The Great Tree of Avalon (11 page)

Whatever the truth, this much was agreed: What few museos existed no longer lived in Shadowroot. Over the centuries, they’d been reported in most of the other realms of Avalon—even, it was said, in faraway Woodroot. They usually traveled with a bard, but not just any one would do. Only the wisest and most skillful bard could hope to win the loyalty of a museo.

Tamwyn shifted in the dung heap, suddenly puzzled. Could that silly old man with the sideways-growing beard really be enough of a bard to carry a museo?

As if in answer, the bard strummed a new chord on his lute. He swayed jauntily, though his face remained serious. Starlight glinted off his horizontal whiskers. And he began to sing, more clearly than a meadowlark on a summer morn.

The oldest song I sing ye now
Of dreams that yet survive,
Of yearning, suff’ring, hopes long lost—
And spirit still alive.

So that’s what they’ve chosen
, thought Tamwyn. It was “The Ballad of Avalon’s Birth”—his world’s oldest and most cherished song. He’d heard it many times before, to be sure. But never like this.

He leaned farther forward. And opened himself to the song, at once so old and so new.

7
•
The Ballad of Avalon’s Birth

Tamwyn stretched forward, listening.

The night air remained cold, but he felt warmer than before. Not just from the heat of the dung surrounding him, nor from the pleasing sight of all those thousands of stars above. Instead, this new warmth came from the music itself—music made from the voice of a bard, the hum of a museo, and the pluck of a lute. And from something else . . . something more magical still.

The oldest song I sing ye now
Of dreams that yet survive,
Of yearning, suff’ring, hopes long lost—
And spirit still alive.

The mythic birth of Avalon,
A world begun a seed,
Embraces all we might become
And lo, what all we need.

Yet in the seed is found as well
The greed and rage and fears
That make the freely flowing rill
Become a trail of tears.

What shall become of Avalon,
Our dream, our deepest need?
What glory or despair shall sprout
From Merlin’s magic seed?

The seed that beat just like a heart
Was won by Merlin’s hand
When he the magic Mirror saved
And found a distant land.

The wizard Merlin lost his home,
Fincayra wrapped in mist—
But gained the seed, a simple sphere,
By endless wonders kissed.

So even as Fincayra fell,
And heard his parting speech,
The Isle Forgotten joined the shore
Impossible to reach.

A day of miracles emerged
From winter’s longest night—
A day of wings, and children brave,
And dazzling dreams so bright.

Yet none of these could e’er outshine
The secret of the seed.
It held a Tree of boundless size
And lo, a whole new creed:

That creatures all might live in peace,
With Nature’s bounty theirs;
That here between the other worlds
Exists a world that dares

To celebrate the sweep of life
That walks or swims or flies,
To honor ev’ry living thing
That breathes and grows and dies.

Fair Avalon, the Tree of Life
That ev’ry creature knows—
A world part Heaven and part Earth
And part what wind that blows.

The bard paused, allowing his words to echo through the night:
And part what wind that blows . . . what wind . . . that blows . . . that blows . . . that blows.

His eyes glistened darkly. Then he turned just a bit so that he almost faced the stable and the dung heap. Tamwyn couldn’t be sure, but he felt that maybe the bard had seen him. And was watching him from the edge of those dark eyes.

Tamwyn sat utterly still, hardly daring to breathe. Please, he thought. Please don’t leave.
Let me hear more!

Just then, the tree spirits surrounding the bard began to dance. Their willowy shapes spun in slow, graceful circles; their long hair flowed outward, gleaming in the light of the stars. All at once, they kicked their rootlike legs, arching their backs like saplings bent with snow. Yet their faces, still and somber, never changed. Around and around the bard they spun, their slender feet never touching the ground.

The museo, meanwhile, leaned back a bit on the bard’s bald head so that its narrow face turned toward the stars. It started to hum louder than before. Just one note—a single note that rolled right underneath the bard’s echoing words, carrying them farther and farther, like a swelling wave on a boundless sea.

The note pierced Tamwyn’s heart, emptied it out, then filled it up completely. Feelings swept through him, one after another. First loneliness, then hope, then yearning for something powerful—something he couldn’t quite grasp, nor even name. Yet he wanted it, longed for it, ached for it dearly.

