The Great Tree of Avalon (42 page)

“No!” thundered the sorcerer, pounding the staff down so hard that chips of stone flew. “I took no side in the War of Storms, none at all. But Merlin, in all his greatness and wisdom, thought I had. He refused to believe me—his own cousin, descended from Tuatha! So when I met secretly with a group of flamelon traders and their gobsken allies, just to barter for goods, he attacked us.”

Within the narrow slit of a mouth, teeth ground vengefully. “I was the only survivor. But I paid for my will to live, mmmyesss, with centuries of sheer pain.”

The sorcerer bent toward Tamwyn. “And so your master made two mistakes that day. One was attacking me, the young wizard-in-training called Kulwych. And the other, far worse—leaving me alive.”

Kulwych raised the staff. It glittered darkly in the starlight of early evening. “Now, using Merlin’s very own staff, which he was so foolish to leave behind, I shall remake his world . . . and win my ultimate revenge.”

“You’re going to make a crystal of élano,” blurted Tamwyn.

The lidless eye opened a bit wider. “Very good, for a snail. But you have no idea why, do you?”

Tamwyn nodded, sweeping his shoulders with long black locks. “Of course I do,” he lied, hoping to trick the sorcerer into revealing his plans. “But élano is for making life—not destroying it. So you are doomed to fail.”

Kulwych chortled deep in his throat. “You know nothing at all! Mmmyesss . . . I have great plans for my pure crystal of élano. Great plans.”

His slit-mouth turned down in a jagged scowl. “How unfortunate that you will not live to see them bear fruit.”

He turned the staff slowly in the air. Starlight danced on the gnarled wood, even between his thin white fingers. “Élano is much more powerful than anyone, even my nemesis, has ever understood. Why, all I needed to bond the stones of my dam, to seal them tight, was a bit of this lake water—because of the élano it holds. And that is but a trace! When I possess an entire crystal . . . well, that need not concern you.”

Kulwych turned toward the white boat. The scarred, melted skin of his face gleamed monstrously with the reflected glow of the élano-rich lake. “Now, before you die, I shall grant you a boon. You shall witness the creation of my crystal of power! Then you will watch me break Merlin’s staff upon my knee. And then, mmmyesss, I shall burn you with the very same fires your master used on me long ago— but, unlike him, I will not bungle the job.”

He made a quick motion as if he were flicking an insect off the back of one hand. Suddenly cords of rope sprouted from the air and wound themselves around Tamwyn like aerial vines. There was no time to wriggle free, let alone grab his dagger. In the blink of an eye, he was tightly bound.

Kulwych chortled quietly, then with his staff in hand, stepped into the small boat. The moment his foot touched the floor, however, there was a loud snap and splash. An entire plank broke loose! His foot went right through the bottom of the boat. Water rushed in, starting to swamp the craft. “Maggots of Merlin!” cursed the sorcerer. He wobbled unsteadily, struggling to keep himself from falling into the boat—or the lake.

Well done, Henni
, thought Tamwyn.
I shouldn’t have doubted you.
He rocked wildly on the bank, trying to free himself from the ropes. But he couldn’t even budge an arm.

Still cursing, Kulwych finally extracted himself. His leg was soaked up to the knee, along with the bottom of his cloak. Angrily, he jabbed a white finger at the boat, uttered a spell, and lifted his hand. The boat lifted right along with it, until it sat in the air an arm’s length above the lake, water cascading out through the hole.

Keeping the boat airborne, Kulwych spat out another spell and twisted his finger slightly. The missing plank rose out of the water and fastened itself to the bottom. Finally, with a toss of his hand, he let the boat drop back down to the lake with a resounding splash.

He whirled on Tamwyn. “So much for your infantile games!” He barked out another command and jerked his hand toward the boat. Tamwyn himself was lifted into the air and hurled into the vessel. He struck the sidewall with his head, hard enough to drive splinters into his cheek, then rolled to the middle of the stern.

The hideous face of the sorcerer, splashed with water, glistened like rotting flesh. He stepped into the bow of the boat, then made a sound resembling a whistle, but throatier. The boat began to glide swiftly across the water, luminous waves lapping against the sides.

