Shadows on the Stars (44 page)

“
The great horse will die
,” they both said at once.

But the excitement of their revelation swiftly faded, overwhelmed by the scale of their challenge. Discouraged, Elli asked, “How can we ever stop all this from happening?”

“You, by finding your way to White Hands and that evil crystal. It must be important to Rhita Gawr’s plans somehow, or they wouldn’t have gone through so much trouble to make it. And then—you must destroy it. Whatever it takes.”

Resolutely, she nodded.

Tamwyn’s eyes narrowed. “And me, by climbing all the rest of the way to the stars. By getting to the Wizard’s Staff, before Rhita Gawr commands his warriors to attack. And by finding some way to relight those stars—close those doors—before it’s too late.”

Despite the moisture in the air, his throat felt suddenly dry. “It won’t be easy for either of us,” he said hoarsely.

Her hazel eyes watched him for some time before she asked, “What about your search for your father?”

“I found him,” he whispered. “His grave, at least.”

Her gaze fell, “I’m . . . so sorry, Tamwyn.”

He drew a deep breath and looked at her tenderly. “That’s not all I’ve found, Elli.” Then, with care, he stripped off his pack. “I have something for you.”

He pulled out the half-carved harp. The harmóna wood, streaked with orange, seemed to glow in the misty light. Delicate shreds of vapor curled around its contours, seeming to caress the wood.

At the sight of the harp, she gasped. “Really?”

“A bit late,” he said bashfully, “and it’s not done yet. But if we actually . . . well, make it through all this, I’ll give it to you.”

“That’s right,” she agreed. “You’ll give it to me yourself.”

A moment of quiet passed, then she added, “And I have something for
you
.”

She stepped forward. Gracefully, she leaned into him, just enough that their lips touched, feeling warm in the coolness of the mist. And though the kiss itself didn’t last very long, something about it promised to linger long after.

As they pulled apart, Tamwyn replaced the wood in his pack and slung the strap over his shoulder. Holding his staff, he gazed at Elli one last time. Then, without a word, he turned and melted away into the swirling vapors.

Epilogue
•
The Specter

Come on, you lazy lout, wake up!”

Nuic’s voice pierced the magical blanket that still wrapped Elli, though not enough to wake her. The sprite, now a very impatient red, shook her again.

Suddenly she started, and lifted her head from the soft, vaporous pillow of the cloud. “Tamwyn?” she asked, half expecting to see him.

“No,” groused Nuic. “Just ugly old me. Now wake up, will you?”

“All right,” she moaned, shaking the drowsiness from her head. Moisture from the cloud, which had completely soaked her curls, splattered Nuic in a spray of droplets.

“Don’t try to humor me with a shower, Elliryanna. It’s high time you got up. And time we decided what to do.”

All at once, she remembered. The bard. The museo. And that wild idea of riding the wind.

“Where is the bard?” she asked, blinking her still-sleepy eyes.

“Gone,” declared Nuic. “No doubt he leaped off the cloud while we were fast asleep. He could be in another realm by now.”

She peered at him. “Do you really think it works?” Craning her neck, she watched some shreds of mist, hardly firmer than air itself, sailing past the edge of their cloud.

“I don’t know,” said the sprite, studying her with his liquid purple eyes. “But it just might. And it would be a lot faster than just riding on this fluffy boat, hoping we might land somewhere eventually. Meanwhile, you can be sure that our enemies aren’t just sitting around! Rhita Gawr is doing everything he can to prepare himself, his allies—and that crystal—to conquer Avalon.”

She wrapped one of her dangling curls around her finger, much as shreds of mist were doing. “You actually think we could ride the wind all the way to Shadowroot?”

Nuic’s skin showed veins of green, the same color as the Galator around his middle. “I don’t know, Elliryanna. But I do think we should try. We have so little time. And the power of our two crystals can’t be fathomed.”

She frowned at him. “Nuic, you’re supposed to be the saner one of us. But you’re sounding as foolish as
me,
for Avalon’s sake! Or that silly-bearded old bard.”

Her lips pursed thoughtfully. “Who is he, do you think? Just what he says, or something more?”

“Hmmmpff. I don’t know, but I can tell you one thing.”

“What?”

“He seems to get around a lot. Woodroot one day, Airroot the next. Almost as if—”

“He rode on the wind,” Elli finished.

She gazed at him intently for a long moment, as thin trails of mist flowed past them. “All right,” she declared at last, her voice firmly resolved. “It’s time for us to leap off a cloud.”

“And to see,” Nuic added gravely, “just
what wind that blows
.”

•  •  •

Slowly, Scree lifted his head.

As a sulfurous wind gusted over the charred volcanic ridge, dusting him with ash, he glanced down at the auburn-haired woman who lay dead in his arms. The fallen leader of the Bram Kaie clan. The mother of his son.

“The son I myself killed,” Scree grumbled, tasting something far more bitter than the volcanic ash on his tongue.

His gaze roamed from Queen’s lifeless face to the deep gash in his side, and then to his own bloodstained feet. He couldn’t tell whether that blood had come from himself, from Queen, or from the young warrior he had killed. All he knew was that it would never truly wash away.

He scowled. That young warrior had been brutal, arrogant, and ruthless. As well as a murderer—of innocent people such as Arc-kaya. But he was also, in this cruel gust of fate’s wind, Scree’s own son.

