Shadows on the Stars

by T.A. Barron

  Now that he saw her like this, dying before his eyes, his old rage and hurt seemed less overwhelming. In fact, despite himself, he felt a stirring of something close to sadness. He gently turned her head, looked into her stricken face, and said simply: “Hello, Queen.”

  For a long moment, she tried to focus. Then, in a flash, her bloodshot eyes widened in astonishment. In a hoarse voice, she whispered, “You?”

  “Yes, me. I came back.”

  “To kill me, no doubt.” She tried to swallow, but ended up coughing. “Well, that worthless upstart saved you the trouble.”

  “So he did,” said Scree grimly. “Now I just have him left to kill.”

  She looked at him with an unreadable expression. At last, she asked in her rough whisper, “You still have the staff?”

  His old anger suddenly surged. “That’s all you ever really wanted, isn’t it? No, I don’t have it anymore! If you really must know, I gave it away. To its rightful keeper.”

  Her face tightened; its harshness returned. “Then you are even stupider than I thought.”

  “And you must have thought me pretty stupid to think I’d fall for . . .” He turned away, his hooked nose angled upward.

  A touch of softness came back to her gaze. “Scree,” she said weakly. “There’s something I must tell you. Something important.”

  Surprised by her tone, he turned back to her. “What is it?”

  “You need to know this. Your—”

  “Look there !” someone over by the nests shouted. “A stranger.”

  “Get him!”

  Scree leaped to his feet. But before he could even begin to transform into his eagle shape, two sentries had drawn their bows, nocked with deadly arrows aimed straight at his chest. “Move and you die,” one of them barked.

  Scree could only glare at them.

  Two more sentries came running over. With a nod from one of the bowmen, they shoved Scree toward the village. One of them held the point of a spear at his back.

  “Let’s take him to Maulkee.”

  “That’ll be fun to watch.”

  Scree glanced back at the bloody heap that was Queen. Their eyes met for barely an instant, then the sentries started marching their prisoner into the village.

  32 • Precious to Have, Painful to Lose

  Surrounded by four well-muscled sentries armed with arrows and spears, Scree was marched past the still-flaming torch—and toward the fortified nests of the Bram Kaie clan. Overhead, the bloodstained sky of Fireroot cast a reddish light on the village, and on the prisoner.

  Scree’s sharp toenails scraped against the pumice and ash that covered the ground. What a troll-brained dolt he was! Instead of remaining in hiding, waiting to pounce on the clan’s new leader, he had gone over to speak with Queen. Such a foolish, stupid, sentimental thing to do! Now he’d lost the best chance he’d ever have to take control of this clan, and to change their treacherous ways forever.

  At that instant, Maulkee himself came striding toward them, his feet slapping the obsidian street and then the bare ground by the torch. As he approached, his sneering face looked Scree up and down. “Well, well,” he declared. “A spy!”

  He stepped closer to Scree, glowering at him. “Where did you come from, spy?”

  “From Iye Kalakya,” came the reply. “The last village you plundered.”

  Maulkee spat on his prisoner’s face, then watched as the spittle dripped slowly down the stern jaw. “Not very bright, are you? And tell me now, why did you come?”

  “To kill you,” answered Scree through clenched teeth, his whole body quaking with rage.

  Maulkee started to turn away, then suddenly spun around and punched Scree hard in the abdomen. As the prisoner groaned and doubled over, the four sentries grinned at each other. Their new leader knew how to handle this sort of rubbish, all right.

  A few other eaglefolk drifted over, hoping to see some more excitement. Meanwhile, Scree straightened up again. He stood as tall as ever, just as if he’d never been punched. And looked Maulkee squarely in the eye.

  In that instant, an odd feeling struck him. Beyond that hateful sneer, beyond the violence in that gaze, there was something in Maulkee’s face that looked strangely . . . familiar. That he’d seen somewhere before—even before the slaying of Arc-kaya. Yet he knew that wasn’t possible.

  Scree just brushed the feeling aside. No doubt he was just picking up on the young warrior’s resemblance to his mother—the same woman whom the warrior had just mutilated and left to die.

