by T.A. Barron
Shielding his brow from the rain, Cairpré peered out of the overhang at the massive clouds that had converged above the valley. “The storm is worsening, I fear. We may be caught here for some time.”
Still disbelieving we were together again, I shook my head. “What does bring you here, old friend? Are you, too, searching for the Galator?”
The poet’s expression darkened. He moved to avoid a new trickle of water from the slab above us. “No, my boy. Not the Galator.”
“What, then?”
“I seek the person responsible for the return of the kreelix.”
Hallia tensed, as did I. “The kreelix? What have you learned?”
“Precious little, I’m afraid.” Gathering his cloak, he sat down on the wet stones, motioning for us to join him. I did so, while Hallia remained standing apart. “Suffice it to say that shortly after you and Rhia departed, I set out myself—to learn whatever I could. Kreelixes have been gone for ages! Their return threatens the life—not just of you, my boy, though that’s weighed heavily on my mind—but of all creatures of magic. Indeed, of this whole island.”
His bushy brows drew together. “Rags and rat holes, it was hard to leave Elen! Yet I knew that my path could be dangerous, almost as dangerous as your own. Even so, she wanted badly, very badly, to come with me. If she hadn’t already promised to wait for Rhia in the forest, I could never have stopped her.”
Sadly, I grinned. “Rhia’s promise to come back was the only thing that kept her from staying with me, as well.”
“No doubt. You two, as brother and sister, couldn’t be closer. So thoroughly bound, As roots to the ground.”
In the shadows, Hallia shifted her weight. And, though I couldn’t be certain, she seemed to edge a tiny bit closer.
Cairpré’s fist clenched. “Devourers of magic! I’ve spent many hours wondering who or what could have brought even one of them back.” A sizzling blast of lightning struck the mountain, followed by a crash of thunder. “And I’ve concluded that there could be only one source so wicked, so cruel, to have done it.”
Before he could say the name, I did. “Rhita Gawr.”
Grimly, he observed me. “Yes, Merlin. The nemesis of anyone—and any land—he can’t control.” His head, gray hairs dripping, swung toward Hallia. “That’s why he brought his terrible spells to this place. And why he tormented your clan into leaving your ancestral home.”
“But . . . why?” she whispered from the shadows. “This was our land. Our home.”
The poet waited for another roll of thunder to pass. “Because he needed no interference for a long time—long enough to breed and train the kreelixes. And your people knew too many of this mountain’s secrets. You might have gotten in his way. For to bring back those beasts, he needed to tap the mountain’s volcanic power. To unleash the negatus mysterium within its lava. That’s always been the case. Clan Righteous, the people who bred kreelixes long ago, often made lava mountains their hideaways for the same reason.”
Lightning struck the cliffs, etching our faces. I remembered, with a shudder, the emblem of Clan Righteous that Cairpré had described once before: a fist crushing a lightning bolt. “So do you think,” I asked hesitantly, “that Rhita Gawr has returned?”
“I cannot say. He may still be too enmeshed in his battles with Dagda, relying instead on mortal allies. Or,” he added gravely, “he may be nearer than we know.” The deep pools beneath his brows surveyed me. “Now, my boy. You said you’re seeking the Galator?”
I gazed out of the overhang into the darkening night, the wailing wind, the endless rain. “To use its power, if I can, to stop Valdearg.”
Slowly, he nodded. “As your grandfather did, long ago. Yet—why here? Is it hidden among the cliffs?”
“No. But an oracle is—the Wheel of Wye.”
“The Wheel! Rags and rat holes, my boy! If the Wheel of Wye exists, and I’m not sure it does, it could be every bit as dangerous as the dragon himself. Why would you ever risk such a thing?”
“I have no choice.”
“You always have a choice. Even when it seems otherwise.” He laid his hand on my shoulder. “Tell me where you have been since we parted.”
As rain slashed against the stone above our heads, I took a deep breath and began my tale. I told of my trek with Rhia, and my narrow escape from the living stone. My confrontation with Urnalda—and her treachery. The poet’s hand squeezed my shoulder tightly as I described the shock of how she destroyed my powers. And my staff. I went on, telling of my escape, of Eremon’s wondrous gift, and of our discovery of the mutilated eggs, the ghastly remains of Valdearg’s offspring.
