Shadows on the Stars

by T.A. Barron

  2 • Magical Wood

  The man, tall and rugged, stood alone on a mountain ridge. Wind blew his long gray locks across his face, barely lit by the flickering light of his torch. Dark shreds of mist swirled about him, wrapping him in shadow.

  But Tamwyn recognized him instantly. “Father!” he cried, though he wasn’t sure whether the man was on the same mountain as himself, or somewhere far distant. “Father, I’m here!”

  The man suddenly started. His coal black eyes, bright in the torchlight, opened wide. And in that instant Tamwyn knew beyond doubt that this was indeed his father.

  Slowly, the man turned toward the voice. His weathered, hawklike face seemed exactly right for Krystallus Eopia—voyager to Avalon’s farthest reaches, born of the wizard Merlin and the deer woman Hallia. Right now he looked both surprised and puzzled, as if he couldn’t tell whether the voice he’d heard was very near or very far away. But he seemed to sense, somehow, that it came from his son—his only child, whom he’d never had the chance to know. His face creased in the very first hint of a smile.

  “It’s me,” cried Tamwyn, his throat suddenly tight. “It’s me, your—”

  Just then Krystallus faltered. He clutched his chest, as though he’d been pierced by an arrow, and fell to his knees on the rocky ridge. The half-smile vanished, replaced by an agonizing look of pain. And something more, as well: a look of having found something precious, at last, before losing it for all time.

  “Father!” screamed Tamwyn, trying to stretch out his arms. But his arms couldn’t reach far enough. He could only watch helplessly as his father crumpled. The torch, still blazing despite the fierce wind, dropped to the ground beside him—then went out.

  • • •

  “Don’t die!” shouted Tamwyn, sitting up. “Don’t—”

  Someone shook him by the shoulders, while a pair of pink eyes stared down at his face. “There now, Tamwyn me laddy. Wakes up! Even with me oldsy ears, I’d have heard you ten leagues away.”

  Tamwyn wiped his brow, wet with perspiration, then blinked his eyes. They felt strangely swollen. “I’m fine, Shim, just fine.”

  “Must dine? You is waking up hungrily?”

  The young man grimaced. And then, to make sure that Shim heard him clearly, he shouted, “Just fine!”

  Shim frowned, adding several more wrinkles to a face that was more than a thousand years old. “No, no, you isn’t. I is maybily just a smallsy and midgetly giant, but I knows a bad dream when I hears one.”

  Tamwyn simply shook his head, making his hair swish against his shoulders.

  The pink eyes narrowed. “Nobody who dreams so shoutingly is just fine! I is surely of that, as surely as I am of me own little sniffer.” For emphasis, he patted the tip of his large, potato-shaped nose.

  Because it was so difficult to talk with his hard-of-hearing companion, Tamwyn just waved him away. He looked around, trying to remember exactly where he was. But his dream was still so vivid, so real, he felt disoriented. His father—and that torch—had seemed almost near enough to touch.

  He gazed above his head at an overhanging slab of rock, coated so thickly with mosses and dwarf ferns that almost none of the rock itself could be seen. More moss lay beneath him, thicker than a black bear’s fur. Steam, rising from the hot spring that bubbled near his feet, made the air moist and warm—much warmer, he felt sure, than out there beyond the overhang, on that snow-covered summit.

  Hallia’s Peak! All at once, he remembered where he was. And everything that had happened to him before he trudged over here to the hot spring, where he’d fallen asleep. He remembered the Stargazing Stone. The terrifying vision of dark shapes in the sky, White Hands, and Rhita Gawr. And, on top of that, what he’d done to Elli.

  Now she hates me, he thought angrily. What an ogre’s lair he’d made of everything! At least none of their companions on the summit—especially Henni, that crazy hoolah who just loved to ridicule him—had seen what he’d done.

  But his problems with Elli, painful as they were, didn’t compare to the problems facing Avalon. Across his mind flashed the images of that vision—images of such peril and terror that he couldn’t even fully comprehend them, let alone hope to prevent them from coming true.

  Why had such a vision, concerning the very survival of Avalon, come to him of all people? He was still, at heart, just a bumbling wilderness guide—as far away from being the true heir of Merlin as Shim was from being a true giant.

