The Great Tree of Avalon (43 page)

Tamwyn kicked harder. Gasping for air, he drove through the water like a frenzied fish. Behind him, he heard Kulwych bellowing in wrath. This time, though, he didn’t take time to look back.

He swam into a dark shadow. The massive stones of the dam loomed above him, blocking the stars. One stroke, another—and at last his hand touched the hard, chipped stone. Panting heavily, he lifted the staff out of the water, pointed the dripping tip toward the dam, and spoke the chant he’d heard moments before:

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

He heard Kulwych hurl curses—and spells. Something magical caught his arm, holding it in the air.

Tamwyn struggled to move the staff, to do the one truly right thing he’d ever done. He pulled with every scrap of strength, kicking to stay afloat. His arm moved just a bit, then a bit more.

All at once, he broke free. His arm surged forward. The tip of Merlin’s staff slammed into the face of the dam with a shower of sparks.

In that instant, several things happened. The stones began to quiver and buckle. A rumble gathered from somewhere deep inside the structure, rapidly growing into a tumultuous roar. And a luminous white dust appeared on the staff, as if it had been frosted with starlight.

With the bond between the stones stripped away, the dam could hold no longer. All the water of the enormous lake pushed against the blocks of stone, seeped between the cracks, and flowed around the canyon rim—seeking to break free at last. In one gargantuan gush of water and stone, the dam burst apart. Water exploded all around Tamwyn, tossing him like an acorn on a raging river.

He knew he’d soon die, smashed on the canyon floor below. Yet even as he flew over Prism Gorge, riding a wild tide of froth and spray, he knew he’d succeeded. He would die, but so would Kulwych . . . and all his plans.

He fell faster, plunging downward. Giant waves spilled about him, slapping him with liquid limbs, spinning him in every direction. He was pummeled, beaten, hurled around with ever more force.

Then something stabbed him, piercing tunic and flesh. It felt like knives. Or perhaps . . . talons.

43
•
Dark Flame

Two days later, in the deep greenery of Woodroot, Tamwyn stood under a towering beech tree. Its branches hung so fully with leaves that they seemed to flow from the trunk like rippling green rivers. The trunk itself was so massive that ten men his size, with outstretched arms, could not encircle it. Wood elves believed it was the oldest tree in all of El Urien.

Its name, Brionna had told him a few moments before, was Elna Lebram, meaning
deep roots, long memories
. Among its bulging, twisted roots were buried all the wood elves’ greatest scholars, teachers, and bards. Some thought that was why the ancient tree’s bark still gleamed as smooth as a young sapling.

Today, as Tamwyn watched, those roots accepted another body: Tressimir, cherished historian of his people. Hundreds of elves filled the grove around the beech, all wearing deep green robes, all watching in silence. Nine of them, each one symbolizing a point on the wood elves’ compass, lowered the body into the ground. Even wrapped in several layers of shrouds—woven from silverplume flowers, laurel roots, and leaves of everlasting—the old elf seemed very small indeed.

Brionna stood by the grave, stiff as a tree on a windless ridge. When at last the body of her grandfather had been placed among the roots, she bent gracefully, adding a wreath of fresh hemlock. She’d chosen that wreath because its fragrance was both sweet, like her memories, and bitter, like her longing.

Beside her stood Elli. Her face was grim, like that of the dark gray pinnacle sprite on her shoulder. Shim sat nearby on one of the burly roots, wiping the occasional tear from his swollen nose. Even Henni, who now wore in his headband the feather of an owl he had saved on the dam, looked subdued.

As dark loam was poured into the grave, creating a fertile mound, the elves began to sing. Their voices, more gentle than rising mist, filled the forest, weaving the varied threads of Tressimir’s life into an embroidered ballad that was no less colorful, and no less luminous, than the autumn leaves around them. But while the song celebrated Tressimir’s life, it also mourned his loss.

As Tamwyn listened, holding the staff that glittered with white élano, he wished he’d known the old elf. Even briefly. He raised a hand to his shoulder, rubbing one of the cuts from Scree’s talons. He could still feel everything he’d felt at the very moment of his rescue: the pinch of those talons; the surprise that he wasn’t going to die after all; the overwhelming relief that the dam had been destroyed; and the wonder at seeing the lake burst free at last, pour down Prism Gorge, and break into a rainbow of rivers that would bring water— and color—to many lands.

