by T.A. Barron
“Good luck trying,” said Tulchinne skeptically. “That fellow has about as much brains as an empty bowl! And you, my good husband, haven’t much more if you really think your plan will work.”
Gwirion squinted at her and said testily, “So, my good wife, do you have a better one?”
“No,” she snapped. “But at least I know enough to understand we need one.”
At the table, Gwirion’s expression softened. “You’re right, you know.” With a teasing edge, he added, “As always.”
Tulchinne grinned, even as she continued to grind some more grain. “You hear that, Tamwyn? That simple truth is why we’ve been able to stay married as long as we have.”
“And how long is that?” asked Tamwyn.
“Thirty-eight years,” she replied. Then, with a glance at her husband, she added, “Though at times it feels more like fifty.”
“Or five hundred,” grumbled Gwirion. Then, to Tamwyn’s surprise, he beamed at Tulchinne. And even more surprisingly, she smiled back.
Seeing the two of them spar so good-naturedly made Tamwyn think about his own relationship with Elli. Could they, someday, learn to get along that well?
“Gwirion,” he asked impulsively, “how do you two really make it work? Thirty-eight years is a long time.”
The winged man replied, but in a voice that could have been serious—or then again, could have been joking. “It’s easy, really. I like to whistle, and she likes to cook. So we each provide some form of enjoyment for the other.”
Tamwyn nodded, thinking that this could indeed be a valuable notion.
Then Tulchinne shook her head. “It’s not that simple, though. What he didn’t tell you is that I have always loved the music of whistling, but whenever I try to do it . . .” She winced. “Small birds drop dead at our doorstep.”
Gwirion laughed. “And for my part, I dearly love to smell things cooking, and certainly like to fill myself with food. But hard as I try, I just can’t cook.”
Tamwyn chuckled at the irony of this. “So you fill each other’s gaps, like two pieces of dovetailed woodwork.” Then, with a bemused look, he asked, “Why can’t you cook?”
“Too stupid,” teased Tulchinne before her husband could answer.
“That,” agreed Gwirion, “plus something else. Something I did as a child. You see,” he confessed, “I tried to eat some burning coals, to make my soulfire burn brighter. What a thing to do! I permanently scarred my tongue and throat. And while the experience left me wiser, I suppose, it also ruined my sense of taste.”
His deep brown eyes studied Tamwyn. “So in the end, there is really not much I can tell you about relationships. Except that staying together, grand as it can be, isn’t always easy.”
With a scowl, the young man replied, “That much I already know.”
For the rest of that day, Tamwyn practiced standing without support, pushing himself as hard as he could. Finally, he succeeded. Though he managed to stand only a few minutes, it was, as Tulchinne had said, a start. And after that, he improved swiftly. By the end of the following day, he was limping clumsily around the charred floor of the hut.
“Just wait until Gwirion sees you walking,” said Tulchinne, sounding both anxious and relieved. She added a sprinkle of crushed ginger to the salad she was preparing at the table. “He’ll be back soon from that folly of trying to make Ciann understand. And ready at last to make some other plans.”
Tamwyn leaned against the wall, resting. “I’m ready, too.”
“None too soon,” said Fraitha, putting down the amber flute she had been playing. “The high holy day is tomorrow.”
Just then, Gwirion strode in. He shut the door behind him with a resounding slam. “Curse them,” he grumbled. Then, turning to Tulchinne, he lamented, “You were right, yet again. The rituals begin at dawn.”
“Including,” Tamwyn asked gravely, “the sacrifice?”
“Yes. And Ciann even told me, in that sneering way of his, that he’d stop by here tomorrow before dawn. To fetch something valuable, as he put it.”
“That moron!” exclaimed Fraitha.
“Soon to be a murderer,” added Tulchinne, “if we don’t find some way to stop him.”
Gwirion rubbed the shaggy skin of his brow. “Here we are, on the very night before Wynerria, living in fear of our own people! Why can’t they understand that sacrifices just confirm our unworthiness in the eyes of Dagda? Instead of new stories to tell, we offer only anger and ignorance.”