Then, to the surprise of both Cairpré and Hallia, I described how I had found the last surviving hatchling—and tried to save its life. All through that long night. And how, with no magic left in my hands, I had failed.
Hallia, as gracefully as a falling leaf, sat down beside me. “You really did that? You never spoke of it.”
“I didn’t do anything worth telling about.”
“You tried.” Her eyes glistened in the waning light. “To save a life you didn’t need to save. Not the sort of thing most . . . men would do.”
“Perhaps not,” observed Cairpré. “But it was the sort of thing a wizard might do.”
I bit my lip. Then, as much to change the subject as to finish my tale, I continued. Briefly, I sketched the attack by the second kreelix—and Eremon’s sacrifice. I described (though it made me feel nauseated) the terrible whirlwind. And, at last, our encounter with Domnu. As I felt Hallia’s warm breath upon my neck, I explained the disappearance of the glowing pendant, and the hope, however faint, that the oracle might help me find it again in time.
After I concluded, the shaggy-haired bard watched me solemnly for a moment. The last hint of twilight ran along the ridges of his wet brow as he spoke again. “Rags and rat holes, my boy. You do seem to attract your share of difficulties.”
Hallia managed a spare smile. “That he does.”
I struck my own thigh. “I should start for the cliffs right now! Storm or no storm! Whatever hours I spend huddled here are wasted.”
Hallia started to speak, but a sudden clap of thunder cut her off. Finally, she asked, “You would risk climbing a sheer rock wall, slick with rain, in the dead of night? With spirits of evil near at hand? You are more foolhardy than brave.”
I started to rise. “But I must . . .”
“She is right, Merlin.” Again the poet’s hand squeezed my shoulder, coaxing me back down. “Here. In the time we have together, at least let me tell you what I know about the Wheel of Wye.”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
Gazing at the gloom beyond the dripping edge of the overhang, Cairpré ran a hand through his wet hair. “If indeed the Wheel exists, and you can manage to find it, the legends say that you will face a choice. A difficult choice.”
“The obstacle,” said Hallia. “The one Domnu predicted.”
Impatiently, I shifted on the stones, wiping some drops of water off my chin. “What choice?”
“You will find that the Wheel itself has not one voice, but several. One, and only one, of those is the voice of complete truth. All the others are to some degree false. If somehow you choose the correct voice, you will be allowed to ask any question and learn the answer. If, however, you choose the wrong one—you will die.”
With a groan, I shook my head. “Is that all?”
“No.” Cairpré paused, listening to the wind whistling on the crags. “The legends say that the Wheel of Wye will answer only one question of any mortal. So, if you get that far, you will be faced with a choice every bit as difficult as the first: the choice of your one question. Choose well, my boy. For after the Wheel has answered, it will reveal no more to you forever.”
Hallia bent close to my ear. “What will you ask, if you are given the chance?”
For a moment, I pondered in the darkness. “The question I want to ask—long to ask. The question that hau
nts me more than those spirits up there: Is there any way I could regain my powers? Even if I’m never able to follow the pathway of Tuatha. Even if I’m still destined to die in the jaws of that dragon. Those powers were . . . me.” My head drooped. “And yet I can’t ask that question. For the fate of Fincayra, it seems, hinges on my asking something else: Where is the Galator?”
I blew a heavy breath. “So the truth is . . . I really don’t know what to ask.”
I could feel, more than see, Cairpré’s gaze. “Seek your answer within, my boy. For the choice is different for each different person. Take, for example, your sister, who longs to fly like a canyon eagle. No doubt she would ask how the Fincayrans, in ancient times, lost their wings—and how they could find them again.”
Working my stiff shoulders, I nodded. “And what about you?”
“I wouldn’t ask where the kreelixes are hiding, for I think I can learn that on my own. Thanks to old Bachod, who still has more to show me about this place—if this storm ever ends, that is. I’m closer than ever now. Around the bend, My trail shall end. No, the question that torments me the most, the one I would ask the oracle, is how to fight them.”
