The Great Tree of Avalon (30 page)

Their feasting continued for quite some time before anyone said a word. It was Llynia, sipping her third glass of mead, who spoke first. “Hanwan, such a fabulous meal! Tell us now, what is your secret to producing all this delicious food?”

The old gardener smiled modestly. “Simple, really. I’ve just never forgotten one basic rule: It is the job of humans to take care of this world, to help and protect all other creatures. That is our responsibility, and why we were created in the image of Dagda and Lorilanda.”

A nice ring to those words
, thought Tamwyn as he started on another slice of melon.

Llynia nodded thoughtfully. “So you’re saying that humans are special—both in our gifts and our responsibilities.”

Belamir beamed at her. “My brightest students could not have put it better.”

Elli, though, felt puzzled. “Just what do you mean, that humans are
special?
”

“What she means,” answered Nuic, who was munching on a carrot so big, he needed both hands to hold it, “is that humans are
superior
.” He bit into the carrot again. “A view that is so wrong-headed that only a human would suggest it.”

Llynia glared at the sprite. “Show some manners, Nuic! You are speaking to Olo Belamir.”

The old fellow raised a hand. “It’s quite all right, Llynia. Perhaps I didn’t explain my view clearly enough.” He gazed thoughtfully out the nearest window for a moment before continuing. “Humans have great gifts, as Llynia said. And also great potential—not always realized, mind you, but there nonetheless—for helping other creatures less fortunate than ourselves. That means we need to apply our wisdom, inventiveness, and hard work to making the world a better place for all to live.”

“Even if that means deciding what’s best for other creatures? Making them do whatever humans want?”

“Nuic!” scolded Llynia. “How can you be so rude?”

“Wait,” demanded Elli, “that’s a fair question.”

“What would
you
know about any of this, you apprentice third class?” Llynia’s face looked as crimson as the mead in her glass—except, of course, the dark green mark on her chin.

Tamwyn wiped a dribble of melon juice off his chin. He was at least half listening to this conversation, and he thought maybe Elli had a point. He might have spoken up . . . but there was that next slice of melon, just waiting to be eaten. Besides, the last thing he felt like doing was siding with Elli on anything.

Belamir, like a practiced teacher, waved his hands for silence. He turned to Nuic. “You put it rather harshly, pinnacle sprite, but there is some truth in what you say. Humans
do
know what’s best for the other creatures of Avalon. And for the landscape, as well. That is why we should always try to do what’s best for the world.”

“Best for humans, you mean,” said Nuic icily. His color was now bloodred.

“What’s best for humans is, by definition, best for everyone else.” Belamir smiled graciously. “That is why so many creatures—not just humans, but creatures of all kinds—have adopted my teachings. And are living more comfortably because of it.”

He stretched his arm toward the window. “You needn’t look any farther than my little village of Prosperity, which has given us all this food. In a time that some are calling a drought, I might add!”

The gardener’s round face became wistful. “There is no limit to human ingenuity, none at all. We can make gardens, tools, vehicles, whatever we need. Even buildings! Why, someday I predict our buildings will be so large, and so comfortable, that people won’t even need to go outside.”

Tamwyn stopped chewing, midslice. Not go outside?

“All things are possible,” Belamir went on, “if humans just make use of their gifts. And their surroundings.”

Nuic put down the rest of his carrot. “By which you mean all the world’s lands—and creatures.”

“That’s correct, my good sprite.”

“So does that mean . . . if you think it’s best to keep a goat locked up, even if the goat would rather be running free, you have the right to do that?”

“Yes.”

“Or to cut down an ancient tree, even the last of its kind, if you think it could be useful?”

“Yes.”

“But those things are against the Drumadians’—” began Elli.

“Hush, apprentice!” hissed Llynia. “I told you that you know nothing of these matters!” She gave a sarcastic wink to Belamir. “This girl believes that even a moth could qualify as a priestess.”

The old man raised an eyebrow. “Does she, now? Well, well, we were all young once, weren’t we?”

“And some of us never grow up,” said Llynia smugly, chortling into her glass.

Elli suddenly stood. “I think, Nuic, it’s time for us to go. Don’t ask me where, but away from here.”

