Shadows on the Stars (36 page)

Yet unlike the gargantuan waterfall of the Spiral Cascades, this river didn’t batter and pummel him into unconsciousness. Nor did its waters rise as light descended, with strains of music swirling along the way. Instead, this waterway simply flowed and flowed, lifting him as easily as an updraft of wind lifts a single leaf.

So this is the Stairway!
In a flash, it all made sense. This was why the wall painting had used that watery silver color to show the route. And this was why Gwirion hadn’t seemed concerned at all about Tamwyn’s injuries when telling him to climb as high as possible.

Like a droplet of water himself, Tamwyn rode the rising current. The only sound he heard was the endless ripple and slosh of the water surrounding him; the only smell was the rich, nectar-sweet aroma of wet wood and moist air. Because of the élano in the water, the river glowed milky white, with occasional sparks of green—a ribbon of light as well as liquid deep inside the Tree.

Steadily higher he was carried, through leagues upon leagues of vertical distance. Every so often he would spy a tributary river flowing into his own, or a stream that would split off and plunge deep into the heartwood. Over and over he glimpsed ledges and side tunnels that just begged to be explored. What other, unknown realms was he riding through? What other, strange peoples was he near? He knew only that the answers were beyond anything he could imagine.

As he rode upward, he began to notice two things about the river. First, it seemed to be growing gradually smaller, narrowing as it worked its way higher in the trunk. And second, its warm waters seemed to be soothing his wounds. He could bend his legs easily now, even bring his knees up to his chest. His scrapes and bruises had vanished; his strength had returned. And neither his hip nor his back throbbed with pain anymore, for the first time in many days.

But how? Perhaps it was the water’s warmth itself, or the gentle massage of the ripples on his body. Or perhaps, like the healing water that Elli carried in her water gourd, the élano in this river could restore wounded flesh and bone through its own powerful magic.

Ever higher he flowed, for hour after hour—possibly day after day. Tamwyn had no way to tell. Wholly sustained by the élano-rich water, he felt neither hunger nor thirst, nor any need for sleep. He just rode the rising cascade.

Upward, upward, the river carried him. Distance was without measure; time was without meaning. The only certainties were the water and the Tree.

Finally, the river narrowed so much that he sensed he was moving more slowly. Fairly soon, its force wouldn’t be strong enough to lift him any higher. Slower and slower he progressed, until he’d nearly stopped. Though part of him hated to leave this wondrous waterway, he knew the time had come, and he started to look for a way out.

Just ahead, he spied a narrow ledge, thick with luxurious green moss. It connected, he could see, to some sort of tunnel that ran into the trunk. Rolling over, he reached out his hand.

Barely grasping the ledge, he hauled himself onto the moss. Water poured off him as if he were a scrap of bark that had floated for ages on end. He lay there on his back for several minutes, listening to the splash and gurgle of the river that had carried him so very high, so very far.

At last, heaving himself onto his hands and knees, he looked more closely at the tunnel ahead. Its ceiling was quite low, so he’d have to crawl. But it did, at least, seem to be horizontal, running perpendicular to the river. He glanced behind for one more view of the waterway. And then, feeling physically better than he had in some time—since leaving Hallia’s Peak—he crawled into the tunnel.

Low as it was, the passageway posed no obstacles. Whether it had been carved by an ancient stream, bored by termites, or hollowed by the workings of élano, he couldn’t tell. The wood around him glowed dimly, allowing him to observe the subtle changes in texture, color, and grain. Every so often he spotted miniature crystals of purple, pink, black, gold, and white that had sprouted on the walls. And in the cracks of wood he found velvety moss, flakes of lichen, and once, a row of the smallest toadstools he’d ever seen, marching up the wall like a tiny trekking party.

More than anything, as he crawled farther away from the river, he noticed the silence. Broken only by his own breathing, the occasional knock of his staff against the tunnel wall, and the distant whisper of water, the silence seemed to swell as if it were truly a different kind of sound. He sensed, as he had sometimes in the quiet of mountain evenings, the simple beauty and sheer weight of silence. It was not an absence, but a presence; not a denial, but an invitation. An invitation to listen at last to himself, to belong wholly to the world.