At last, the bard strummed again upon his lute. The museo’s hum grew quieter; the tree spirits stopped their dance. Then the bard tilted his head slightly, half of his beard shining with starlight, and began to sing:

Now mist surrounds another world—
The world of Avalon.
Its roots enormous are the realms
That all may live upon.

Above the root-realms stands the trunk,
A bridge that binds us all:
Between the Earth and Otherworld,
Our Avalon stands tall.

And so the Tree’s foundation is
The Seven Realms of lore:
First Mudroot, where new life begins,
Malóch its name of yore.

Then Shadowroot, so dark and cold,
Lastrael was its name;
And Stoneroot with its mountains high
Olanabram became.

Now Waterroot, so wide and deep,
Brynchilla called at first;
And Fireroot, fair Rahnawyn,
By foes too often cursed.

Next Airroot, home to sylphs afloat
In Y Swylarna’s skies;
And Woodroot, most remote of all,
El Urien so wise.

I ask again and asked afore
The question ages old—
The question clear whose answer still
Has never been foretold:

What shall become of Avalon,
Our dream, our deepest need?
What glory or despair shall sprout
From Merlin’s magic seed?

At this point, Tamwyn caught another glance from the bard. This time he felt sure that the fellow had seen him. But the bard went right on singing, as if nothing mattered but the song itself.

The Age of Flowering began,
The first of Avalon.
So came the founders of the creed:
Elen and Rhiannon.

As creatures thrived, they filled the lands
So wondrous and diverse.
The stars shone bright on Avalon,
And sang elusive verse.

Enchanted portals linked the realms:
Serella led the way.
And Merlin left, though prayed he might
Return another day.

Then stars aligned in strange new ways,
Destroying cherished forms—
And soon across the Seven Realms
Began the Age of Storms.

The winds of greed and arrogance
Blew now relentlessly,
And sucked the precious sap of life
From deep inside the Tree.

At last, long last, through Merlin’s aid,
The storms of war fell still.
Yet now the winds of Avalon
Contained a subtle chill.

And so the agonies that birthed
The Age of Ripening—
A time when all through Avalon
The highest hopes took wing—

Gave birth, as well, to prophecy.
Our Lady of the Lake
Arose and did for all to hear
A Dark prediction make:

“A year shall come when stars go dark,
And faith will fail anon—
For born shall be a child who spells
The end of Avalon.

“The only hope beneath the stars
To save that world so fair
Will be the Merlin then alive:
The wizard’s own true heir.”

What shall become of Avalon,
Our dream, our deepest need?
What glory or despair shall sprout
From Merlin’s magic seed?

The bard fell silent, as did the museo. A gentle breeze arose, rustling the hair of the encircling tree spirits, and the fields of barley beyond the village. But other than the soothing whisper of night air, no sound could be heard.

In Tamwyn’s mind a certain phrase stuck, clinging to his thoughts like a burr to his leggings:
the wizard’s true heir
. He felt sure that he’d heard that phrase a long time ago—before he’d ever heard it in the ballads of wandering bards.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember. Was it from a dream? From
the
dream? He could almost hear it, spoken aloud, with reverence and a touch of fear.
The wizard’s true heir.
But who had said it? And why?

He shook his head, unable to remember. And yet . . .

Hearing some movement, Tamwyn opened his eyes. They were leaving! As the tree spirits bowed low and floated away into the night, the bard replaced the lopsided hat on his head, covering the museo. And then, with a twirl of his sideways-growing beard, he strode off.

Tamwyn swallowed, for he knew that his moment of peace—as well as his vague memories—had disappeared, as well. Now he was back in the dung. By himself, as usual.

No, wait—not quite by himself. He lifted his gaze to the stars. They were still here, still his companions! Amidst the vastness of the night, so many lights shone—thousands upon thousands of them. There were the constellations he knew so well: Pegasus, the Golden Bough, Twisted Tree, and White Dragon.

And there, just above the hills on the horizon, the Wizard’s Staff. Not the most beautiful constellation—just seven stars: a line of five crowned by two at the top, so close, they nearly touched. But those stars were probably the most storied ones in Avalon. For those stars had gone dark, one by one, several centuries ago—right before the dreadful Age of Storms.