As the sprite nodded, she placed him on her shoulder. Facing Belamir, she said curtly, “Thank you for the meal.” She glanced over at Tamwyn, who just looked down at his melon. Then she strode out of the room.

Llynia looked across the table at her host. “Oh, I do apologize for her impudence. She is hopeless, Hanwan, truly hopeless.”

The old teacher shook his head in sympathy. “Your burdens are great, Llynia.” He reached for the bottle and poured her some more mead. “Tell me, now. Just where are you going? I am sure that the Chosen One does not travel so far from the Great Temple without good reason.”

“Very good.” She took a slow sip of mead. Then, to Tamwyn’s surprise, she said, “We are going to the Lady of the Lake. To seek her counsel.”

Belamir studied her intently. “About the changes in the stars, no doubt.”

“And other troubles.”

“Of which I am well aware.” His brow creased, like a freshly plowed field. “The Lady will not be easy to find. She works in mysterious ways.”

Llynia drained her glass. “At least I’ve had a vision to guide us.”

“A vision!” He gazed at her with admiration. “You
are
most talented.”

She tried not to show her pleasure at his words, but her blush told all. Then, all of a sudden, her expression darkened. She leaned across the table and said anxiously, “Except for seeing the Lady, my visions haven’t been... what they were. For quite some time now. They’re clouded, unclear—if they come at all. Do you have any words of advice for me?”

The old man pondered for a moment. “Perhaps, Llynia, your enormous sensitivity to your surroundings—the very source of your gift—is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing for the great wisdom it gives you, and the Society you will one day lead. And a curse as well, for it probably magnifies whatever foolishness or incompetence is in your midst. Am I being clear?”

Slowly, she shook her head. Tamwyn could tell that while she didn’t want to seem stupid, she desperately wanted his advice. “No. I’m sorry.”

“My fault,” said Belamir. “I shall be more direct, then.” He breathed a sigh. “I think your problem may be the Society itself.”

Llynia sat back in her chair. “Really?”

“Really.” He placed his hand on her forearm. “It may be too backward, too caught up in old ways, for someone of your extraordinary skills. That, I fear, could be interfering with your gift.”

She swallowed. “Are you saying . . .”

“Merely that you have an open invitation to come here to the Academy, anytime you like. You could come only briefly, as my honored guest, just to clear your mind of distractions. Or you could stay longer. Yes, Llynia! You could even help me found a new and greater faith.”

She gazed at him uncertainly. “You really . . . think so highly of me?”

“Indeed I do.” He smiled at her. “Well now, I believe I have delayed you long enough. Shall we gather your supplies and your . . . er, companions?”

She returned the smile. “Yes, Hanwan. And thank you for what you said just now.”

“My pleasure.”

With that, they both rose from their seats. Belamir extended his arm and Llynia took it. Together, they walked out of the room, without so much as a backward glance at Tamwyn.

28
•
Illusion

The heavy wooden gates of prosperity swung open, creaking loudly. Under the strong starlight of early afternoon, the travelers filed through, leaving the village behind. Ahead of them, the massive trees of the forest seemed to whisper uneasily.

Belamir himself saw them off, flanked by Morrigon, whose bloodshot eye seemed painfully swollen. With a look of worry on his face, the old teacher stood by the gates and waved his hand with the broken thumbnail in farewell. As the travelers marched into the trees, only two of them looked back: Henni, who was already missing his time feasting in those gardens; and Llynia, who seemed to be missing something else.

Tamwyn had agreed to Llynia’s request to find the highest hill around, so that she could take in the view and find something that would recall her vision of the Lady of the Lake. Normally, that wouldn’t be a tough assignment for a wilderness guide. But he found himself haunted by thoughts of the old cherry tree, the strange white lake, the deadly gray mist, and his mixed feelings about Belamir. So he walked distractedly into the trees.

Thud!
Tamwyn’s foot caught the root of a rowan tree, and he fell flat on his face. He rolled on the mossy ground, shaking his head at his own clumsiness.

“Well,” said Elli, “we’re off to a great start.”

He sat up, pulling some moss from his mouth. “Would you like to lead?”

“No, no,” she said with a laugh. “You’re much more entertaining.”

Nuic, still quite red, shifted on her shoulder. “And after our talk with that
humble gardener
, we could use some entertainment.”