In time, he noticed a change in the air. It was drier, as well as cooler. And it smelled of something—something vaguely familiar.

Outside
, he realized all of a sudden.
It smells like outside the Tree.

He kept crawling, picking up his speed. After a while, he noticed another change. Farther ahead, the tunnel looked different somehow. Brighter, and whiter.

Light! By the Thousand Groves, there’s light ahead!

Tamwyn smiled. For he could tell that this light didn’t come from élano. No, he felt certain. This light came from the stars.

34
•
Fierce Wind

Tamwyn, crawling as fast as he could toward the light, finally neared the tunnel’s end. The hard wood under his hands, knees, and toes softened into moist brown soil, while tiny green sprigs grew here and there. He slid under a spiderweb, luminous with dew, that stretched across the top of the tunnel, and found himself facing a round hole rimmed with thick green grass. A golden cricket on the grass, startled by his approach, chirped and hopped away.

Before poking his head out the hole, he paused, savoring the memory of the stillness and beauty that he’d just passed through. And he also needed a moment to blink his eyes—for the light coming through this hole was brighter than any he’d seen in days. At last, heart pounding, he slowly pushed his head outside.

Even before he’d fully emerged, he froze. For as astounding as it was to smell wet grass again, to feel chill air blow against his cheek, and to hear the whoosh of distant wind, what truly struck him was the sight. He felt exactly as if he’d just crawled through a window.

A window to the stars.

Pulling himself, together with his pack and staff, all the way out of the hole, he just lay on his back on the grass, gazing in astonishment at the sky. The stars above him didn’t merely sparkle, as they had so often during his years of camping in Stoneroot. Rather, these stars flamed like celestial torches—brighter than he’d ever seen, nearer than he’d ever expected to find. He felt, if only his arms were just a little longer, that he could reach up and feel the very warmth of their fires.

Suddenly, he noticed something odd. Long streaks of shadow rose out of one horizon and ran across the sky, like rivers of darkness, swallowing hundreds of stars. Were these the same shadows he’d seen in the vision? Was he already too late?

His heart raced. Then, peering at the darkened streaks, he realized that they didn’t fill him with the same sort of bone-deep dread he’d felt before. Nor did they really seem to have swallowed any stars. Rather, they were
blocking
the stars. These shadows were actually solid shapes that ran between him and everything beyond.

Branches! I’m seeing branches!
He shook his head in awe, following the shadows’ curling contours.
So this really is Merlin’s Knothole,
he said to himself, only half believing it was true.
The place where branches can be seen. The place my father came, years ago, on his own journey to the stars.

He sat up, scanning the terrain around him. He was in a valley, deep and round, full of lush green grasses that grew thickest down on its floor. And just as he’d seen in the wall painting down inside the trunk, the Knothole bulged out, burl-like, from the side of the Great Tree—holding this valley like an enormous, cupped hand.

The entire bowl wasn’t very large, reminding him of the small glacial valleys in Stoneroot’s high peaks. Yet unlike that realm far below, this land showed no trace at all of winter. Could Merlin’s Knothole, he wondered, have seasons unlike anywhere else? Or no season but spring?

His gaze moved to the rim. Unlike the verdant valley floor, almost nothing grew on the encircling brown hills. Where he now sat, he was about halfway up the slope; both the rim and the valley’s bottom looked only a short walk away. Yet he could also see far greater distances from here: Beyond the rim closest to the trunk of the Tree, rough ridges climbed steadily toward the branches . . . and eventually, the stars.

Sitting there in the grass, he again raised his eyes starward. He began to pick out a few of his favorite constellations—surprisingly difficult because of the unusual brightness of every point of light—when he saw the vacant hole that had once held the Wizard’s Staff. All the terror and uncertainty of that night atop Hallia’s Peak came rushing back to him. Could he still get up there in time? Could he figure out what those infinitely dark shapes, which he’d seen pouring through the hole, really were? And could he find some way to stop them, for the sake of Avalon?

Abruptly, a fresh breeze rustled the grasses around him, and he caught a rich new smell on the air. It wafted toward him from the verdant fields at the bottom of the valley. He knew that smell from somewhere. Yes, from back in the villages of Stoneroot.