His frown deepened. “I couldn’t find anything about that in the texts. All I know is that the weaponry of magic, applied directly, is futile. The ancient mages who battled them must have found something else—something as ordinary, yet as powerful, as air itself. The trouble is, though, nothing but magic seems strong enough to defeat a whole mass of them. And a mass, I fear, is what we will have to face before this is over.”
I listened to the thunder echoing over the mountainside. “If only I understood that phrase, the one at the end of the prophecy.”
“Not the one that predicts that, if you do fight Valdearg, both of you will—”
“No, not that. A power still higher.”
He nodded, stroking his chin. “It could mean the Galator. Or negatus mysterium, I suppose. Or . . . something else altogether.”
Gently, I spoke to Hallia. “Before I go, tell me. What would you ask the Wheel?”
Her voice so soft I could hardly hear it above the storm, she answered. “Whether, in this world or another, I might ever find . . . the joy in Eremon’s dream. How could that ever be? Without his hooves running beside my own?”
The mention of his name suddenly gave me an idea. “It would be much easier for me to climb the cliffs,” I said slowly, with four legs rather than two.”
She stiffened. “That’s true.” A rainy gust swept over us. “And it would be easier still if you had someone with you—someone who knew the trails.”
“No, Hallia.”
“And why not?” Despite the bravery of her words, her voice quavered. “You would rather go without me?”
“I would rather know you’re safe.”
“Merlin. I am coming.”
“But you—”
“Are the only hope you have! Hear me. This mountain has many trails, many caves. But only one is right.”
Knowing she spoke the truth, I could only nod. Slowly, all of us rose to our feet. We stood there, as silent as stones.
Then Cairpré clasped our hands. In a hoarse whisper, he said, “May Dagda be at your side. And at Fincayra’s, as well.”
24: THE CLIMB
Anyone who could have seen through the sheets of rain that night might have glimpsed two figures dashing from the ruins of the tumbled hut—at first on two legs, then on four. At the start I felt only my own wetness, and the weight of my sopping tunic and drenched boots. Then, seconds later, the weight began to fall away. I felt warmer and drier than I had all day long. The floppy tunic dissolved, replaced by coarse, thick fur. The boots disappeared, changed into sturdy hooves. My back lengthened, as did my neck. The pounding rain joined with a new and deeper pounding.
Racing across the soaked field, I spotted a pair of sheep ahead. I did not go around them, as I would have only a moment before. Instead, I leaped from the turf and sailed over them, as easily as a drifting cloud.
For I could, once again, run like a deer.
Hallia and I bounded up the road toward the end of the valley, splashing through puddles and leaping across gullies that flowed like rivers. Oh, the new strength in my shoulders and hips! The new suppleness of my body! As I ran, the driving rain seemed less to wash off me than to part and fall around me. My nose tingled with aromas of seawater, gulls’ nests, and cliff lichen. Best of all, I could truly hear again—not with my ears, but with my very bones.
In time the road narrowed until it was nothing more than a winding gully. Rocks huddled at the sides like crouching figures; water coursed over our hooves. Hallia, more surefooted than I, took the lead. Her ears sniveled constantly, ever alert. Together, we began to pick our way up the increasingly steep slope.
The wind howled constantly, as rain slashed against my nose, my eyes. Bounding over some rocks and around others, we climbed steadily higher, the torrent raging around us. Now that I was no longer running, water rushed over me, flowing down my ears and back and rear-angled knees. I felt as if I’d stepped into a waterfall. My tail, compact as it was, moved constantly, shifting my weight just enough to help me balance on the slippery rocks.
Despite the darkness, I could see better than I had expected. My eyes discerned the jutting edges of outcroppings, the faint shadows of what might have been caves. Even so, I felt grateful for the frequent flashes of lightning as we made our way slowly upward. Often the wind gusted unexpectedly, nearly knocking me over. Several times the rocks under my hooves suddenly wrenched free, sliding down the slope. Only the quick instincts and sturdy legs of my stag’s body saved me from falling.