And yet, even as he’d been carried to safety, he worried that Kulwych’s evil work had not ended. Had he survived the dam’s collapse? Did he still have the pure crystal of élano?

“There you are, baby brother.”

Tamwyn spun around. Scree, bare-chested in his human form, ducked under a leafy branch of the beech. For a moment his yellow-rimmed eyes gazed intently at his brother, then turned to the gleaming staff.

Tamwyn held it out to him. “Time you took this back, don’t you think?”

Scree scratched the hook of his nose. “No, Tam. I think you should hang on to it—at least for a while.” He gave a half-grin. “I’m just getting used to life without it.”

Tamwyn scowled. “You are not! I can see right through you, clear as ever. You and Elli—”

“Think you’re as stupid as a headless troll,” finished Scree. “Look, you may have had your eyes closed when you blew that dam to bits, but I didn’t! I saw what you did.”

“You mean what the
staff
did.”

“In your hands.” He lowered his voice to a rough whisper. “I’m not sure, but just maybe the person I was saving it for, all those years, was you.”

Tamwyn shook his head. “I don’t believe that. I just don’t.”

“Fine, then. But don’t try to give it back to me. Look, for the past two days, I’ve been feeling freer than a fledgling! Like I’m finally done with my task.”

He clenched his fist. “The only thing I want to squeeze right now is the neck of that cursed swordsman on the dam. Coward! Just when I finally had him, he jumped into the lake to get away.”

“Maybe someday you’ll find him again.”

“He’d better hope not.”

The elves’ singing ended abruptly. Their ethereal tones hovered among the leaves for several seconds. Then, led by Brionna, all the elves flowed across the grove like a deep green cloud. At a sparkling stream that ran into the deepest part of the forest, they stopped.

Rows of resinwax candles lined the stream bank. As Tamwyn and Scree looked on, each elf took one candle, lit it, and placed it upon a wide, rounded leaf. In a flash, Tamwyn recognized this ceremony from stories he’d heard about the elves: It was the Procession of Flames, a tradition that dated back to the days of Lost Fincayra.

He recognized something else, too. The leaf came from the cupwyll shrub that grew all year round in the streams of Stoneroot, and apparently also here in Woodroot. The leaf’s shape reminded him of the tiny quartz bell on his belt, and he glanced down at it, glad that it had survived his long journey.

He patted the pocket of his tunic, from which came a quiet, whistling snore. Batty Lad, too, had survived the journey. Sure, he’d caught a cold that had made him sneeze for most of the past two days, after their swim in the lake. But his quirky little spirit, and those glowing eyes, hadn’t dimmed at all.

Gently, the elves set the rounded leaves, and the candles they held, upon the stream. The water carried them away, very slowly, like so many sparks blown from a fire. As they flowed downstream into the darkening boughs, the small flames seemed to grow taller, and perhaps a bit brighter, before they faded into the shadows.

The elves started to sing once more, a slow and somber melody. But this time their voices were so quiet that Tamwyn caught only a few words:

A candle lit, a candle doused,
a starset in the morning:
How brief the life, the love it housed
that dies while still aborning.

He thought suddenly of the bearded bard on the hill, whose fragment of a song had led them to Brionna—and ultimately, the staff. Could that have been intentional? Or just another bizarre coincidence?

As the elves continued to sing, Tamwyn heard, in his mind, not their voices—but the bard’s. He heard again the song on the hill, which ended with that mysterious phrase,
the Thousand Groves
. And he also heard, from their first meeting near the dung heap, the bard’s haunting description of Avalon:

A world part Heaven and part Earth—
And part what wind that blows.

Tamwyn turned to Scree, who was watching not the candles, but the elves. One elf in particular. Brionna had stopped singing and stood aloof and silent, her head bowed. When she’d bent over to put her candle on the stream, the whip cut had broken open again. Though her long locks of hair still shone, they couldn’t hide the rough red slash that ran across her back.

Scree sensed his brother’s gaze but kept watching Brionna. He cleared his throat. “You know . . . maybe it’s possible . . . she’s not quite as bad as I thought.”

Trying to hide his grin, Tamwyn said nothing.

“Damn good shot, too.”

Tamwyn nodded. “Not to mention beautiful.”

