Doomraga's Revenge (18 page)

Some of the mourners, like the dreamfinder elf from the Swaying Sea who had seven fingers on each hand and walked with a limp, were unfamiliar to Basilgarrad. Others, like the tall mudmaker Aelonnia of Isenwy and the cloudlike sylph who floated across the meadow, he recognized from Merlin and Hallia’s wedding years before. And others he knew well—at least well enough to feel their sorrow. There was Rhia, who gave her brother a tearful embrace. And Nuic, whose lifeless gray color said more than any words the sprite could have spoken. There was Shim, whose thunderous steps rocked the meadow. Zorgat the dwarf came, too, looking much older and stricken with grief. And there was Gwynnia—who had been nursed back to health, as a young dragon, by Hallia herself.

Gwynnia trudged slowly across the grass, leaving a flattened trail that glistened with silvery dragon tears. Though much smaller than Basilgarrad, with her wings folded tightly against her back, she still exuded a dragon’s majesty and power as she moved. And a dragon’s sheer bulk, as well—which is why she needed to take care not to crush anyone with her tail. Following close behind her came Ganta, her son. The little dragon’s orange eyes flashed when his gaze met Basilgarrad’s. Perhaps he felt suddenly afraid, or perhaps he was still pondering his uncle’s strange words about the true meaning of bigness. That was impossible to tell.

Only one group of guests did not approach Merlin: the deer people of Hallia’s clan, the Mellwyn-bri-Meath. Like Basilgarrad, they had shared their sadness with Merlin earlier. For now they were content to stand together, like a herd of deer, watching in silence from the edge of the meadow.

Some of them, Basilgarrad noticed, stood in their deer forms—at least one broad-chested stag and several graceful does. Or were those really the deer people’s cousins, the true deer who lived in these glades? A few deer folk seemed to have a misty, translucent appearance, as if they had traveled all the way from their people’s ancient home in Lost Fincayra—the land of the fabled Carpet Caerlochlann, whose every thread was made from the deer folk’s most treasured stories.

Krystallus, the last person to arrive, stepped onto the meadow. He barely glanced at his father and spoke to no one, choosing to stand alone by a group of birch trees. Head bowed, his white hair obscuring his face, he seemed so isolated he might have been standing in another realm.

When, at last, everyone who wished to speak with Merlin had done so, the wizard bent down and lifted something from the grass—a specially crafted bowl. Made from shards of deer hooves and antlers, it glistened with the subtle magic of Hallia’s people. Within it sat a small, silvery mound—Hallia’s remains, after she’d been cremated in the traditional style of the deer people.

Holding the bowl against his chest, so that he could feel its weight against him, Merlin spoke. Although his voice was the rough whisper of a man who had talked too much in recent days, his words rang out across the grass.

“We will miss you, Hallia, always and forever.” He paused to swallow. “Wherever your spirit roams . . . may you find green meadows. Deep glades. And loving hearts.”

With that, he raised the bowl and flung the silvery ashes into the air. Taken by the wind, the ashes rose high, like a leaping doe whose hooves might never again touch the ground. Then, with the grace of a gentle rain, they drifted downward, alighting on the clear pool, the swaying trees, and the auburn grass.

The ashes landed, as well, upon everyone who had gathered in Hallia’s memory. One silver fleck landed on one of Basilgarrad’s eyelashes. He blinked, sending it floating over to the very tip of his enormous nose. At the instant it touched down, he felt a warm, stirring sensation—as if Hallia herself had laid her hand upon him and wished him well.

Slowly, with the sweeping breeze, the mourners departed. One by one they left, voices silent. Soon no one remained except Merlin, still standing by the spring, and Basilgarrad, still watching him, as silent as any dragon can be. Plus . . . one more person.

Krystallus, finally, lifted his head. He looked across the meadow at his father—and his expression was not sorrow or sympathy. No, as Basilgarrad could tell right away, it was something else entirely: rage.

Quaking with anger, Krystallus strode over to the wizard, his boots crushing the grass underfoot. His fists were clenched, as if poised to strike. But he hit his father, instead, with words.

“You said it was wrong, terribly dangerous, for me to bring her to Fireroot. Yet it was fine for you, the great wizard, to do the same thing?”

“Krystallus, I—”

“Don’t give me any of your excuses!” the young man bellowed. “I’ve heard enough for a lifetime.”

