The Eternal Flame (5 page)

And there was one more face he couldn’t forget—that of a young, golden-eyed eagleboy named Hawkeen. Although they had truly bonded in the midst of their grief, Scree wished that he could have spent more time with this lad who reminded him so much of his younger self. But he had been forced to depart straightaway, leaving Hawkeen behind.

Suddenly a burly eagleman pushed his way out of the crowd. “What makes you think you can lead us?” he demanded.

Scree gazed sternly at his questioner. Although this eagleman stood in human form, he looked ready to sprout wings and take flight at an instant’s notice. And from the many scars on his chest and the red leg band that identified him as a warrior, it was clear that he’d flown into combat several times.

The warrior thumped the end of his upright spear on the charred ground, sending up a puff of ash. “What makes you think so?” With a sneer, he added, “You’re not even a member of this clan.”

Scree’s yellow-rimmed eyes narrowed. “That is true. But I
am
born of this same realm of fire and rock. And I also belong to this same people—your people, the eaglefolk of Avalon.”

The warrior looked at him skeptically, rubbing his angular jaw. “Still, what do you know of the Bram Kaie clan?”

“I know that you have lost more than your leadership. You have lost your way as eaglefolk. By your murderous actions, you have disgraced yourselves—and the rest of your kind.”

The warrior stiffened, his shoulders flexed. Behind him, villagers stirred, murmuring and arguing among themselves. Someone shouted, “Kill him for that!” while a woman’s voice called out, “He’s right. We have flown astray.”

Just then a pair of young eaglemen near Scree started shoving each other roughly. “You’re a traitor to side with him!” shouted one.

“And you’re just a thieving coward,” retorted the other.

All at once, they transformed into their winged forms. One of them suddenly whirled, striking the other’s face with the bony edge of his wing. Blood flowed from a gash in the youth’s cheek. They raised their talons, just about to tear into each other—when Scree stepped boldly between them. He grabbed each of them by the shoulder and held them apart.

“Wait,” he commanded. His voice rang with such authority, echoing over the fire-blackened ridge, that the young men slowly lowered their talons. Although they remained in their eagle forms, glaring at each other angrily, they did not try to break free.

“Fighting among yourselves isn’t the answer,” he intoned. “I ask you, can two wings of the same bird fly in opposite directions? No! And two clans of the same people are no different. If they try to fly in opposite ways, they will succeed only in tearing themselves apart. For we are all, every one of us, part of the same body, borne by the same wings.”

As several eaglefolk nodded their heads, Scree released the young men. After pausing to make sure they wouldn’t attack each other again, he continued speaking. “This clan, under Quenaykha, has gained great wealth.”

He turned, waving at the obsidian avenues between the nests, the gilded statues, the spiraling stairways of oak and mahogany, and all the spoils of plunder that lay strewn about like discarded feathers. “But you have also gained,” he declared, “far greater shame.”

There were angry murmurs again. Yet now it seemed as if more people were listening, cocking their heads thoughtfully as he continued.

“You are eaglefolk, after all. The fiercest, proudest people in all of Avalon! Does it make you feel true to your glorious traditions—and to your ancestors, who have flown higher than any creatures in the Seven Realms—to stoop to murder and thievery? To soar not on the strength of your own wings, but on the wings of those you have robbed?”

He lowered his voice. “I said that you were lost. But I also say to you, people of the Bram Kaie, that you can find your way again.”

He glanced at the scarred warrior, whose expression was now graver than ever. Then he announced, “Very soon a battle will erupt in Mudroot, on the Plains of Isenwy. If the army of sorcery, gobsken, and wicked men prevails, then free Avalon will be lost. But if the other side—the side of eaglefolk—prevails, then Avalon will be saved.”

Scree lifted his arms over his head as if they were great wings. “I myself am going there to fight. And yes, to die, if I must. Will you join me? Will you fight alongside the rest of your people? Will you do your part to redeem your clan, and save our world?”

Hushed silence enveloped the crowd. An eaglefeather, blown out of one of the nests, drifted lazily over the people’s heads. But no one answered Scree. Not a single person answered his call.

At that moment, a lone eagleboy stepped through the villagers and strode to his side. Scree turned toward the lad, then gasped. It was Hawkeen, the golden-eyed boy from Arc-kaya’s home!

