxious men and women. At last, he raised his voice again.
“Who will join me, for the sake of the world we love?”
For several seconds, no one stirred, let alone responded. Then a lone voice broke the silence, a voice Tamwyn had been longing to hear.
“I will go with you,” declared Elli. She pushed her way through a knot of flamelons, emerged from the crowd, and stepped over to Tamwyn’s side. In a whisper, she added, “Anywhere you want to go.”
He merely gazed at her, his eyes alight.
“What you did up there,” she said, “was a miracle.”
“No more than what you did, Elli.”
“Hmmmpff,” grumbled Nuic from his seat on her shoulder. “I’d say you two amateurs are just lucky to be alive.” Yet even as he spoke, his color deepened to a proud shade of purple.
Tamwyn, however, was too focused on Elli to notice. Gently, he ran his fingers through her curls. “I missed you.”
“And I missed you.”
Elli glanced over at Basilgarrad, who was lifting his gigantic wings to fold them upon his back. “Where did this magnificent dragon come from? Did he just appear out of nowhere?”
“Well, you’d be surprised.” He turned and winked at the dragon, whose enormous green eye winked back. “Very surprised.”
“All right, be mysterious if you like.” She shook her head. “What I care about most is that he came in time to help you defeat Rhita Gawr.”
“That he did.” Tamwyn’s face suddenly fell. “I only wish . . .” He swung his pack around and started to open it. “That your harp hadn’t been smashed in the battle.”
“Smashed?”
“Yes. Rhita Gawr’s tail—” He caught himself, awestruck. For within his pack, the slab of harmóna wood gleamed without a single crack anywhere. More than that, the sound box he’d been carving had been finished, and the strings from Palimyst had all been attached. The harp was done!
In a flash, he remembered the feeling of Dagda’s arm wrapping around
his shoulder. And he guessed that, in that instant, the spirit lord had repaired and completed the instrument. He wondered what musical magic Dagda might have also added to the wood—and knew that he and Elli would enjoy finding out, when the time was right.
He closed his pack again. “Guess I was wrong about that.” He smiled playfully. “Just like, when we first met, you were wrong about me.”
“Oh, I wasn’t wrong,” she replied, giving him a nudge. “You deserved those black eyes. Both of them.”
Before he could answer, another voice rang out. They turned to see someone else emerge from the throng of people.
“I will join you,” declared Lleu. As the lanky priest strode toward them, the silver-winged falcon on his shoulder piped a whistle of agreement.
More people followed. Some were old enough to be graying, others looked quite young. Many hobbled weakly or wore bloody bandages from injuries sustained in the battle. Several couples came forward, though most of the survivors were single men and women.
Among them, toward the end of the procession, was Morrigon. Although his thin frame made him look more like a windblown tree than a man, he carried himself proudly. When he approached Lleu, he glared at the priest, angrily squinting his bloodshot eye. Nonetheless, he joined the group around Tamwyn.
Last of all—to the surprise of many, especially Elli—came a young woman wearing the tattered robe of a Drumadian priestess. Llynia, too, tried to walk proudly. In fact, she did her best to look perfectly regal, thrusting out her chin. Yet that very chin glowed green in the starlight, spoiling the effect. And as soon as she neared Elli, she averted her gaze.
At first, Elli couldn’t help but feel satisfied at seeing the priestess finally humbled. But her satisfaction soon gave way to sympathy. For she noticed, in Llynia’s hand, a small bough studded with purple buds.