Merlin, looking stricken, tried again. “But she asked—she begged . . .”

“I don’t care,” Krystallus declared, cutting him off. A gust of wind twirled his white mane and blew it over one of his shoulders, the way his mother had often worn her hair. “The fact is, you were right about the danger. Yes, right! But you chose to ignore that danger for your own selfish reasons.” His voice dropped to a growl. “And as a result, you killed her. Not somebody’s arrow.
You.
”

Merlin staggered, as if struck by a hammer. “My—my son . . .”

“Don’t call me your son! I don’t want to be that, ever again. Consider us, from this day onward—”

“Don’t, Krystallus,” bellowed the dragon, shaking his enormous head. But the young man ignored him.

“Strangers.”

Krystallus turned abruptly and strode away across the meadow. He soon vanished into the trees, leaving no visible sign he’d ever been there. But the final word he had spoken seemed to hang in the air, refusing to depart.

Basilgarrad, looking at the anguished face of his friend, knew that it never would.

27:
R
EADY

When I think back to those days with Merlin, I realize that his most predictable quality was, alas, unpredictability.

Basilgarrad was not surprised when, after that brutal experience in the Summerlands, Merlin decided to spend some time alone. Nor was he surprised that his friend chose to climb Hallia’s Peak, a place rich with memories. But he was very surprised how long the wizard stayed up there on the snowy slopes—seven whole weeks.

During that time, Basilgarrad did his best to continue the work he and Merlin had been doing as a team. The dragon rushed from realm to realm, resolving a dispute between two families of wyverns, preventing the destruction of a village by gobsken, and stopping the vengeful Lo Valdearg from organizing yet another attack on the dwarves. All these forays succeeded, but it was hard and lonely work, even for the creature now known throughout Avalon as Wings of Peace. Especially since he continued to feel, day and night, the chill of that evil shadow he’d seen in Bendegeit’s lair—a shadow he still could not identify.

At last, on a crisp autumn day, Basilgarrad heard a familiar voice speaking inside his mind. It came as he was flying low across Woodroot’s treetops, checking to make sure that no sign of blight had returned to his beloved forest. Since he was flying into a strong headwind, the air rushed past his ears and coursed over his wings, sounding like a gusty storm. Below him the branches, tossed about by the tempest, swished and cracked loudly. Even so, he had no trouble hearing Merlin’s thoughts.

Hello there, Basil. How would you like to join me up here on Hallia’s Peak? I’m on the west side, at the Stargazing Stone.

There was a new rush of wind in Basilgarrad’s ears as he banked a sharp turn.
I’m on my way.

Yet while his heart leaped with gladness to hear the wizard’s voice again, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Very wrong. Or was it just another brush of that elusive shadow?

A few moments later, he swooped out of the high, layered clouds above Stoneroot’s towering peaks. His dragon’s wings stretched nearly across the slope, dwarfing the boulders below. Yet he couldn’t miss seeing one particular slab of stone. On it stood a tall, bearded man, looking as sturdy as the stone itself.

Seeing the dragon approach, Merlin raised his staff in greeting. As Basilgarrad landed, crushing dozens of lichen-covered rocks under his weight, the wizard stepped back to avoid the spray of pebbles and shredded lichen. When the enormous body came to a halt and the grinding stones had settled, Merlin said wryly, “You always did know how to make an entrance.”

“I learned that from you,” teased the dragon.

But Merlin didn’t smile. In a tone both affectionate and sad, he said, “It’s good to see you again, Basil.” Leaning against his staff, he studied his friend, then added, “Before I must go.”

“Go?” bellowed the dragon, loud enough that several rocks broke loose from the ledges below and clattered down the slope. “You only just returned!”

“Yes, I know,” said Merlin softly. His eyes fell to the Stargazing Stone, where they traced some of the constellations that had been etched into the rock’s surface. One constellation held his attention longer than the rest—the luminous row of stars, visible almost everywhere in Avalon, which people called the Wizard’s Staff. “But I have decided, after much thought, that I must go.”

“Where? Why?”

“Well . . .” The mage paused, twirling some of the wilder hairs of his bushy beard. “The time has come for me to leave Avalon.”

