Willow (12 page)

Suddenly the glade lit up with eerie luminescence, sparkling and darting. It flowed off the undersides of the trees and showered back on Willow where he lay. It felt like healing rain.

“Behave yourself, Franjean!” The voice that spoke was wind-soft yet clear. Like silver. Like ice.

“Yes, Your Majesty!”

“What a miserable brownie you are! I ask you to bring the two Nelwyns to me, our guests, and what do you do? Hurl them into a pit! Strike them and abuse them! Tie them up!”

The other brownies shrank back, bumping into one another. “King of the World, huh, Franjean?” they whispered. “Kings aren’t supposed to be frightened, Franjean. They’re not supposed to tremble and shake!”

One of them shuffled over beside Willow’s ear, a slack-jawed and big-eared simpleton of a brownie. “Know who that is? That’s Cherlindrea! Franjean’s in trouble, now. We’re
all
in trouble. Your fault!”

“Who . . . who’s Cherlindrea?”

But the brownie had no chance to answer before the radiant cloud surrounded him. Willow saw to his astonishment that it was composed of fairies, hundreds of fairies, each smaller than the smallest butterfly. Their laughter rang like tiny chimes. When they circled his head their touch soothed like spring water and his headache vanished. When they surrounded his body, the brownie ropes fell away. The arrow wounds ceased stinging, and the throbbing in his joints and muscles vanished.

Willow sat up. He stood.

Meegosh rose too, more slowly.

“You all right?”

Meegosh nodded, frowning at his arm, which had been miraculously trussed up in splints and a sling.

“Bring the Nelwyns to me,” Cherlindrea said, her voice like crystal wind. Willow and Meegosh felt the gentle pressure of hundreds of tiny fairy hands. The brownie circle opened before them and they were led to the edge of the glade, where the radiance was so bright they had to cover their eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Cherlindrea said. The light dimmed. “Is that better?” It dimmed more, still more, until they could open their eyes again.

Cherlindrea, queen of the fairies, hovered above them. Willow gasped, she was so beautiful. The fairies of his imagination had all been
old
—wizened and sharp-nosed crones. In the tales his mother told, they were pests and busybodies, forever making life harder for Nelwyns, forever stealing and casting irksome charms on crops and livestock. But Cherlindrea was young. Her tiny body was graceful and perfectly proportioned, and her radiance emanated not from it alone—and from her wings, and from her flaxen hair—but also from a gentle smile.

Near her laughing on a bed of moss, lay the child.

“Thank goodness!” Willow said. He started forward to take her up, but Cherlindrea’s brilliance suddenly intensified and he fell back. “The child is well, Willow Ufgood, and you may hold her. But first, hear what I say.”

“H-how did you know my name?”

“Elora told me. Elora has told me all about you.” The light subsided, and Willow saw that Cherlindrea was gazing at the child adoringly. “Elora Danan. She is a very special child, Willow. She is the daughter of the sun and the moon, and the rightful empress of all kingdoms.”

“Then you will look after her?”

“Oh yes. We
all
must look after her.”

“And we can go home, Meegosh and I.”

“Meegosh may go. We shall see that he has safe escort home. But your journey has just begun, Willow Ufgood.”

“But, please, you don’t understand. I want to go back to my family. I’m worried about them. They need me!”

“Elora needs you. That is even more important. She has chosen you to be her guardian on the journey she must make.”

“Chosen me! But how could she? She’s an infant.”

Cherlindrea laughed. “A very special infant.” Her light glowed brighter, and Willow shielded his eyes. With a gentle motion, she raised the baby off her bed of moss and floated her toward Willow, laughing. He took her into his arms. Sparkling light touched the inside of the child’s elbow. “She has the Sign, you see.” Then for a moment Cherlindrea fragmented and vanished, and the glade was lit only by the soft glow of moonlight and the dancing radiance of the other fairies. When she returned she was carrying a wand, like a crooked twig.

