by T.A. Barron
The hail slackened, but more snow, thick and wet, fell on us. Rocks, and the gaps between them, were fast disappearing under the blanket of white. In a few moments, the entire slope, and any hope of finding the oracle’s cave, would be utterly buried.
Suddenly, a brilliant flash lit the mountainside—revealing a shape, bold and broad, standing beside the crevasse. Both Hallia and I caught our breath. Though it was difficult to see through the swirling snow, it looked almost like a figure we knew well. Almost like . . . a stag! Yet I couldn’t be sure. Were those antlers atop its head, or horns, or something else entirely? Before the lightning vanished, the figure turned and charged off, skirting the edge of the crevasse.
“Eremon!” cried Hallia, leaping after him.
“Wait,” I called. “It could be just a trick!”
But the doe paid no heed. She bounded off, cutting through the swelling drifts. I ran behind, following her tracks, only hoping we weren’t chasing death itself.
Along the edge we raced. Sometimes we veered so close that I could hear rocks, kicked loose by our hooves, skittering down into the depths. The crevasse, even in lightning, showed only shadows—and no place narrow enough to cross. And as the snow deepened, so did my fears. If the wicked spirits meant to trap us, to strand us without any hope of finding our way, this was just the way to do it.
Abruptly, Hallia stopped. My hooves skidded, and I nearly slammed into her from behind. We stood, panting, on a slab jutting into the crevasse. Nothing but darkness loomed before us. The figure—whatever it was—had disappeared.
“Where,” I huffed, “did it go?”
“Eremon. I’m sure it was him. He jumped from this spot. Then . . . vanished.”
I shook the snow off my rack and leaned into the dark abyss. “It’s a trick, I tell you. We can’t jump into that.”
Her round eyes met mine. “There’s a ledge over there, I’m sure. That’s why he jumped when he did! Come—it’s our only chance.”
“No!” I stamped my hoof. “It’s madness!”
Ignoring me, she crouched, shuddered once—and sprang. Her legs exploded, her long neck stretched forward. Snow spewed my face as she faded into the darkness. I heard a thud—then nothing.
“Hallia!”
“Your turn,” came her cry at last, her voice nearly smothered by the storm. “Come, Merlin!”
I crouched, my heart slamming against my ribs. I tried not to look down, but couldn’t help myself. The shadows within the crevasse seemed to reach for me, to snatch at me. “I—I can’t. It’s too far.”
“You can! You are a deer.”
A shiver ran up my flank. “But I can’t see the other side . . .”
Another gust of snow slapped me, almost throwing me off the edge. Under my hooves, the slab teetered, ready to fall at any instant. Without thinking, I pushed off with all my strength. I flew through the air, suspended by nothing but whirling snow, and landed with a thump on a ledge beside Hallia.
Her shoulder rubbed against my own. “You flew! Really flew! Like the young hawk of your name.”
As lightning again seared the sky, I raised my eyes toward the cliffs. For the first time since the storm began, I could see their outlines, thrusting upward like enormous icicles. “Do you really think that was Eremon? Or, perhaps, Dagda himself in the form of a stag?”
Her ears cocked, one forward, one behind. “Let’s hope it was Eremon. Because if Dagda is here, then so is Rhita Gawr.” She blew a frosted breath. “Besides, I felt him near. More near than I know how to say.”
My head beside hers, I whispered, “Then it must have been him.”
More lightning. I turned back to the cliffs, gleaming from the flash. They were completely robed in white, but for the dark spots of caves. “The storm,” I observed, “might be letting up.”
“You may be right.” She peered through the thinning veil of snow at the slopes above. “Come! I think I know where we are now.”
She bounded off, following a slight indentation in the snow. Picking our way through the drifts, kicking away clumps of ice with our hooves, we moved higher into the crags. From somewhere overhead, I heard the faint cry of kittiwakes. At the next blaze of lightning, I thought I glimpsed one of the birds swooping out of the clouds just above us.
At that instant, the wind shifted. As it flowed over us, it carried a new smell. Smoke—sulphurous smoke. And also a new sound. An eerie, warbling sound. Half sighing, half wailing. A shudder ran through my long body. More spirits!