“Leave Avalon!” roared Basilgarrad, with such force that a flock of geese high overhead suddenly scattered, breaking formation as birds flapped away in all directions. “You can’t do that. Not now—when so much is going wrong! Our world—our home—is falling apart!”

“Not so, Basil.” The wizard took a step closer on the boulder, gazing up into the dragon’s immense eye. “I’ve been hearing tales of your successes, even as I’ve been grieving for Hallia. From the birds, from the pinnacle sprites, and also from Rhia, who came here to see me. All of them told me about the marvelous work of a dragon called Wings of Peace.”

Basilgarrad shook his mighty head. “I managed, it’s true, but not nearly as well as I would have done with you.” His brow wrinkled, forming deep rifts between the scales. “Besides, that’s not the point. Avalon’s troubles are as great as ever! These outbreaks of violence aren’t stopping. And I’m still no closer to finding that evil shadow beast. Merlin, you can’t leave now!”

“Basil,” said the wizard as he twisted his staff on the boulder, “what if these outbreaks really are just what I thought they were when they first appeared—the normal growing pains of a new world? What if they are, in fact, an important part of Avalon’s growth? A chance for the people of this world to come together and learn to triumph over all their worst qualities: hatred, intolerance, and greed. Just think of it, Basil! That triumph would make Avalon’s experiment all the more remarkable, all the more successful.”

The dragon bared his teeth, snarling at this notion. Hundreds of sword-sharp teeth gleamed, as a deep rumble rose from his throat, shaking the surrounding boulders. “What happened to your vision of this world, the
Avalon idea
?”

“That idea is still as powerful as ever! Even more, if our precious world can find the way to rise above these troubles. Don’t you see? What I was missing before was that true peace—the idea’s highest form—comes not from a wizard who
imposes
peace, but from a world that
embraces
peace.”

Basilgarrad’s rumble grew louder. “Meanwhile, too many people will suffer and die. And Merlin—that shadow beast is still out there somewhere.”

“Maybe so,” the wizard agreed. “But have you considered the possibility that it’s not here in Avalon?”

“Not here?”

“Yes! What if all this is a ruse, a clever distraction, designed to keep both of us constantly searching these realms?” His dark eyes sparkled with a new idea. “What if that wicked beast isn’t in Avalon, after all? That would explain why nobody—not you, not I, not anyone—has seen it.”

“That’s madness!” thundered the dragon. “Where else could it be?”

Merlin leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Earth. That’s where.”

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am.” Ignoring his friend’s doubtful expression, the wizard explained, “Dagda told me, long ago, that the fate of these two worlds, Avalon and Earth, are deeply intertwined. Now, that mortal world is unlike Avalon in many ways—in its landscape, its people, and even its time, which moves at a different pace. But it is, like Avalon, a world of free will. A world of many wonders. And also . . . a world that the warlord Rhita Gawr covets greedily.”

Basilgarrad, still unconvinced, cocked his ears toward the wizard. “So you have decided to go to Earth?”

Merlin nodded, as a mountain breeze tousled his hair. “It may be far away in distance, but not in destiny. Maybe the shadow beast is really there, plotting against us!” He paused, then added, “Besides, it’s time to keep a promise I once made—to help a young king named Arthur create a place of peace, Camelot, on the war-torn isle of Britannia. It’s a remarkable, inspiring idea.”

“So is Avalon!” The dragon lifted his gigantic tail and slammed it, full force, into the mountainside. Snowy cornices broke off the ridge, avalanches careered down the slopes, and boulders crashed into the trees below. Birds rose into the sky, screeching and squawking angrily.

Basilgarrad waited for the din and tremors to cease. Then, peering closely at his longtime friend, he asked in a quieter voice, “Are you sure that’s why you want to leave? Because there is important work in that faraway world?” His emerald eyes flashed. “Or because . . . the pain is just too great for you in this one?”

The wizard, caught off guard, looked down at the Stargazing Stone. For several seconds, he gazed at the etched constellations. Finally, he raised his head and answered with a single word.

“Both.” He swallowed, then said shakily, “I just can’t bear to stay here, Basil. Not now. I’ve lost”—his voice dropped to a ragged whisper—“too much.”

The dragon, feeling Merlin’s heartache, narrowed his green eyes. “But Avalon needs you. Now more than ever! You are its protector.”

“No,” the wizard replied, shaking his head. “Avalon has all the protection it needs—in you.”