  “Well then,” Maulkee said haughtily, “I’ve wasted enough of my time on you.” He shot a glance at the helpless form that was all that remained of Quenaykha. “And her.”

  As he turned to leave, he flicked his hand casually at Scree. “Kill him,” he ordered the sentries. “I don’t care how, just do it. Then hang what’s left of him to that torch, as a warning to any other spies.”

  Maulkee started to stride back toward the nests.

  “Wait,” commanded Scree. His voice rang out with such authority that even the new leader of the Bram Kaie clan could not ignore it.

  He whirled around and faced Scree again. Impatiently, he snapped, “You waste my time. Why?”

  Scree’s eyes narrowed. “Because I challenge you, Maulkee. Here and now.”

  Astounded, the young eagleman exclaimed, “You what?”

  “I challenge you! Talon-to-talon combat to the death.”

  “Challenge me? For leadership?” Maulkee scoffed, pacing on the ash-covered ground. “You’re crazy as well as stupid! You’re not even a member of this clan.”

  “What’s the matter?” demanded Scree, his voice as cutting as any talon. “Afraid you will lose? Afraid your time as ruler will be the shortest in eaglefolk history?”

  Maulkee hissed with anger. The sentries, however, traded intrigued glances. This wasn’t at all what they’d expected. No prisoner had ever done something so audacious! But their glances also carried a question: If Maulkee was too timid to accept the prisoner’s challenge for leadership, was he really fit to be their leader?

  Unwilling to back down in front of his warriors, Maulkee growled, “All right, then. Release him!”

  “Look,” shouted one of the villagers. “Another challenge.”

  “Come quickly,” another cried.

  Soon dozens of eaglefolk dashed to the scene. Men, women, and children gathered, giving a wide berth to the two warriors about to battle. Several more eaglefolk scaled the side of the nearest nest, while others stood atop stairways, to gain a better view from above. A pair of youths quickly climbed the nearest bejeweled statue of an eagle, perching on the outstretched wings. People milled everywhere, though they were still careful to avoid the flame vents and pits of bubbling lava that dotted the base of the ridge—as well as the corpse of Kree-ella and the motionless form of their fallen ruler, Quenaykha. The entire village, from its gilded nests to its fire-blackened surroundings, buzzed with anticipation.

  The two adversaries started to circle. Their wrathful gazes locked, while their muscular arms lifted as if they were already wings. Then, at an unseen signal, both Scree and Maulkee leaped into the air. A blood-freezing screech reverberated across the volcanic slopes.

  They crashed together, hardly a man’s height off the ground. Flapping their mighty wings, they tumbled through the air, slashing wildly with their talons. Over and over they rolled, a blurred mass of feathers, talons, and powerful legs.

  The bony edge of Scree’s wing caught his adversary in the side of his head. Maulkee lashed out with his talons, ripping the feathered skin of Scree’s shoulder. Yet neither showed any desire to retreat. They fought on in midair, pummeling and slicing each other brutally, their bodies whirling over the ground.

  Noticing a bloody gash in Scree’s ribs, Maulkee leaped at it and bit fiercely, tearing off a huge chunk of flesh. Before Scree could pull away, his winged adversary ripped the spot again and again with his talons.

  Suddenly Scree f
einted one way, then rolled, hoping to get behind Maulkee. The ploy worked: Before the warrior could turn around, Scree slammed a wing into the back of his head. Too dazed to keep flying, Maulkee fell to the ground. In an explosion of black ash, he smashed into a large flame vent, so hard the vent’s charred cone snapped off.

  Roaring with fury, Scree pounced, as blood streamed from his side. But he landed with such force that his leg, still weak from the shard that Tamwyn had removed, buckled underneath him. He stumbled, barely avoiding a bubbling pit of molten lava.

  Just as he regained his balance, and spun around to face Maulkee, the broken vent erupted in a blast of fire. Orange flames belched forth, with a cloud of sulfurous smoke, right into Scree’s face. Fire singed his eyes, blinding him. Even as he blinked helplessly, trying to see, Maulkee’s powerful wing slammed into his head, sending him sprawling.