Hallia froze, as rigid as the rocks. Her ears pricked, then rotated slightly. “That sound—it’s so different from that horrid laughing.”
“It could still be . . . them.”
“Or it could be the oracle.”
All at once, she darted higher on the slope. Fast. So fast that I could barely keep up with her. Chips of ice broke under our hooves, while snow sprayed in our wakes. Relentlessly, we pushed up the cliffs. All the while, the haunting sound drifted toward us, now louder, now softer.
A wave of fog, smelling of sulphur, swept down the mountain. Like a phantom avalanche, it rolled over us, burying us completely. Although I kept climbing, I could no longer see Hallia. She had faded away—just like, I realized, the eerie wailing. I started to call for her, when suddenly I bumped into her flank.
She turned sharply. “We must have passed it.”
Quickly, she led us back down the slope, pausing only to sniff the air or swivel her ears one way or another. Gradually the sound grew louder, closer. All at once, she halted. The fog before us parted, revealing a feeble glow among the whitened rocks.
A cave! Unlike the others we had seen, this one seemed to be lit from within. Or was that just an illusion? What unnerved me even more, though, was the continuous wailing that poured out of its bowels. For a long moment we stood there, listening. There could be no doubt, I knew with a shiver. The sound came not from wind, nor from sliding rocks—but from voices. Pained, tormented voices.
25: ONE VOICE OUT OF MANY
Together, we planted our hooves upon the ice-crusted rocks at the lip of the cave. From deep within, voices sighed and called, wailed and pleaded. Though I could not make out any words, the voices’ tone of anguish and longing could not be mistaken. Hallia and I traded anxious looks. Was this, in fact, the passage to the Wheel of Wye? Or some sort of trap laid by the mountain spirits? And was there any way to find out—except by entering?
I could see in Hallia’s eyes that she had reached the same conclusion as I. In unison, we strode forward into the cave. Heeding our silent command, our bodies melted into different forms. Where two deer had stood only an instant before, an unshod young woman and a booted young man stood now. My own sigh joined with those of the voices, for I suddenly felt too vertical, too stiff, too much like wood and not enough like wind.
Wordlessly, we moved deeper into the cave, ducking under a row of icicles that hung like bars across the entrance. The cave did not descend, but rather plunged straight into the face of the cliffs. The air felt thick and humid, as if we were walking inside a cloud. A smoky, sulphurous cloud. At the same time, it felt warmer than I would have expected, reminding us that the lava that had formed these crags so long ago still coursed beneath the surface.
As we continued, plunging deeper into the mountain, the wavering light grew stronger, filtering toward us from somewhere ahead. What, I wondered, was its source? No doubt we’d learn before long. Thousands upon thousands of black crystals coated the floor, walls, and ceiling. Even through my boots, they poked and jabbed at my feet. I marveled at Hallia’s ability to walk over them with such ease. She strode as gracefully as a doe crossing a bed of moss, her toes curling gently over the facets.
With every step we took, the black crystals glowed more brightly. Their facets glinted like so many eyes—staring at us and winking at one another as we moved past. Even without my own magic, I could sense that these crystals possessed some strange magic of their own.
Always, I have love
d caves. Crystal caves especially. Their quiet depths, their mysterious shadows, their gleaming facets. As we moved deeper, the black crystals created ever more intricate patterns. Circles, waves, spirals—as well as more random designs. While most were black, a few gleamed yellow, pink, and purple. Above our heads draped a row of stalactites, lavender in color. And so ancient in years! They hung like the whiskers of Distant Time itself.
I paused, looking closer—and jumped. There, clinging to the base of one of the stalactites, was a dark, bony creature. Though I knew in an instant it was just a bat, it resembled too much another kind of creature, one I never wanted to meet again.
As the light within the cavern grew stronger, so did the voices. And their torment swelled at the same time. Whether moaning, pleading, or cajoling, they shared a common edge of agony. Yet . . . I couldn’t make out any of their words. Only their emotions. If, indeed, they were the many voices of the Wheel of Wye, my stomach churned at the prospect of choosing one—and only one—out of all of them.