Hawkeen’s bright eyes glinted. “I followed you here,” he declared. “And I will follow you into battle for Avalon.”

Scree spoke no words, but gazed at the eagleboy.

“Enough foolishness,” bellowed the gruff voice of the scarred warrior. He tossed aside his spear, which clattered on the blackened ridge. At the same time, he changed into eagle form, stretching his mighty wings. He advanced toward Scree, feathers bristling.

Seeing this, Scree also transformed. His wings sprouted, and he opened them wide, ready to leap skyward at any instant. He clenched his jaw, wondering whether he had enough strength to prevail in yet another battle to the death. As he dragged his sharp talons across the ground, he said, “Fight me if you will. But I have spoken only the truth.”

The warrior advanced another step, eyeing him coldly. When he stood barely a spear’s length away, he stopped and folded his wings. “I am Cuttayka, first among the Clan Sentries. And I have not come to fight you. I have come to join you.”

Even as Scree’s eyes widened, Cuttayka turned to the crowd. “Enough foolishness, I say! Did you not hear the call of this bold warrior? Did you not feel the rightness of his plan? Come on, all of you. Join him.”

He glanced at Scree, then added: “For he is our leader.”

5
•
The Climb

Tamwyn glanced, one last time, at the simple earthen mound that was a grave. And at the words he had carved there, using his newly reforged dagger—words that began,
Here lies the body of my father, Krystallus Eopia.

As he stood there alone, the wind of Merlin’s Knothole gusted around him, flapping the sleeves of his torn tunic. “You never made it to the stars,” he whispered into the swelling wind. “But maybe your son will.”

He reached behind his back to check the wooden pole that he’d tied to his pack strap. Finding it secure, he nodded with determination. “And I’ll carry your torch with me.”

Spinning around, Tamwyn turned toward the rocky brown cliffs that rose steeply higher, disappearing into shreds of mist. Above, the stars shone brightly—except, of course, the seven darkened stars of the Wizard’s Staff constellation. Besides that gaping hole in the sky, another prominent feature caught his attention: the wide, dark streaks that ran between him and the stars. He didn’t need to consult the special compass in his pack to know that he was gazing starward, into the heights of the Great Tree, and that those streaks were actually its vast, unexplored branches.

Where I’m going now.

He drew a deep breath, wondering whether he would ever succeed in his ultimate goal: to climb up to those branches, and the stars beyond. And not just any stars, either. He needed to reach those seven darkened stars of the Wizard’s Staff, which were now open doors to the Otherworld of the Spirits. Through those doorways on high, he knew, Rhita Gawr’s army of immortal warriors had already begun to pour. They were massing up there, even now, waiting for Rhita Gawr’s command to attack Avalon . . . a command that would come in no more than one week’s time. And so, Tamwyn’s task—so difficult that it seemed impossible—was to chase that army back through the doorways, and somehow defeat Rhita Gawr himself.

Then comes the really hard part,
Tamwyn thought grimly.
I’ll need to relight those stars, closing those doorways—something that no one but Merlin has ever done.

He worked his shoulders, shifting the position of the torch on his back. It was far more than an ordinary torch, he felt certain. When lit, it would not be merely a source of fire, but also of magic. He sensed, somehow, that if he could grow powerful enough—or wise enough—to light it, then he might truly have the strength to close those doorways. And to confront Rhita Gawr.

He swallowed, knowing that there was one more reason he had decided to carry the torch of his father. For as long as Krystallus had been alive, it had burned as bright as his very soul. So maybe, just maybe, if Tamwyn could find the way to light it . . .

I’d be a little closer to him.

With that, he started walking toward the cliffs that rose so steeply skyward. His bare feet, toughened by calluses, crunched on the hardpacked soil. Every step he took, gradually gaining altitude, he felt the ground hardening into rock, rough brown rock that felt appropriately like the bark of an enormous tree.

This would be, he knew, an arduous climb. Even merely to reach the lowest branch. To have any chance at all of reaching the stars before it was too late, he’d have to find some faster way to ascend—something like the Secret Stairway that had carried him all the way from Gwirion’s village of the fire angels to this hidden valley high on the trunk of the Tree. Yet what way could that be?