  Sure, he’d shown some flashes of magical power in the past few weeks, but most of that had been unintended—as well as destructive. What little good he’d done had been the work of the staff, not himself. And no matter how hard he’d tried to direct his growing powers with his thoughts, he’d always failed. The only power he could rely on was his ability to understand the languages of non-human creatures. But that wasn’t true magic; it was really just another kind of listening.

  He sliced a hand through the rising steam, as if he were cutting to the unavoidable truth: The vision had come to him. Avalon was in grave danger.

  But what could he possibly do about it?

  Pondering that question, he pulled his dagger from the sheath on his belt. Slowly, he twirled it in the dim light from the stars beyond the overhang, light that constantly wavered in the misty air. The dagger’s blade and hilt were so old and battered that rust covered everything, even the random scratch marks. With a nod, he recalled the day, years before, when he’d plowed it up in a field. The old farmer he’d been helping had given it to him, calling it “a gift from the land.” And for Tamwyn it soon became his favorite tool, useful for everything from slicing fruit to carving wood.

  Carving wood . . .

  Suddenly an idea burst into his mind. Whether or not he could find a way to save Avalon—maybe he could, at least, find a way to save his relationship with Elli. If only he could just explain to her what had really happened there on the Stone, she’d understand about his fears. And also, perhaps, about his feelings.

  Reaching for his pack, he pulled out a triangular slab of wood. He turned it over, watching its dark brown grains, streaked with orange, gleam in the misty light. As always, he was amazed at the lightness of this wood, called harmóna by the elves. It seemed more the stuff of clouds than of trees.

  And lightness wasn’t its only special quality. Tamwyn gently tapped its side and listened to the reverberating echoes that rumbled within, like a clinking chorus of wooden chimes. They took more than a minute to fade away. For harmóna was the fabled wood, found only in the westernmost forests of Woodroot, that elves had used for centuries to carve magical musical instruments: flutes so soft and gentle that their voices could calm a rushing river; drums so soulful that they could make the heart of any listener beat as fast as a hummingbird’s wings; lutes that could play a lilting, sensuous song after only the slightest pluck.

  Tamwyn had earned this slab of harmóna, in the days following Tressimir’s funeral, by working as a woodcarver in Brionna’s home village, while Elli went to visit her old friend High Priestess Coerria. He had stayed there for five days, carving furniture and waterwheel gears during the mornings, exploring deer trails and faerie glens in the afternoons, and joining elven songfests in the evenings. He’d been offered other forms of pay for his work, including a length of elven rope far more sturdy than the twine he wore around his waist, but he’d said no. For he’d needed this wood.

  He stroked its edge, visualizing the contours of the harp that he was going to carve for Elli. It would play wondrously, as only this magical wood could do. And it would replace Elli’s first harp, made by her beloved father—which Tamwyn had managed to crush within seconds of first meeting her. She had, it seemed, almost forgiven him for that, until he’d ruined things all over again last night. Now this new, magical harp was his best—maybe his only—hope.

  He looked at the slab of wood. Yes, by the bark of the Great Tree. This new harp would be both an apology for the past . . . and maybe, as well, an invitati
on for the future.

  He swallowed. What future could they have, though, if Avalon was conquered by Rhita Gawr? If the warlord from the spirit realm won what he’d called his ultimate triumph”.

  Even through the rising mist, the lines of Tamwyn’s jaw and brow looked suddenly hard-edged. I must do something. What, I don’t know. But I still have to try. He nodded at the slab, as if he were speaking to it. By morning, I need to have a plan. Or at least the beginning of one.

  Yet morning was just an hour or two away.

  Chewing his lip thoughtfully, he took up his dagger again. Then, with considerable care, he made his first slice in the wood. It cut as easily as the froth on a mug of Stoneroot ale, seeming to sense the movement of his blade even before he did. He began to work on what would eventually become the instrument’s soundbox, not yet daring to carve on its delicately curved neck. The slab trembled ever so slightly in his fingers. All of a sudden, he realized that it was asking him something—a question that lay between wood and hand.