Up to that time, no celestial event in the history of Avalon had caused so much turmoil. When the Wizard’s Staff vanished, there had been riots among the dwarves in Fireroot, and mass marches on the great temple of the Society of the Whole, right here in Stoneroot. For many people, the War of Storms didn’t end when the peace treaty was signed at last— but when Merlin, through some powerful magic, finally rekindled the seven stars.

Tamwyn chewed his lip. The only other time Avalon’s stars had ever gone dark was the stellar eclipse in the Year of Avalon 985. That was the Year of Darkness—the year of Tamwyn’s birth. And also, if the stories were true, the year of someone else’s birth, someone who would bring about the end of Avalon.

Who was the child of the Dark Prophecy? And who was that child’s greatest foe, the true heir of Merlin? Tamwyn had heard many debates over the years, in taverns and farm fields, about whether such an heir even existed. Or, if he or she did exist, who it might be. Some believed it was the Lady of the Lake herself: She had, after all, helped Merlin end the War of Storms. But more and more people were claiming that a humble teacher somewhere in Woodroot, a fellow named Hanwan Belamir, was really Merlin’s heir.

Tamwyn lowered his gaze. Those were exactly the kinds of questions that Scree had always liked to debate. All through the night, until the stars brightened again the next morning. He just loved a good argument, waving his arms— or his precious walking stick—to make his points.
I miss that stubborn old scrap of bark. Even if he was just as gnome-headed as, well, as . . .

Tamwyn swallowed hard.
As a brother.

Once again he looked up at the stars, blinking to clear his vision. At first he didn’t notice what was happening to the Wizard’s Staff. Then something struck him as odd.

He blinked again—and caught his breath. For the constellation had, indeed, changed. Right before his eyes. Where just a moment ago there had been seven stars, there were now only six. A star had gone dark!

What that meant, he could only guess.

8
•
Out of the Shadows

With surprising speed for such a bulky warrior, Harlech took a step backward. He moved away from the base of the stone tower that rose from the rim of Waterroot’s deepest canyon, the Canyon of Crystillia. Away from the shadows that were darker than the darkest pit. And away from the cloaked figure skulking there.

“Merlin hisself?” he sputtered. “Yer goin’ to steal somethin’ from the wizard Merlin?”

“No, you fool. Merlin is gone, long gone! I shall take it from the person the prophecies call
the true heir of Merlin
. But the effect, my Harlech, will be the same. Mmmyesss.” He gave a low, throaty laugh. “You see, he carries with him a staff—the staff of his master! It looks like just a simple walking stick, my Harlech, which is why I’ve had to search so many years to find it. But this walking stick has great powers, mmmyesss. Powers I shall soon possess.”

The white hand of the cloaked figure stabbed at the air, pointing to the great stone dam that spanned the canyon below them, to the enormous white lake it contained, and to the teams of enslaved horses, deer, mules, dwarves, wolves, and oxen. They were dragging new stones from the open-pit mines, hauling more freshly cut trees for scaffolding, pulling heavy barges across the lake, and making repairs to the narrow road that ran across the top of the dam—all at the insistent cracking of men’s whips. In the distance, the White Geyser of Crystillia rumbled and threw its water high into the air, just as it had done since the birth of Avalon from Merlin’s magical seed.

Only now the geyser’s white water did not flow down into Waterroot and its neighboring realms—but stopped here, trapped behind the dam. To the very few explorers who had ever reached this remote place, the sight of the dam, the lake, and the dry canyons below Prism Gorge would have been shocking. And the sight of slaves—even more so.

“I shall use that staff, mmmyesss, my Harlech. For something most special. Most special, indeed. And then . . . I shall destroy it! And at the same time, I shall destroy forever Merlin’s hold on this world.”

Harlech tilted his head and scratched the jagged scar that ran across his jaw. “The wizard ain’t goin’ to like that, Master. Nor, I ’spect, his true heir.”

“You think that matters?” The sorcerer released a high, whistling laugh, like the hiss of a satisfied snake. “The lost staff will soon be the least of their problems. For I will use it, my Harlech, to gain something far greater: the control of Avalon.”