Hearing some movement, he turned. Villagers were congregating—leaving their nests, climbing down from stairways and statues where they’d witnessed the battle. More were coming, as well, hurrying down the obsidian-paved streets, tugging their friends and carrying their babies.

Despite all the gleaming wealth of their village, to Scree these people looked almost as confused and bereft as he himself felt. Yet their wounds from this day, unlike his, could be healed. For although they had lost their leadership—and, more important, their way as a people—they could, perhaps, find that again.

The eaglefolk moved closer, surrounding him in a large circle of bodies, pressing as close as they dared. Children with anxious faces, women and men with fear in their eyes, frail elders, and battle-hardened sentries—all peered at Scree. Their faces, every one, seemed to ask the same question:
Will you now lead us
?

Scree blinked his yellow-rimmed eyes. Today’s tragedy was only the latest one he’d known: His mother had been killed by cruel men; his adopted mother hadn’t lived much longer; his father he’d never even known. Arc-kaya, who had been so kind to him, he had lost in just a few beats of a wing. Brionna he had treated so oafishly that he’d probably driven her away for good. And Tamwyn, his only true family, was by now probably dead, or lost among the stars.

And these people still want me to lead?
he asked himself.
Me
—
who only brings sorrow wherever I
go?

As if by magic, the anxious faces in the crowd suddenly seemed joined by those other faces—belonging to the people he had once loved, and who had loved him. There was Tamwyn. Brionna. And Arc-kaya. As well as that ancient wizard who had, so long ago, trusted Scree to protect his precious staff.

All those faces, old and new, looked at him with expectant eyes. Hopeful eyes. Wanting him to bring something more than sorrow to his life, his people, and his world.

Still, Scree debated what to do. Leave these wretched eaglefolk right now, and never return? Or stay here and try to lead them?

If he left, he would still have his grief—though he’d also have his freedom, something he’d always prized. But if he stayed, he would do his best to remake this clan, as well as their destiny. He would join the great battle for Avalon, soon to happen on the Plains of Isenwy. And even if he perished in that fight—he would at least know that he had, for once, soared as high as he possibly could.

Drawing a deep breath, he set down Queen’s body and rose, grinding pumice and black ash under his feet. Ignoring his wounds, some visible and some not, he stood tall and grim, the rust-red light from the sky reflected on his face. At last, he spoke to the hushed crowd.

“I am Scree,” he declared. His voice echoed across the fire-blackened ridge. “And I am your new leader.”

•  •  •

Tamwyn opened his eyes again. Above his head, a prism bird’s wingfeathers flashed in the starlight, painting the clouds with brilliant streaks of color.

But the greater brilliance, and the deeper glow, was in the image that still lingered in his head. The image of Elli, her hazel eyes looking into his own, with the shared hope that they might somehow survive the days to come. And stand together—not in a magical dream, but in real life.

He took a deep breath. Pushing off from the hardpacked soil, he rose to his feet. Once again, he peered at the simple mound of his father’s grave. And at the darkened torch that marked it.

An idea seized him. He pulled his newly reforged dagger out of its sheath and sliced a strip of leather off the flap of his pack. Then, with the tip of his blade, he carved these words into the leather:

Here lies the body
of
my father,
Krystallus Eopia,
though his spirit
shall ever roam
the highest reaches
of
The Great Tree
of
Avalon.

Placing the leather on top of the grave, he anchored it with a hefty stone and stepped back to view what he’d done. After a few seconds, he nodded to himself, then turned his gaze back to the torch.

In a flash, he knew what else he must do. What his father would want him to do.

Tamwyn stepped forward and grasped the torch’s wooden pole. With a sharp tug, he pulled it out of the ground. And then, using his twine, he tied the torch to the strap of his pack so that the pole rested securely against his back.

To be sure, the torch was dark—as dark as his own future. But this much he knew: He would carry this torch, burning or not, just as his father before him had carried it. He would try to find the way to rekindle its flame—and, if possible, other flames, as well.

For he would carry this torch all the way to the stars.

•  •  •

Deep in the darkest reaches of Shadowroot, a specter rose out of the blackness of eternal night. Darker even than the blighted land itself, the lightless sky, or the mine shaft from whence it came, the specter lifted into the air and flew skyward.

Had any eyes been able to see its emergence, they would have instantly shut tight. Out of terror—the deep, primal terror that shrieks soundlessly in mortals’ worst nightmares. For this specter had taken the shape of a gruesome dragon, utterly dark, with eyes that held nothing but the void.

The shape of Rhita Gawr.

The warrior spirit, now fully re-formed in a dragon’s guise, beat his enormous, leathery wings. His eyes, blacker than the night, gleamed. Everything was going well, very well indeed.

Even that child’s magician, Kulwych, has done his part
, the dragon gloated silently.
And soon,
he thought, with such appetite that rivers of saliva rolled out from his jaws and down his scaly neck,
this miserable little world shall be mine.

The wings beat powerfully, carrying him ever higher.
And with it, all the other worlds. Every last one of them!

Laughter, as empty as the void itself, crackled from the dragon’s throat. Shadowed clouds nearby exploded with black lightning and blasts of thunder. He drooled some more, for he could already taste his long-awaited conquest. Just as he would taste it all through this flight, all the way to the stars.