The silver light flickered on Hallia’s face. “Can you understand them?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. Only . . . the pain.” A brittle crystal snapped under my heel. “How will I know which one to choose?”
She slowed, touching a curved arm of crystals protruding from the wall. “Do you remember what Eremon said to you just before he . . . left us?”
“Yes,” I answered grimly. “Find the Galator.”
“No, no. After that. He said, You have more power than you know.”
Despondently, I dragged my boot across a bulge of glinting crystals. “He meant his own gift to me—the deer’s power.”
She scowled at me. “He meant more than that, Merlin. You do have—well, a certain kind of magic. And power. Yes, even now.”
I looked at her skeptically. “What kind?”
For several seconds, she considered me. “I’m not sure what to call it. But whatever its name, it was enough to inspire his gift. Enough to make you want to try to help that newborn dragon, even if you couldn’t possibly save her. And it just might be enough to help you know what to do at the oracle.”
Slowly, I exhaled. “I want to believe you. I really do.”
Pace by pace, we marched farther into the cave. Gradually, the passage bent to the left, then grew wider, as well as taller. As we rounded the bend, the ceiling abruptly vaulted high above our heads. Glittering walls of stone arched to meet it. The light in this immense chamber shone intensely bright, reflecting on the crystals. Still, I couldn’t find the source.
All at once I understood. The crystals themselves! They were sparkling, glowing with a silvery light of their own.
Directly opposite us, covering almost the entire wall, hung a great, glistening wheel. Slowly, very slowly, it spun, its continual groaning joining the chorus of voices that now clamored in our ears. While the voices themselves were still incomprehensible, they clearly came from somewhere near. Just where, I couldn’t tell. Like frogs calling from a hidden pond at night, the voices swam around us, swelling and fading, without ever revealing their source.
We stood there, amazed, watching the wheel turning endlessly on its axis. It appeared to be fashioned from some sort of wood, though its color looked darker than any wood I had ever seen. Each of its five broad spokes, as well as the rim, showed numberless facets, as if whatever hand had fashioned them had carved the surrounding crystals as well.
Five spokes inside a circle . . . just like the star inside a circle that had been carved into my staff. My lost staff! How clearly I remembered that night, long ago, when Gwri of the Golden Hair had descended from the starry sky to meet me on a windswept ridge. The symbol, she said, would remind me that all things, somehow, are connected. That all words, all songs, are part of what she called the great and glorious Song of the Stars.
I shook my head. That shape now reminded me of all that I had lost. My staff. My powers. My essence.
At that instant, I noticed three or four dark patches on the floor of the chamber. No crystals glowed, no light radiated, at those spots. Curious, I moved closer to the nearest one. Suddenly, my blood turned to ice. A mass of bones! Splintered and charred by some potent force. From their size and shape I could tell that they were all that remained of a man or a woman—someone who had, no doubt, chosen to listen to the wrong voice.
As I stooped to pick up a fragment of the skull, Hallia seized my arm. “The spokes!” she cried above the reverberating voices. “They’re changing.”
I gasped, dropping the skull. The facets in the middle of each of the five spokes were, indeed, changing. Gradually, they started to stretch, to lengthen and broaden, drawing themselves together in strange clusters. Some pushed outward into bulbous lumps, while others curled inward to form slashes or pits. The midsections of the spokes started to bulge, as the clusters coalesced and rearranged themselves, burgeoning into larger shapes. Shapes with patterns. Shapes with . . .
Faces. Hallia and I traded glances. For in the middle of each spoke, a face, as distorted as knotty wood, had appeared. While the wheel continued spinning, the faces grew more defined. One by one, they opened their dull yellow eyes, stretched their lips, and turned their gazes on us. As their mouths opened for the first time, each assumed one of the disembodied voices in the chamber. At the same time, the voices adopted the language of Fincayra.
“Free me!” moaned a wide, squarish face that had just risen to the top of the wheel. “Free me and truth shall be yours.” As the wheel slowly turned, the face contorted, growing even wider than before. It released a deep, prolonged groan. “Free me! Have you no mercy at all? Freeeee meeeee.”