  A harp, he answered in the same silent language that helped him speak with creatures of any kind. Become a harp. One that is light to hold and lovely to play. One that will give endless joy to Elli.

  The wood made an airy, sighing sound. The dark brown grains seemed to realign, shaping themselves magically in Tamwyn’s hand. And he knew beyond doubt that this would be the most beautiful thing he had ever carved.

  Just right for her, he told himself. Then he blew a sigh, scattering the steam from the hot spring. For he knew that if the harp turned out well, it would be less because of his own skill than because of the wood. Once again, he needed a magical object to do something right. Not his own magic, his own power.

  His gaze shifted to the ancient staff that lay on the moss beside him. Wisps of steam curled around its shaft, partly covering the green runes that stood for Merlin’s Seven Songs, giving the staff an eerie, mysterious look. As if it belonged more to the Otherworld than this one. And perhaps it did. For this was Merlin’s own staff, the legendary Ohnyalei, whose name meant spirit of grace in the Fincayran Old Tongue.

  Tamwyn frowned. How he longed to truly deserve that staff] To be a real wizard—someone who had fully mastered his powers, who could wield magic just as confidently as he could now wield a whittler’s knife. Someone who could rise to the crisis that his world would soon confront—in just a few more weeks, as Rhita Gawr had boasted.

  Trolls’ tongues! he cursed to himself. Quit dreaming, will you? You’re the last person who could possibly help.

  Perhaps, he thought grimly, he really had no choice but to accept his fate as the child of the Dark Prophecy . . . whose destiny was to bring about the very end of Avalon. No matter what the Lady of the Lake had told him about choosing his own fate, more and more the Prophecy seemed inescapable.

  A frosty gust of wind tore across the mountaintop, hurling snow and ice over the rocks outside the overhang. Even under the shelter, some snow blew into the hot spring, making the water hiss angrily. Steam scattered, Shim’s white hair stood on end, and all the tiny ferns on the overhang shivered in unison.

  Out of habit, Tamwyn looked around for some wood to build a fire. But there was nothing that he could kindle with his iron stones. A real wizard could start afire without any wood, he grumbled silently. And the only magical flame he’d ever made was just an image—an illusion, as Nuic liked to call it. Not the real thing.

  Angrily, he slammed his fist down on the bed of moss. For he knew, in his heart, that what really stood between him and wizardry—between him and some sure way to save his world—was not the lack of ability. No, what held him back most of all was something very human. Something that had shown itself at the worst possible moment out there at the Stargazing Stone.

  Fear.

  Fear that his powers could never be controlled, or directed in the ways he wanted. And, even worse, that they could arise without warning, entirely unbidden, and harm the people he loved most. People such as Elli.

  Yet . . . unless he somehow found a way to master those powers, how could he ever help Avalon in its time of need? Or avoid fulfilling the Dark Prophecy? And, closer to home, how could he ever be with Elli? Or hope to find his father?

  Suddenly something shot under the overhang, speeding like an arrow. It glowed, leaving behind a trail of green light as it zipped through the steam. It struck Tamwyn hard in the chest. Like his father in the dream, he hunched over, wincing in pain.

  3 • Starlight and Torchlight

  Tamwyn groaned, rubbing the sore spot on his chest. The glowing green missile that had struck him bounced off, swerved in the steamy air above the hot spring, and shot at him again. He managed to duck just in time, but it still clipped the top of his ear.

  “Batty Lad!” he shouted. “Why do you have to—” He ducked again as the green-eyed creature zipped by his other ear. “Have to nearly chop off my head like that?”

  “Ooee ooee, manny man,” squeaked the little beast as it did an erratic loop, skidding through the mosses that grew beneath the overhanging rock. “Me feeling very bouncy, after hunting lotsa bugs.”

  With that, he scrunched his batlike face into something resembling a smile, and plunged straight into Tamwyn’s tunic pocket. When Tamwyn opened it to peer inside, all he could see was a tiny ball wrapped inside a wrinkled wing. Right away, the ball started snoring contentedly.