As if called by some unseen voice, Tamwyn looked up into the darkening sky. The sorcerer did, as well. Together, they saw one star, the last of its constellation, wink for the final time—then go out. Though this star was surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of others, it left a gaping hole in the celestial field. Tamwyn knew, without understanding why, that something more than a star had been extinguished. Something brighter even than light, and larger even than the sky.

The staff in the sorcerer’s hand seemed to shudder. Then, from the depths of its gnarled wood, came a long, low groan of despair.

“Well, well,” clucked the sorcerer in satisfaction, “now you have proof that my time has come.”

He kicked Tamwyn’s bound body with the toe of his wet boot. “And do not comfort yourself with delusions that the death of the Wizard’s Staff is merely symbolic. No indeed! The end of those stars means a whole new beginning for Rhita Gawr—and myself. Whatever happens now, we shall triumph.”

•  •  •

Elli couldn’t watch Brionna and the lifeless body of her grandfather any longer. She rose to her feet, shaking her head.

All around, fighting raged on, though the ranks on both sides had thinned. Many slaves had escaped and run off the dam to hide somewhere on the canyon cliffs; most who remained were either gravely wounded or still battling for their lives. One of those still fighting was an eagleman who held himself aloft with immensely powerful wings and then dropped back to the dam to battle a huge man wielding a bloodied broadsword. The eagleman seemed to be holding his own, but just barely.

Could that be Scree?
Elli wondered.
But how . . .

“Look up,” growled Nuic, who had climbed onto the split block of stone that supported the dead elf. His small hand pointed at a spot in the sky just above the horizon.

Elli lifted her head and stared. The last star, the final flame in the constellation that had meant so much to Coerria, as well as Rhia, blinked weakly . . . then went out. The darkness that took its place seemed dense, almost solid, as if a great black door had slammed on the spot.

“What does it mean?”

The voice was Brionna’s. Elli turned to her and said hoarsely, “I don’t know. Do you, Nuic?”

The old sprite, vibrating with gray and black, said nothing.

Elli scrutinized the elf maiden’s face, etched with new lines of suffering. Then, noticing the bloody whip mark that ran across her back, she said softly, “I was too late to help your grandfather . . . but maybe I can, at least, do something for you.” She tapped her water gourd. “That scar on your back could be healed, I think.”

Brionna shook her head. The stains on her cheeks shone dully in the starlight. Pressing Granda’s cold hand to her chest, she said, “It’s a mark of my stupidity, as well as my shame. I will always bear that scar . . . and others.”

Elli bit her lip and looked away. As her gaze moved across the glowing waters of the lake, she suddenly spied the sorcerer, standing in his boat. His face seemed wrong somehow, as if he were wearing a mask. He was holding the staff with its tip in the water, and something odd was happening.

She froze. There, tied up in the stern, was Tamwyn! Then came a blinding flash of light—and her last hope vanished as completely as the Wizard’s Staff.

42
•
Water and Fire

Waves glistened on the lake, both from the light of evening stars and from the powerful magic within the water. As the white boat glided soundlessly to the deep water by the middle of the dam, the sorcerer, standing in the bow, nodded confidently. He snapped his fingers and the vessel instantly came to a halt. Tiny waves tapped against the sides, drumming expectantly, like hundreds of watery fingers.

Tamwyn, bound so tight that he could hardly breathe, watched his captor’s mouth twist into a near-grin. He could see, behind the sorcerer, the great stone dam that spanned the canyon. Brutal fighting continued there, and amidst the fray, Tamwyn caught a glimpse of Scree’s silver wings flapping in the air above Harlech’s sword.

“Now,” declared Kulwych, moving slightly closer to one side of the boat. “The new beginning.”

He grasped the staff with both his hands, whose flesh gleamed as white as the water of the lake. Carefully, he held the staff upright over the water, so that its tip was only a hand’s width over the waves. Then, concentrating on the gnarled wood with his one eye, he began to chant:

Hark now, élano, soul of the Tree:
Seek out the magic, the staff Ohnyalei.

Slowly, he lowered the tip into the lake. At the instant it touched the water, small white ripples bubbled up around it. They grew rapidly, growing more frothy, until the water around the staff churned and bubbled like boiling milk.

Kulwych held tight as the staff shook violently. All the while, at the very top, a shining white speck started to form. Subtle tones of blue and green sparkled in its crystalline core as it grew swiftly larger and brighter.