“Ignore that—such a shame, such a shame—voice,” snapped a second writhing face on a lower spoke. “He will lead you—what a pity, what a pity—astray. The true voice—such a disgrace—is not his, but mine!”
“Free me, please. Free me!”
“Oh, do be—what a crime—silent.”
The sharp nose of a third face jabbed at us. From the pinched mouth came a wrathful hiss. “Don’t lisssssten to thossssse voicesssss! Lisssssten to me, ssssso you may sssssurvive.”
Hallia started to whisper something to me, when a fourth voice cut her off. “Woe to you, who seeks to live; Woe to me, who yearns to give.” From a lopsided face with deep-set eyes, the anguished voice wailed: “Choose the right, and it is I; Choose the wrong, and you shall die.”
“Sssssuch nonsssssenssssse!”
“Free me, I beg of you—”
“Stop, plee-ee-ease,” squealed a fifth voice, sounding like a dog with a broken leg. “I am the only-y-y voice of truth! You must beliee-eve me-ee-ee.”
Full of uncertainty, I took a step closer to the revolving wheel. My gaze roamed around the crystalline chamber, from the turning faces, to the worried eyes of Hallia, to the piles of bones at my feet. Then, drawing a slow breath, I addressed all five faces at once. “I have come here,” I declared, “to find the truth.”
“Plee-ee-ease choose me-ee-ee.”
“Choose me! Free me!”
“Sssssilence! You mussssst choose me or you will die.”
“One of five shall give you life; All the rest give only strife.”
“You must—such a dilemma, such a dilemma—choose me!”
As the voices clamored, the silver light from the crystals grew steadily brighter. Raising my voice above the cacophony, I addressed the wheel again. “Tell me, each of you, why I should choose you.”
For a few seconds, the faces on the spokes fell silent. Only the groaning of the turning wheel echoed in the chamber. Yet the light from the crystals continued to brighten, until the walls were almost too dazzling to bear. I sensed that I must make my choice soon, or the crystals’ swelling power would somehow explode—like a bolt of lightning—reducing me to another pile of bones. I waved to Hallia to retreat into the passage where she might be safer, yet she stood firmly in place, squinting from the light.
“Free me!” cried one voice, s
hattering the lull. “Free me and I shall love you always! For I, and I alone, am the truth of the heart.”
“Ssssselect me,” promised another. “I can give you ssssso many thingsssss more! All the wealth you ssssseek, all the power you dessssserve. For I am the ssssstrongest truth of all, yesssss! The truth of the hand.”
“Choose me—what joy, what joy!” The voice burst into laughter, then suddenly started wailing wretchedly. “I am—such sorrow, such sorrow—the truth of the mind. All that I know, whether merry or grim, soothing or painful, can be yours, all yours.”
“Plee-ee-ease,” begged the next voice. “I can shower you with wonder, with mystery-y-y! For I shall always be-ee-ee the truth of the unknown.”
The last voice, merely a whisper, offered only this: “Truth of the spirit am I; Wisdom and peace I supply.”
By now the light had grown so bright that I could no longer even look at the spinning faces, let alone the crystalline walls. The crystals themselves had begun to buzz, as if they could barely contain their swelling power. In seconds, the entire chamber had started vibrating. I knew my time was almost gone.
Concentrating, I forced myself to think. The voices spoke for different kinds of truth—each one important, each one precious. Like the separate parts of the story circle that Hallia, Eremon, and I had created together on the day we met . . .
Truth of the heart, the mind, the hand, the spirit, the unknown. How I could I possibly pick only one? What was the truth of the spirit without the truth of the heart? And the heart without the mind?
My thoughts raced, even as the voices, the walls, the wheel all roared at me. The floor shook beneath my feet. What had Cairpré told me? One and only one, is the complete voice of the truth.
But which one?
Heart . . . Hand . . . Unknown . . . Mind . . . Spirit . . . which to choose? The walls bent and swayed. I could barely keep my balance. The crystals burned like stars.