“Now, Meegosh,” Cherlindrea said, “the time has come for you to part from your friend and begin your journey home. I must give Willow his instructions and tell secrets that are for him alone. You are a good friend, Meegosh. You have served loyally, and you shall be rewarded.”

“Must
I go?”

“Yes, you must.”

“But will it . . . be dangerous for Willow?”

“Very dangerous.”

“Then why . . .”

The radiance throbbed. Meegosh covered his eyes. “All right. I’m sorry.”

Willow took his friend’s hand. “Good-bye, Meegosh. Thank you.”

“Willow, I don’t think you really have to do this. The High Aldwin . . .”

Willow glanced down at the smiling child. “If I don’t do it, who will?”

“Well,” Meegosh sighed, “be careful, then.”

Willow nodded. “You must tell Kiaya and the children that I love them. And Meegosh, tell them we had a nice trip. Tell them the country around the Daikini crossroads is very pretty. Don’t tell them what it’s
really
like.”

Meegosh laughed. “I won’t have to with Burglekutt around. Everything will be twice as big and twice as scary as it really

“Look after them, Meegosh.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Round the bend!”

“Round the bend.”

“He’s a donkey . . .”

“I’m your friend.” Willow hesitated a moment, grinning. Their childish ritual brought good memories flooding back—memories of long summery days spent fishing along the shadowy banks of the Freen; memories of days when there were no urgencies, no responsibilities, no terrors; memories of boyhood.

He watched Meegosh head south into the forest, a little cloud of fairies surrounding him.

“He will be well looked after,” Cherlindrea said. “Now, Willow Ufgood, your way lies to the north, where you must take Elora Danan.”

“North! Even beyond the Daikini crossroads?”

“Far beyond. You must travel the old road. You must take this child to Tir Asleen.”

“Tir Asleen!” Willow sat down suddenly. “Do you mean there really
is
a Tir Asleen?”

“Oh, yes.”

“But I thought . . . I thought . . .”

“You thought it was only legend.”

Willow nodded.

“No, Willow. Tir Asleen is real. You must take Elora Danan safely there. And you must take something else, as well.”

“But what?
Why
?”

“Ah,” the brownies said, nodding to each other. “The Question.” All around Willow they drew closer and sat down, folding their legs and laying their spears and bows on the moss.

“Ohhh,” sighed the fairies, “the Question, the Question.” The chorus of their voices whispered like breath in crystal. All around Willow silvery clouds of them settled on flowers and drooping leaves.

Cherlindrea smiled. She laid her wand beside her. Her aura diminished so that Willow could see her clearly. She nodded, looking a little sadly at him. “Yes, of course, when you go into the Daikini world you must
know,
mustn’t you? Well, to answer your question, and to show you what you face I must tell you a story . . .”

Cherlindrea’s Tale

Long ago, the high castle of Tir Asleen reigned over all those lands—south even farther than the Nelwyn Valley, east beyond Galladoorn, and westward to the sea. In those days the Earth was wild and good. There was room in it for all, and a multitude of plants and animals flourished on it, woven together in ways that no mortal may understand. Daikinis lived at peace with one another and permitted the small folk to go their ways undisturbed. Fairies, brownies, Nelwyns and elves all lived out their lives in harmony with each other and with men. There was no time then, but only the slow round of the days, only the turning of the seasons.

For many generations the kings of Tir Asleen had kept the order of this land, not by decree, but by the wise channeling of will, so that disputes were quelled as if by magic, and enemies found themselves sharing the same currents of Life. Then as now, of course, all things died, but in those days we understood better how all things were reborn.

As well as the kings of Tir Asleen, there were in those days others with special powers, powers sometimes far surpassing the High Aldwin’s. Often they began as mere tricksters, performers of magic acts for their friends. They crafted many devices—hollow feathers, hanging sleeves, hidden pockets. Some aspired to rise above these things and touch the infinite power of the Great Mystery; they longed to become true sorcerers. Only a very few achieved this end.