  Scree hit the ground next to the bubbling pit. Lying there, he realized that his sight was starting to return, though not fast enough. He could see only blurry shadows—one in particular, which towered over him.

  “So, you like the taste of fire, do you?” Maulkee laughed haughtily. “Maybe after I kill you, I’ll roast you for supper, just like a cliff hare.”

  Scree sat up, blinking madly to clear his vision. But he still couldn’t see! In another few seconds, he’d be dead. Same as Arc-kaya! Only worse—because she’d never had any chance to defeat this bloodthirsty brute. Scree, by contrast, had been given a chance, but had bungled it badly.

  Instinct, not sight, told him that Maulkee was just about to jump on top of him and slit his throat. And so Scree did something both desperate and bold. Even though he could hardly see the lava pit, he shoved his wings as hard as he could into the ground and flipped his entire body into the air. He spun over the steaming pit, barely missing its edge when he crashed on the other side.

  Maulkee, meanwhile, had started to pounce. When Scree flipped, the surprised young warrior stumbled, flapping his great wings to regain his balance. Only at the last instant before he fell into the lava, he caught himself.

  Just then, Scree’s broad wing bashed him from behind. Even as he realized that his adversary had tricked him by flying back across the pit, Maulkee screeched in terror. His wings flapped desperately, unable this time to keep himself from plunging into the cauldron of molten rock.

  Maulkee’s final scream echoed among the nests, ending with a loud gurgle of lava. A sulfurous wind blew across the volcanic ridge, carrying the smell of melted flesh across the village. The people of the Bram Kaie clan, meanwhile, stood as still as their nests, surprised that they had lost their leader yet again.

  Painfully, Scree landed beside the lava pit. He stared down into it for a long moment, his vision now nearly restored. After a glance at his anklet, he raised his yellow-rimmed eyes to the sky above. Loud and long, he screeched in triumph.

  His feathers melted away as he transformed again into his human form. Grimy sweat glistened on his broad, muscular back, and blood oozed from the deep gash in his side, but he stood with all the glory of a victor. He turned and, limping slightly, walked back to the huddled form of Queen.

  Kneeling beside her, he turned her head so she could see him. Through glazed eyes, she studied him, then smiled bitterly. “So now you are the leader of my clan.”

  “Only long enough to bring your clan back into the world of other eaglefolk.”

  “Bah,” she spat, coughing weakly. “Then you will reduce them . . .” She coughed again. “To a life of hardship and poverty.”

  “And you reduced them to a life of crime and dishonor.”

  “Fool!” she rasped, licking her dry lips. “At least you should know . . . what you’re giving up. A sorcerer, named Kulwych, offered me and my people wealth, great wealth, to ally with him.” She released a painful moan. “Even now he gathers his army—on the Plains of Isenwy. An army that will conquer Avalon! And if the clan fights alongside him, he promised us riches beyond our dreams.”

  Scree rolled his shoulder as if ruffling his wings. “I know Kulwych. And his evil swordsman. And I’d never fight alongside him! Never.”

  Her yellow eyes narrowed. “You sound like my weakest subjects. Too squeamish . . . to fight.”

  “That, Queen, I am not.”

  “Then you’re just . . . a salamander-headed fool.”

  He grinned imperceptibly. “Now, that’s probably true.”

  She started to respond, but fell into a violent fit of coughing. When, at last, the coughs subsided, her face was ashen. Scree looked down at her flowing auburn hair, now streaked with her own blood, and felt again the sting of sadness.

  “Is that,” he asked gently, “the important thing you were going to say? Before Maulkee’s guards captured me?”

  “No, Scree.” Her voice, barely a whisper, quavered like the wind on the ridge. “I wanted you to know . . . that Maulkee . . . was your son.”

  If half the volcano that rose above the village had broken off and fallen on top of Scree, it would not have hit him any harder than this news. For a long moment, he couldn’t even breathe. At last, he asked in disbelief, “My son?”

  She looked at him, trying to keep her eyes open. “Yes, Scree. Our son.”

  He shook his head, remembering in a flash the words he’d said to Arc-kaya: Your son was your family. Nothing is more precious to have, or more painful to lose.