“Gwirion,” said Tamwyn, “I can walk on my own now! Right after you left, I started.” To prove his point, he stepped awkwardly over to the other side of the hut.
The rich brown eyes widened. “Then you must leave tonight! Just before dawn, when the élanolight out there is dimmest.”
“No,” Tamwyn objected. With a grimace, he bent his stiff left leg. “They will be expecting that. Instead, I will leave now—while most of them are eating supper. Catch them unprepared, maybe.”
Gwirion scrutinized him. “It just might work. But are you sure you can walk well enough?”
“No. But it’s worth a try.”
“Then I’m coming with you. To show you the way to escape from the cavern that holds our village. And, if necessary, to fight off Ciann.”
“All right,” Tamwyn agreed. “But I wish you—”
“Wait,” commanded Tulchinne, rising from her seat at the ironwood table. “This is foolish! There are probably guards outside, even now. You’ll both be caught.”
“There’s no other way,” answered Gwirion.
“But there is!” she insisted. Stepping over to a hook on the wall, she grabbed the shawl, one of her spares, that was hanging there. Woven of heavy vine threads, it rustled as it moved. She carried the shawl over to Tamwyn and threw it over his shoulders.
“Here,” she declared. “Wear this. Now, hunch down a bit, so you’re not so tall. And when you go outside, pull it up over your head so that none of your hair will show. In the dark out there, those ruffians will think you are Fraitha or myself! Avalon knows, they’ve seen us going in and out of here often enough.”
“It won’t work,” objected Gwirion.
“But it will!” Tulchinne faced him squarely. “At least it might. And that is better than your plan, which is as sure to fail as a bard without a tongue.”
Gwirion ruffled his wings and looked over at Tamwyn. “It is up to you, my friend.”
He nodded. “I’ll go with Tulchinne’s plan.” Turning back to her, he raised an eyebrow. “You know, maybe you really are always right.”
She didn’t smile. “We shall see, if you actually manage to escape.”
“Indeed.” Gwirion walked over to join them. He put his hand on Tamwyn’s shoulder. “Are you sure? At least, if I come with you, I could hold them off while you get away.”
Tamwyn’s long black hair brushed against his shoulders as he shook his head. “No, this way is better. With my leg like this, I couldn’t outrun anybody who chased me. My best hope for escape is to be disguised. And alone.”
Gwirion sighed. “All right, then. But if you meet any trouble, you must shout your loudest. I will sprint to your side.”
“As will I,” declared Tulchinne.
“And I,” added Fraitha.
“I know you will. Now, where do I need to go?”
“To the place we call Amon Holm, which means, in your tongue, Secret Stairway.”
Tamwyn groaned. “I won’t be very good on stairs.”
“Never mind that,” continued Gwirion, a strange gleam in his eye. “It is the only passage in or out of our village that isn’t patrolled. Here is what you must do to find it: Go out this door and turn left. Cross through the village, to the hill that rises steeply all the way up to the cavern wall. Climb it. But be careful of the thorn bushes, which are everywhere—and savagely barbed. Right at the very top, where you think you cannot go higher, there is a black stalagmite. Push against it and you will find the Stairway.”
Gwirion’s eyes lifted toward the smoke-blackened ceiling. “Up, up, and up. You must take it as high as you can go, to a place we call Nuada Ildana, or Window to the Stars. That is an actual opening in the trunk—where the stars, not élano, are the source of light.” He paused, searching for a better way to describe it. “In your world, you might call it a great knothole.”
Tamwyn caught his breath. Merlin’s Knothole! So this Stairway was the steeply rising pathway he’d seen in the wall painting!
“It is a remarkable place,” Gwirion went on, “the highest point in the Middle Realm. Mind you, it is a long climb up to the Knothole—whether you go by the Stairway, or some other way such as the Spiral Cascades. After all, you are climbing through the very trunk of the Great Tree! But once you arrive there, you can leave the inside of the trunk and stand out on the surface, for in that place the Tree bulges outward in a great burl that holds the valley of the Knothole. And Tamwyn . . . from Nuada Ildana you can actually see the branches! Possibly even climb to them. And beyond—to the stars.”