“I suppose so,” Scree said breezily. “In an elvish sort of way.” Suddenly he slapped his own forehead. “What in Avalon am I thinking? I must have cracked my eggshell back there on the dam! She
hates
me. And if I had any sense at all, I’d still hate her.”

He paused, chewing his tongue. “It’s just that, right now, there’s some part of me that doesn’t really want to hate her. That wants to . . . well, help her.”

“You could try.”

Scree looked sorely tempted, but all of a sudden his face hardened. “Don’t be crazy! The longest conversation she’s ever had with me was after she shot me out of the sky.”

Tamwyn put a hand on his brother’s muscular shoulder. “Whatever she did to you, she did to save her grandfather.”

Scree’s jaw relaxed slightly. “That’s true, I suppose. People will do some pretty wild things to save their only family.”

“Right. Like pushing them headfirst into portals.”

Scree almost smiled.

“So why don’t you just go over there and say something?”

“I’m not much with words, Tam.”

“Then don’t say anything. Maybe just being nearby will help.”

The eagleman frowned and faced him. “If you’re so frill-feathered wise about these things, why don’t you go over there yourself?”

“Because, brother,” Tamwyn said with a twinkle, “it’s your magic she needs, not mine.”

He eyed Scree for a moment, then cocked his head toward the burial mound in the tree’s roots. Elli was still standing there, her face solemn. “And besides, I have something else to do.”

Scree smirked and shook his head. “Guess we’re both hopeless.”

Tamwyn, who had started to walk away, glanced back at him. “We must be related somehow.”

As he stepped over the twisted roots, steadying himself with the staff, he considered Elli. So much about her—starting with those unruly curls—reminded him of Rhia, the Lady of the Lake. They were a lot alike, those two, and not merely in the way they looked.

Nuic, perched on Elli’s shoulder, looked up first. His colors warmed a bit, showing some swirls of pink amidst the gray. “Well, Elliryanna,” he said gruffly, “we have a visitor.” Then, with a mock bow, he added, “If it isn’t Tamwyn Eopia, the great illusionist.”

“Trickster,” he corrected with a grin. “But thanks to you, I’m learning.”

“Hmmmpff. Even for a slow learner, you’re awfully slow.”

Elli’s face was still grim, but her hazel green eyes brightened at seeing him. She wrapped her own hand around the staff, just above his, so their fingers barely touched. “You see,” she said with a knowing look, “nothing bad happened when you touched it.”

“You were right,” he admitted.

“Better get used to saying that,” snapped Nuic. “If you plan to spend time with us, that is.”

Despite herself, Elli smiled. “Nuic, you’re impossible!”

The sprite’s colors turned to an offended shade of maroon. “I wasn’t speaking about me, Elliryanna. I was speaking about you.”

She shook her head, bouncing her curls every which way. “So how are you feeling?” she asked Tamwyn, tapping her water gourd. “All healed from the battle?”

“Mostly.” He took a long, deep breath. “But I just can’t stop thinking about the sorcerer. About what he said when the last star went out. He told me,
The end of those stars means a whole new beginning for Rhita Gawr and myself.
And then he added:
Whatever happens now, we shall triumph.”

Elli looked suddenly grim again. “The stars! What does that mean?”

No one answered.

She tapped the gnarled top of the staff. “At least you still have this. How does it feel to be its master?”

He looked at the shaft, sparkling so white, and bit his lip. “I don’t think anyone could really be its master. Not even Merlin.” Then he frowned. “And besides, I’m still the child of the Dark Prophecy, remember?”

“Of course I remember, you buffoon! But didn’t you hear what Rhia said about choosing your destiny? Don’t you realize what happened at the dam?”

“I got lucky, that’s all.”

“Lucky!” Her face flushed angrily and Tamwyn felt a sudden fear that she’d punch him in the eye again. But she just brought her face up close to his, and declared, “I told you, you could still be
both
the child of the Dark Prophecy
and
the true heir of Merlin.
Like a brother
, in the Lady’s words—but a brother to yourself. It’s possible.”

“No!” He twisted the staff, driving its tip into the soft moss between the roots of the old beech. “That’s ridiculous.”

She glared at him. “By the elbows of the Elders, Tamwyn! Have you tried to find out? Have you said those words while holding the staff?”