Gardens! He shook his head in disbelief. Gardens, way up here? Yet there could be no doubt about that smell: freshly turned soil, ripening leaves, fruit on branch and vine.

Peering more closely at the valley floor, he could now make out, near a deep ravine, the parallel lines of furrowed plots. There was a small but thick forest nearby, as well as a group of leafy trees planted in straight rows—an orchard. And not far away, a pile of oddly shaped items that just might be baskets and garden tools.

Someone lives down there
, he thought in amazement. Climbing to his feet and pulling out his staff from its sheath, he added,
Just who, I’m going to find out.

He hesitated, leaning on his staff. It seemed quite odd that, except for the gardens, he could see no other signs of people. No houses, pathways, or smoke trails from cooking fires. Yet someone, he felt sure, was down there. And had been down there for quite some time—long enough to have planted that orchard. And also long enough, perhaps, to have met his father.

He swallowed. Or to actually
be . . .

Just then a small lizard, with a scaly green back and darting orange eyes, crawled out of the grass by the tip of the staff. Surprised, the creature halted, staring up at this strange visitor, before placing its front legs on the staff and lifting itself higher for a closer look. The orange eyes studied Tamwyn closely.

The young man returned the gaze, then asked in the silent language that had always helped him talk with other creatures,
Good lizard, would you tell me who made those gardens
?

It blinked at him, and Tamwyn sensed it was about to reply. Suddenly, a keening cry echoed overhead. The lizard instantly scurried off into the grasses.

Tamwyn looked up at the bird who had scared off his conversation partner. It was larger than a hawk, more like the great blue herons he’d seen diving for fish from the cliffs on Stoneroot’s marshy coast. But no heron could do what this bird did next.

Its broad wings tilted, so that its feathers faced an especially bright cluster of stars, which Tamwyn recognized as his old favorite, the constellation Pegasus. All at once, the bird’s wings and tailfeathers flashed like dazzling prisms. Arcs of rainbow colors burst forth, painting a wispy cloud nearby with rays of lavender, green, yellow, and scarlet that shimmered with misty brilliance.

Tamwyn’s eyes widened in wonder. Those wings were almost as radiant as a starset! Never, in all his wanderings, had he seen a bird so magnificent. Nor had he heard of anything like this in the songs of bards. Either this bird was unique to Merlin’s Knothole, or it could be found only in the upper reaches of the Great Tree.

Prism bird
, he said to himself.
That’s what I’ll call you.

The great bird keened again. This time Tamwyn heard not the cry of a predator, but the song of an exultant flier, whose every wingbeat flashed joyful colors across the sky. As he watched, it veered again, painting yet another cloud as it passed.

Turning back to the valley floor, and its mysterious gardens, he started to stride down the slope. Thick grasses, cool underfoot, swished against his leggings. As he swung left to walk around a little knoll, he noticed a dense grove of scraggly trees, quite unlike the leafy ones down lower in the orchard. Just then, the fluttering breeze suddenly strengthened.

Mightily! The wind tore across the Knothole, whipping up clouds of dirt from the surrounding hills and flattening the grasses on the upper slopes. It nearly hurled Tamwyn off his feet. Only with the help of his staff did he keep from being blown over, and even then it wasn’t easy. As the air screamed around him, he made for the shelter of the scraggly trees, which were bending in unison under the weight of the wind.

He dived into the grove, rolling to a stop against the smooth trunk of one of the largest trees. After blinking the dirt from his eyes, he examined its shape—quite unlike any tree he’d seen before. Its big, burly roots plunged into the soil of the field, keeping the tree from blowing away. But the rest of it seemed thin and warped, like an old piece of driftwood that had finally floated ashore after years at sea. If standing straight up, it would have been about twice his height, a knobby, weather-beaten specimen. In fact, this tree, like all the others in the grove, had no bark, just wood polished smooth by the wind. And no leaves, either—merely thick tufts of grass that sprouted here and there on trunks and limbs.

For an instant, he sensed something else about these trees. Something odd that his inner magic perceived, akin to an emotion. Fright? But could such an emotion be coming from the trees? Before he could learn any more, the feeling quickly vanished, blown away by the next howling gust.