All the while, I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that we were not alone on this stormy slope. Someone, I felt certain, was watching. From those caves, perhaps.
Hallia, climbing just above me, leaped from a long, narrow slab to a flat ledge. Without warning, the slab broke loose. Grinding against the rocky slope, it slid straight at my hind legs. I had no time to do anything but leap. The slab grazed me slightly, but I landed on a sturdier spot, my hooves beside Hallia’s own.
Her black nose nudged my shoulder. “You’re more a deer by the minute.”
I felt as if I’d sprouted a new point on my antlers. “I’ve been watching you, that’s all.”
Another round of thunder rolled down the cliffs.
She stiffened, her ears erect. “They’re here. Close by. Can you feel them?” Before I could even nod, she bounded away, hooves clattering on the rocks.
Higher we pushed, over steeper and steeper terrain. The wind blew colder, chafing our hides, as the rain took on the sharp edges of sleet. Soon ice appeared, under ledges and along cracks, making the footing more treacherous than ever. Slowly, we struggled upward—one hoof at a time, one rock at a time.
Hallia turned to the right, following a barely visible trail. I felt it more than saw it, my hooves fitting into subtle grooves worn by many hooves before. Meanwhile, the temperature dropped still more. Even as we worked our way upward, sweating with effort, the chill air made us shiver.
We reached a tall pile of rocks, leaning like a dying tree, just as the first hailstones smacked against the slope. As well as our backs. In seconds, the hail—bigger than acorns—started pouring down. Striking like hundreds of hammers, the pellets inundated us. I yelped as one struck the tip of my nose. Hallia pressed close to me as we shrank next to the jumble of rocks.
All at once, the entire pile gave way. Rocks smashed down the slope, nearly taking us with them. Pummeled by hail, we bolted higher. The wind screamed—as did something else, something more like high, shrieking laughter.
A cave loomed ahead, dark against the whitening slope. Instinctively, we dashed toward it—when several pairs of eyes appeared, glowing like torches. More laughter! We veered away, straight into the wind, our hooves sliding on the icy rocks. Thunder pounded, drowning only briefly the raucous laughter from the cave.
Hail! Battering
us, biting our hides. My shoulders ached from cold; my ears heard only that hideous sound.
Just ahead of me, Hallia suddenly swerved at the edge of a deep crevasse. Like an unhealed gash it cut across the slope, blocking our ascent. Standing on its lip, she glanced back at me, eyes wide with flight. I knew instantly that she hadn’t expected to find the crevasse—and didn’t know where to cross it.
Side by side, we tried to work our way along the edge. But the crevasse grew only wider. Only in the instant of lightning strikes could we even see its opposite side. Then . . . yes! It melted away at the base of a sheer outcropping. Muscles straining, we climbed upward. Unstable rocks broke loose under our hooves. Clouds of white came with every frosted breath. Finally, we reached the top—only to find ourselves staring down into the same crevasse as before.
Laboriously, we backtracked, trying to keep our balance on the wind-whipped face. Tiny icicles began forming on my eyelashes, blurring my vision. My lungs stung as the temperature dropped further. Snow started mingling with the hail, coating the treacherous rocks.
At the base of the outcropping, Hallia leaped over a crusted slab. As she landed, her hooves skidded in the snow. Helplessly, she tumbled down the slope, rolling over the rocks. Just at the edge of the crevasse, she managed to plant her hooves and arrest her fall. In the flash of lightning that followed, I saw her leap away, a trail of blood running down her thigh.
A moment later, I reached her side. “Are you hurt?”
“N-n-not badly,” she answered, as a brutal shiver coursed through her body. “But I’m lost, Merlin! This crevasse . . . I don’t remember it! And we must find a way to cross it soon—or head back down.”
“We can’t do that!”
“Then we’ll die,” she cried over the wailing wind. “There’s no way to—”
Another clap of thunder cut her off. Then more laughter rang out, piercing us like hunters’ arrows. The skin under my eye began to throb—whether from the battering of hailstones or the presence of Rhita Gawr, I could not tell.