He drew a deep breath. “One more thing you should know. This was also the route chosen by your father.”
Even as he finished speaking, someone passing by the hut shouted a string of angry epithets. Tamwyn couldn’t catch the words, but the feeling behind them was unmistakable.
Gwirion’s strong hand, warm as a fire coal, squeezed his shoulder. “Before you go, I have a gift for you.”
“You have given me enough already.”
“No, not nearly.”
Rustling his wings, he strode over to his shelf of paint pots and picked up the small brown box that rested there. Opening it, he moved aside some glittering crystals of wood—red cedar, black ebony, silver-green willow, and others—to retrieve a vial, no bigger than the quartz bell on Tamwyn’s hip. Carved of ironwood, the vial looked unbreakable.
Gwirion held it to his ear and gave it a shake. “Still there,” he declared. Then, stepping back across the room, he put the vial into Tamwyn’s hand.
“Take care of this,” he whispered. “It holds a single drop of a precious liquid, what we call Dagda’s dew. My father’s father, one of the last of our people who could still fly, brought this back from a journey up into the branches.”
He glanced at his wife and sister, who nodded in turn, then looked at Tamwyn. “It is said that a single drop of Dagda’s dew, placed on your forehead, will give you a rare sort of sight.”
Tamwyn squeezed the vial in his palm. “What sort?”
“Long vision—over vast distances.” Gwirion gave him a hopeful look. “It only lasts a while, if its powers have not faded. But it might be useful to you on your way to the stars.”
Their gazes locked. It seemed that a line of clear light stretched between them, reaching across the smoky air of the room, and the far greater gap between two very different peoples. Finally, Tamwyn spoke.
“Thank you, Gwirion.”
“My friend, you are welcome. May your story be long and glorious! Now . . . just try to survive tonight.”
“And you, tomorrow.”
Tamwyn limped over to his pack and pushed the vial down inside. He heard the crinkle of his father’s scroll, which only hardened his determination. Then, grasping the tooth-marked strap, he put it on. It took a moment, and some help from Tulchinne, to cover both his head and the pack with the shawl, but finally he was ready. He grabbed his staff and hobbled over to the door.
With a final look back at his friends, he slipped out into the night.
28 • Death Is Near
Wearing the heavy shawl, Tamwyn stepped out Gwirion’s door. His night vision improved after just a few steps—enough that he could clearly see two men standing opposite the door, on the other side of a dirt pathway. Grumpily, they eyed him, their shaggy-skinned faces scowling. Then, to his relief, they shrugged and went back to eating sticks of dried meat. He drew up the shawl, making sure that his head and long hair were completely covered. And then he moved off as quickly as he could, not daring to look back.
Although the village lay in shadow, he could make out the shapes of other tile huts, as well as some larger structures that could have been stables, taverns, and traders’ posts. More dirt pathways ran in jagged lines between the buildings. And scattered throughout the settlement, enormous stalagmites towered like cylindrical trees, rising twenty or thirty times his own height.
He glanced up at the cavern’s ceiling, so far away that it seemed like a rough-hewn sky. But this sky had no stars. Like the giant stalagmites, it glowed with the faintly green luminescence of élano.
He thought back to what Gwirion had said about this élanolight—that it dimmed at night and brightened again at dawn. Just like the stars, he mused. Did the Great Tree and its mysterious flows of élano cause that to happen, or was it somehow connected to the stars themselves?
Yet as he limped along one of the pathways, Tamwyn knew that the dim light alone couldn’t explain how well he was seeing. No doubt about it, he thought, pausing to avoid stepping on a cricket, my night vision is stronger than before.
He wondered why. Was it his powers, continuing to expand? Or just something about this cavern?
He nodded to himself, for he knew in his heart that this was yet another aspect of his growing powers. He still knew so little about them, yet he feared them less than he once did. Ever since they’d helped to save Scree, those strange, undefined forces down inside himself had felt less like enemies and more like . . . well, unfamiliar allies. Would he ever truly learn to master them?