He started to clamber across a jumble of loose boulders, debris that had broken off from the cliffs above. Often he needed to use his hands to keep his balance—and once, when a sharp-edged boulder shifted under his weight, to keep from falling. Moving as swiftly as he could, he was soon sweating and panting from exertion. But he knew that he still wasn’t moving fast enough.

For he had very little time to do everything he must. Before long, Rhita Gawr would extinguish another star, the one known as the Heart of Pegasus. When that happened,
the great horse will die,
as the warlord himself had put it. And whatever else it would mean when that star’s fires went out, it would also be the signal for Rhita Gawr’s deathless warriors to attack Avalon.

Unless I can stop them somehow,
Tamwyn told himself. Yet even as that thought formed in his mind, he sighed.
That’s an awfully tall order for a lone wilderness guide, even one who dabbles in magic.

The boulder beneath him suddenly slid sideways. Tamwyn lurched, then managed to leap over to another one. Fortunately, the new boulder held steady. But his ankle scraped as he landed, and blood dribbled down his foot.

Too busy even to notice, he continued to clamber. At last, he reached the end of the boulder field—and the beginning of the cliffs. He checked the torch again, as well as the staff he had placed in the sheath that he’d woven of willow bark. Allowing himself one swig of the sweet, nourishing water from the Great Hall of the Heartwood, he stowed his flask. And then he started to climb.

Hand over hand he hoisted himself higher, moving like a lopsided spider up the cliffs. He grabbed whatever handholds he could find, while his feet wedged into niches or cracks no wider than his little toe. Whenever crumbled bits of rock rained down on his face, which was often, he couldn’t release his grip to brush himself off.

Tamwyn moved slowly upward, edging higher and higher. Yet more rocky cliffs always towered above him.

Hours later, they still towered. Though his arms and legs now felt as heavy as rock themselves, he continued to climb. Sweat from his brow dribbled into his eyes as he reached his hand up to a knob, one more handhold on one more ledge. Quaking, he pulled himself onto the lip of stone. When at last he lifted his chest, then one leg, then the other, over the edge—he collapsed there, flat on his back, breathing hard.

He closed his eyes, which were still stinging from perspiration. But he knew that it would only make them worse to wipe them with his dirty hands or tunic. Besides, what was there to see? For quite some time now, he’d been ascending through thick, swirling mist that obscured any view in any direction. Even the stars themselves were only visible as pale, ghostly spots within the vapors.

It’s really a good thing,
he thought glumly as he lay on the ledge, panting.
If I could see what’s ahead, it would only be cliffs stretching up forever. And stars too high to reach.

He rolled a bit to the side in order to stretch his back. The movement shook the small quartz bell on his hip. As it jingled in the misty air, he thought of Stoneroot, the land of bells. How he missed that familiar terrain! Now that the terrible drought had ended, spring should be just emerging there now, filling the air with the scent of honeygrass sprinkled with dew, moonberries plump and juicy, and those first pungent shafts of skunkweed that made a surprisingly tasty brew of tea.

Would he ever experience those aromas and flavors again? There was no way to tell.

Feeling the handle of his dagger digging into his hip, he shifted again, this time jostling his pack. From inside it came a new sound, softer and deeper than that of his bell. He knew well that sound. It came from his slab of harmóna wood, partly carved into the shape of a harp.

The harp he was making for Elli. As he listened to the low, quivering note, it seemed to vibrate within every bone of his body . . . along with the memory of their shared dream, and their one brief kiss.

Would they see each other again? Without quests to survive, or worlds to save? Again, there was no way to tell.

Just as he could only wonder about his other friends. As he sat up, blinking his sore eyes in the mist, he thought about Scree, whose wounds from Hallia’s Peak would surely have healed by now. And Gwirion, who must have found the Golden Wreath that Tamwyn had left for him. But had Gwirion also found his people’s true destiny, and the courage to lead them there?

Then he thought of Henni and Batty Lad, the two companions he had lost when they plunged into the upward-flowing Spiral Cascades. Did that footprint near his father’s grave mean that Henni, the wacky hoolah, had somehow survived? And was it possible that Batty Lad’s mindless chatter really meant more than Tamwyn had ever understood? Did that chatter provide some sort of clue to the nagging mystery of what sort of creature Batty Lad really was?