Tamwyn grimaced, then stood up with a clink of the little bell on his waist. Remembering Batty Lad, who had flown back just as they’d left the village, he peered into the pocket of his robe. “All right in there?” he asked. A thin, whistling snore was the only reply. So he closed the pocket and turned back to the forest, determined to give Elli nothing else to laugh about.

Soon he found the narrow path of a fox run. It led them through some thorny brambles, and then, as he’d hoped, to higher ground—a narrow, twisting hill more like the back of a great serpent than a ridge of land. They followed the hill for more than an hour, though it never broke out of the trees to give them a wider view. Then, to Tamwyn’s disappointment, it plunged back down again, leaving them in thicker forest than before.

Sweaty and discouraged, Tamwyn debated where to go next, when he spied a line of willows, their lacy branches waving in a subtle wind. Knowing that willows often grew by water, he turned toward them. A stream, maybe? The drought didn’t seem to have reached these depths of Woodroot—not yet, anyway. So perhaps there really was a stream under those boughs.

Yes—a small, silvery spring coursed through the willows. It glittered like a trail of shimmering stars, more luminous than any stream he’d ever seen. He stopped, gazing at the bright water.

Elli, struck by the same sight, halted right behind him. Suddenly she cried, “Look!”

As they watched in astonishment, the whole surface of the stream took flight—a liquid necklace that lifted into the air with a loud hum. Then, all at once, they realized their mistake.

“Spray faeries,” they said in unison, as thousands of the silver-winged creatures—tiny even for faeries—rose skyward. In just a few seconds, the entire flock floated up through the willow leaves, like rising raindrops, and out of sight.

Tamwyn and Elli traded glances, too amazed (for the moment) to remember their old animosity. As Llynia, Henni, and Fairlyn joined them, they turned back to the stream, which gurgled invitingly. All of them knelt to take a drink— except for Fairlyn, who just waded right in.

Nuic, meanwhile, hopped off Elli’s shoulder. The old sprite slid down the bank and sat on some smooth pebbles. As the cool water splashed against his back, his color changed to misty blue.

Tamwyn cupped his hands and splashed his face. “Ahhh. This is even better than that feast of Belamir’s.”

Elli looked at him doubtfully. “You really think so? You seemed to enjoy stuffing your face with melons.”

He was about to respond, when a sudden cry startled them both. It was harsh, like the screeches of eaglefolk—but higher and more rasping. They looked up at the strip of sky above the willow-lined banks. The screeching cry came again, louder this time. And in that instant, Tamwyn remembered the two times he’d heard that cry before: at the death of his mother, and at the moment he’d lost Scree.

“Ghoulacas!” he shouted. “Run!”

But it was too late. The air buzzed with wings—transparent wings that were just blurs, bearing nearly invisible bodies half as tall as Tamwyn. Though their wings and bodies were transparent, the ghoulacas’ bloodred talons and huge, curved beaks were easy to see. And easier to feel, as they ripped and slashed, trying to tear apart their prey.

More screeches echoed in the trees. Willow branches, snapped by savage beaks, splashed down into the spring. Fairlyn, who was taller than the others, tried to shield them by swinging her branches wildly. Even though several of her limbs were broken or bandaged, she still fought valiantly. Llynia, frozen with fear, huddled by her roots.

Tamwyn and Elli each grabbed willow branches and tried to fend off the attackers. But sticks were little use against those knife-sharp beaks and slashing talons. If Fairlyn hadn’t been giving them cover, they would have quickly been cut to bloody bits.

Henni fared much better. His slingshot, armed with pebbles from the spring, zapped many ghoulacas—one of them right in the eye, which sent it crashing down into the willows. Even so, there were at least five more of the killer birds, all of them eager for blood. As fast as he shot at them, jumping from bank to bank to avoid their talons, it wasn’t fast enough.

From his spot in the middle of the spring, Nuic surprised one ghoulaca by shooting one of his silver-threaded parachutes over its head. The bird squawked angrily, unable to open its beak through the tangled lines. But its talons ripped the air more violently than ever. It was all the sprite could do to roll down the waterway, barely out of reach.

As Nuic bumped up against Tamwyn’s leg, he lifted his liquid purple eyes to the young man. “Now would be a good time,” he panted hoarsely, “for one of your little illusions.”