He halted, hunching over with the shawl drawn tight, as a group of people bustled by, their arms loaded with putrid-smelling dung, as well as some scraggly bushes that had been pulled out by the roots. Fuel, no doubt, for the morning’s bonfire.
Tamwyn remained hunched and motionless, trying his best to look like a villager, as the group passed. They didn’t seem to notice him—until, at the last, an old man slowed down and stared at him. His gray eyes widened suspiciously. After a few seconds, he continued on his way. But there was a look on his face that left Tamwyn feeling uneasy.
I’ve got to get to that Stairway. And fast.
He shuffled along, trying not to limp too visibly. Another group of five or six people passed him, chanting vigorously. One of them pounded on a hide drum as he marched. Tamwyn heard one particular chant over and over:
Death is near,
So is flight.
Flames appear!
End this night.
Turning a corner by some sort of pottery works, where stacks of bowls and tiles rested by outdoor kilns, Tamwyn found himself facing a steep hill. Rough, granular dirt covered it, along with twisted bushes with thousands of murderous thorns. In the dim glow of élano, the thorny hill looked haunted as well as dangerous.
It’s not many places that make me wish I wore boots, he thought, rubbing one of his callused feet into the dirt. But that hill is one of them. Even a deer would have trouble avoiding all those thorns.
His thoughts leaped, as swiftly as a stag, to the thrill of running like a deer. Now, there was a kind of magic that hadn’t been troublesome to master! Maybe because running freely had always been so natural to him, he hadn’t resisted the power to shift into a deer. Or confused that power with too much thinking. In any case, if his hip hadn’t been hurt so badly, he could try to summon the magic of a deer right now, and bound up this—
A shout from behind halted his thoughts. “There!” someone cried. “On the hill.”
“Don’t let him get away,” a hoarse voice bellowed. “Could be the outsider we’re going to sacrifice!”
“Run!”
Tamwyn bolted onto the hillside. He remembered well what Gwirion had said: The entrance to the Stairway was all the way at the top. Could he make it before they caught him?
He scrambled up the slope, climbing awkwardly but steadily, despite the thorns that tore at his leggings. All of a sudden his left le
g buckled beneath him. He sprawled on the ground, rolling in the dirt like a loose pebble. When at last he stopped, his mind kept on spinning.
Fiery hot tongs of pain squeezed his sore hip, burning muscle and bone. But there wasn’t time to tend to that now. He wiped the dirt out of his eyes and fought to get up again, using his staff as an extra leg. Despite the pain and the remnant dizziness, he kept climbing.
Three dark figures reached the base of the hill below him. One of them pointed. Shouts rang out.
Tamwyn hopped over the snaking branch of a thorn bush. His feet slid on the loose dirt, making every step a hurdle. Even without his injury, and in daylight, this slope would have been difficult to surmount.
He could hear, behind him, his pursuers’ angry shouts. Getting closer! They were gaining fast.
Sweat streamed down his brow, stinging his eyes. Ahead, an especially large cluster of murderous-looking thornbushes blocked his path: There must have been seven or eight of them intertwined. Jabbing his staff into the ground, he swerved to climb around them.
Just as he crossed uphill of the cluster, he stepped on a slab of packed dirt. With a sudden grinding sound, it broke loose. He slammed to the ground, hitting his knee as well as his head. Dirt sprayed into the air as he slid backward—right into the cluster of thorns.
Finally, his body stopped. He lay on his back, panting, staring up into a deadly jungle. Jagged points dug into his skin, raked his arms, and tore his clothes. One monstrous, barbed thorn, as big as a dagger blade, was directly above his face, aimed right at his eye.
It took all his strength of will not to cry out, for that would tell his pursuers exactly where he was. Bad enough that he was stabbed, bruised, and pinned so tight that he could barely move. Or even breathe.
Just then he heard the winged men struggling up the slope. They’d reached the cluster of bushes! Judging by their wheezing and cursing, they weren’t very pleased with their situation—or their prey. Tamwyn held his breath and watched them from the corner of his eye.
“By the bard Helvin’s ghost, where did he go?”