  Tamwyn shook his head at this mystifying little creature. What was Batty Lad, anyway? It seemed that the Lady of the Lake had known more about him than she’d been willing to say. Then again, there were many things the Lady seemed to know that she hadn’t wanted to reveal.

  Even so, Tamwyn longed to speak with her again. About last night’s vision—and about the wild, dangerous plan that was now forming in his mind.

  A sudden change in the light caught his attention. As he crawled over to the edge of the mossy shelter and looked outside, the stars swelled brighter. Dawn already! The snow-ribbed slope of Hallia’s Peak turned silver, then white, in the strengthening glow from above. As always, with the brighter light of day, the sky’s constellations became harder to see. Within seconds, he couldn’t even see individual stars—just blue sky, utterly clear.

  So different from his own thoughts. He scowled, stuffing the magical slab of wood back into his pack. Morning had arrived—and although he was now fairly sure what he had to do, he had no idea at all how to do it. Or how to explain it to Elli. For while she probably hated him now—and would keep right on hating him until he told her about her harp—she surely wouldn’t want him to die. And with this new plan of his, death was more than likely.

  Turning back to the summit, he watched her sitting up on the Stargazing Stone. She stretched out her legs on the snowless surface, like a waking mountain lion, then raised both arms high above her head. All of a sudden, as if she felt Tamwyn’s gaze, she stopped stretching and turned around. The look she gave him was colder than last night’s icy wind.

  Beside the Stone, a small round figure sat up in the snow. It was Nuic, Elli’s ever faithful (and ever sassy) maryth. His little body swirled with streaks of dark red, which told Tamwyn that the pinnacle sprite had also seen the vision last night. Erasing any doubt, Nuic put his tiny hands against his sides and said dryly, “Hmmmpff. Nothing like seeing the world being destroyed by an immortal monster to ensure a good night’s sleep.”

  “I saw it, too,” declared someone’s deep voice from across the slope. It was Scree in his human form, bare-chested despite the chili mountain air, walking toward them. “But I don’t believe a bit of it.”

  “Really?” demanded Elli. “Why do you say that?”

  “I just don’t, that’s all.” He glanced over his shoulder at the slender elf maiden who was striding gracefully across the snow behind him. “Visions like that are as unreliable as elvish folktales.”

  Over by the mossy overhang, Tamwyn winced. He could tell that, as graceful as Scree could be in flight, he had landed with a crash when it came to Brionna
. Just as Tamwyn himself had done with Elli.

  Indeed, Brionna’s green eyes flashed angrily. But she kept her voice calm as she turned to Elli. “What he’s really saying is that he didn’t like what he saw. Especially those eaglefolk battling each other, which offended his precious sense of honor.”

  Scree’s brows lifted over his large, yellow-rimmed eyes. “At least when we have to fight, we use our own talons and wings—not some clumsy old weaponry that breaks if you step on it.”

  Brionna’s hand, which had been fingering her braid, moved to touch her longbow. “The elves have a curse for creatures as warlike as you.”

  “And we’re not going to hear it now,” declared Elli, cutting her off. “We have more important things to discuss.”

  “Wait now, watching them argue is fun!”

  Everyone turned to Henni, who had called out from his perch atop a tall, angular rock. He wasn’t exactly on top, however. The hoolah’s toes were stuck into a jagged crack so that he could hang upside down. His grinning face dangled just above several knifelike quartz crystals.

  “Eehee, hoohoo, heeheehahaha,” he laughed raucously, waving a hand at the others. “You people are almost as entertaining as clumsy old Tamwyn!”

  He laughed again, clearly enjoying himself. The only question was whether his good mood came mainly from watching Scree and Brionna, or from the simple delight of risking a broken neck.

  But Elli was not about to be deterred. She looked grimly at Nuic. “What did that vision really mean? Those dark shapes, whatever they were, pouring out of the spot where the stars had been. And those images of gobsken and water dragons.”

  “Along with eaglefolk,” muttered Scree unhappily, shaking his shoulders as if ruffling his wings.

  “And then,” continued Elli, “there were those words spoken by—”

  “Rhita Gawr,” finished Nuic, his color darkening to deepest black. “When the great horse dies. We need to know what that means. But even more, we need a plan.”