The crystal!
Tamwyn struggled beneath the ropes, knowing that he had just seconds left to free himself. By sucking in his abdomen, he managed to twist his right arm slightly. His finger brushed against the handle of his woodsman’s dagger.
Just a little farther . . .

There! He reached the handle. Clutching hold, he nudged the dagger out of its sheath and tilted it upward. Then, moving his hand, he slid the blade back and forth like a saw.

Even as he began to cut the rope, though, he could see that he was too late. The crystal on top of the staff was swelling rapidly. Already it was as large as the one Rhia wore in her amulet of leaves.

Madly, Tamwyn moved the dagger. In just a few more seconds . . .

“At last,” declared Kulwych, his voice full of pride. The wild wind howled, seeming to magnify his voice. “I have done it! I am the equal of Merlin . . . and soon his superior.”

He lifted the staff out of the lake. Immediately the water ceased frothing. Kulwych stood proudly in the boat, licking the edge of his slit-mouth in satisfaction. Triumphantly, he plucked the crystal from the staff and held it high.

It flashed in the starlight—a blinding flash of deep magic. And extraordinary power.

Suddenly, Tamwyn knew what he must do. Still cutting on the ropes that held him, he bent his thoughts toward the crystal. For while the sorcerer stood savoring his plans, whatever they might be, Tamwyn had made a plan of his own.

Fire. His last fire illusion had failed—so miserably that he hadn’t even wanted to try it again on the ghoulacas. But this time he couldn’t fail. Couldn’t! He stared at the crystal, taking in all its brightness, all its light.

He thought of Nuic’s words:
Illusions are just as real as you are, Tamwyn.
He thought of his skill at building fires in the wilderness, a skill he’d never been taught but simply gleaned from the ways of wood and flame. And he thought about the strange fires that burned within him—a gift from his father, born of a wizard and a deer-woman, and his flamelon mother, whose fiery orange eyes had often warmed him as a child.

Burn!
he called to the crystal.
Bright as a fire. Bright as a star!

The crystal exploded in flames. Mock flames, yes, but real enough to cause Kulwych to shout in surprise and drop his precious crystal. A look of horror on his scarred face, he grabbed at it before it fell into the lake.

Tamwyn concentrated all the harder.
Burn! Be flames, be fire.
Instinctively, he blew a long breath of air, as if he were blowing on a spark in kindling. Meanwhile, under the ropes, he worked the dagger with all his strength.

Just as Kulwych caught hold of the crystal, a wind gusted over the water, fanning the illusory flames. The fire burst higher than his head, licking at his scarred face. He shouted again and bobbled the prize. With an agonized cry, he lunged for it.

Too far! The boat tipped sharply. Tamwyn leaned, rocking it farther. At that very moment his dagger broke through, slicing his bonds. With all his weight, he threw his body into the sidewall.

The boat flipped over. Kulwych pitched over the side with a splash that swallowed his scream. Tamwyn, too, plunged into the white water. When he came up again, sputtering for air, he was some distance from the vessel. Realizing he still clutched his dagger, he pushed it back into its sheath—and then saw, floating beside him, the staff.

He reached for it, but caught himself. If he touched it, he could ruin everything. And yet, if he didn’t . . . His fingers quivered. He almost touched it, then hesitated. Behind him, he heard the sputters and curses of Kulwych as he splashed toward the overturned boat.

Tamwyn took a deep breath—and grabbed the staff. As he squeezed its wooden shaft in his hand, he felt the vaguest buzz of power down in his bones. But nothing more. No disaster. He may have been Dark Flame, and the child of a very dark destiny, but he could still hold the staff of a wizard.

At once, an idea struck him. There might be just enough time—if he moved very fast.

He swam toward the dam, kicking with all his might. One arm paddled vigorously, while the other clutched the staff. At the same time, he sent the same desperate thought to Elli, Scree, Brionna, Nuic, Henni, the remaining slaves—everyone he could possibly reach.
Get off the dam! Whatever you must do, get off it. Now!

He glanced behind him. Kulwych, dripping wet, was trying to climb onto the overturned boat. But the hull was slippery and he kept sliding back into the lake. The sorcerer was hampered by using only one of his hands, since the other was closed into a fist.

He still has the crystal!