  “Scree,” she whispered weakly.

  He peered down at her, all his torment and confusion on his face. “Yes?”

  “I want you to know . . .” Her voice faded as her eyes closed. But she rallied, enough to open them again and say one more phrase: “I always regretted . . .”

  She never finished. Quenaykha, ruthless leader of the Bram Kaie clan, lay dead. To Scree, however, she was something else: the mother of his only child.

  The son he had just killed.

  He hung his head, feeling a swirl of conflicting emotions, but most of all, sorrow.

  33 • The Secret Stairway

  For Tamwyn, slipping back through Gwirion’s village without being seen was not his toughest challenge that night. Nor was climbing back up the hill, avoiding thornbushes and treacherous pits, or ignoring the throbbing pain of his wounds.

  No, his toughest challenge, after he’d found the stalagmite that marked the entrance to the Secret Stairway, was simply containing his own excitement. Enough so he could pay close attention. For the very first rule of being a traveler in the wilderness, as he knew well, was awareness is everything.

  But really, how could he not feel like celebrating? He may not have found the special compass that he’d wished for, to guide him through the upper reaches of Avalon—but he did have, at least, a general idea of his position inside the trunk of the Great Tree. And even better, he knew where he was going: up the Stairway, which had looked like a silvery ribbon in that wall painting he’d seen in the tunnel. And which would, Gwirion promised, take him to the place called Window to the Stars.

  Merlin’s Knothole. A place where he could actually see the branches, as well as beyond. And where he could, perhaps, find his way to the stars.

  In time, I hope, to relight them! His eyes narrowed in determination. And to stop those shapes, those shadows, from entering Avalon.

  As he placed his hand on the black stalagmite that Gwirion had described, he felt a surge of another kind of excitement, as well—an excitement that rose from deep inside himself, like élano within the Great Tree. This is my father’s route.

  All he needed to do now was push the stalagmite aside and enter the Stairway. And then, as Gwirion had told him, climb it as high as he could go.

  He winced slightly, feeling the persistent ache in his wounded hip—not to mention his back, his knee, his arm, and so many other places. It wasn’t going to be easy to mount stairs! Let alone stairs that had to rise hundreds of leagues. Thousands, perhaps. For this stairway stretched all the way up to the Knothole, which sat just below the Tree’s branches.

&
nbsp; To give himself extra strength, he pulled out his leathereed flask. Eagerly, he took a swallow of the sweet water, and then another, feeling its power move through his whole body. Power that would help sustain him during the long climb ahead.

  As he stowed the flask, he suddenly felt an ache, deeper than any muscles, for the friends no longer with him. How he missed them all! He thought of Gwirion, who by now must have discovered the gift that Tamwyn had left on his door—a gift that would change his life, and maybe that of his whole people. He thought of Henni and Batty Lad, lost in the Spiral Cascades. And he thought of Scree, who should be well enough now to be up and moving around—as well as skull-cracking angry at Tamwyn for leaving on this quest without him.

  Finally, he thought of Elli. She could make him madder than anyone else in Avalon. Even her perpetually grumpy little sprite was a dream to be around sometimes, compared to her. And yet . . . she made him feel, at other times, as if he could fly without wings. Or sit by her side for hours and never need to say a word. Or feel that, clumsy and foolish as he was, he might just do anything he tried.

  He closed the pack, feeling its leather strap that had been torn by the teeth of a wolf. As soon as I can fix my dagger, he vowed, I’m going back to work on that slab of harmóna wood. Even if she never sees it, I want to make her what I promised.

  Then, after sliding his staff into its sheath so that he could push with both hands, he leaned against the stalagmite. With a groaning scrape, it slid sideways, revealing a thin, mossy stairway in a tunnel that plunged straight down into the hillside.

  Down? Tamwyn wondered. This must connect, somewhere below, to the Stairway itself he reasoned. And then I’ll start going up. And up.

  Leaning forward, he peered into the tunnel, hoping that the dim élanolight, together with his night vision, would tell him more. But he couldn’t see anything. Just steep, mossy stairs leading down into darkness.