The youngest ever to become a sorceress was Fin Raziel. She was a wondrous child. From her birth, all who attended upon her mother knew she participated in the Mystery, for the animals came to her. Deer and elk emerged from the forest at dusk and waited in the fields to pay her homage. Hawks and sparrows settled together in the boughs of firs and uttered soft cries of greeting when the nursemaid brought the child to the lighted window. Salamanders and frogs struggled up from the marshes to see her and gazed upon her with large eyes.

While she was still a child, she often went far from home, and for many days. Her parents had no fear for her, because they understood that she must follow the urgings of her heart, and they knew that no harm would come to her. Where she went, what she did, whom or what she saw—they never knew, for the child would never talk. Some said that before she was five she had made great journeys on the backs of eagles. Some said that before the age of ten she had travelled to the farthest reaches of the kingdom and had made a pilgrimage to the Western Islands, where ancient ruins lay glyph-covered in their fogs. Everyone understood that when Fin Raziel departed on her journeys, she had been summoned by true sorcerers. They knew that she was being nurtured in the Mystery, and shown how to find her Way. They knew too that she conversed with all the small folk of the lakes and forests—with the lords of the elves, with the high priests of the brownies, and with fairy queens. Cherlindrea saw her often in those days and watched her grow. She was a radiant and beautiful child, pure as a still pond . . .

But she was a woman also, and a Daikini, and hence subject to all the Daikini whims and passions. Neither spells nor solemn warnings could protect her from those passions, for they lay within. As a sorceress she was sublime; as human she was vulnerable.

And so she fell—down into danger, down into love.

The young man was beautiful, and good, and a worthy mate. He was a prince of Tir Asleen and next in line for the throne. All the virtues of that royal house were his—courage, kindness, generosity, patience, and wisdom. He was handsome besides, with regal bearing, and the broad honest face of his family. Splendid red hair distinguished him, as it did them all.

Imagine him at the festivals where he rode among his people on his white horse, or dismounted to stroll and feast with them, to bless their provender, and laugh with them at the games and plays. How splendid he was! No wonder the young Raziel should fall hopelessly in love with him.

When autumn came, her pursuit of the Way became a halting thing. She grew reluctant to make the journeys, loathe to respond to summonses. For many days at a time she would close off all contact with her mentors in sorcery, and they could not know what was happening to her. She became private and secretive. She moved out of the currents of the Mystery, and into Daikini life.

Joyous was all that Daikini world! Their prince had found a princess as lovely as he was handsome, one whose virtues matched his own, who equalled him in majesty, who would join him in a long and fruitful reign. When their engagement was announced, what a festival was held in the valley of Tir Asleen! They bedecked all the castle with flags and flowers. They covered the whole broad avenue with blossoms. People from all the kingdoms journeyed to bestow gifts and blessings.

But the wedding was not to be. In the valley of Tir Asleen dwelt another young sorceress—Bavmorda! She too had once shown great promise. Creatures of the forest night—whippoorwills and owls, night herons and flying squirrels—had all attended at her mother’s chamber in the hour of her birth. Like Fin Raziel, Bavmorda had received nurturing and tutelage from Cherlindrea and others of the Mystery. Upon her they lavished all their wisdom, urging her to find her Way. How they came to regret that! For Bavmorda’s power found tides deeper than Raziel’s and blended into darker seas.

Now, the great Mystery is eternal and beyond all persuasions. Those who draw upon it, either Daikini or other-than-human, must control themselves, and see clearly what is good and what is evil. Some few abandon that control; they lust for power as a traveler in dry land longs for water. Bavmorda was one of these. Her Way drew heavily on the powers of the Mystery, but it was restricted by no conscience. Selfishness drove her. Passions dominated her. So cunning was she, and so strong, that she concealed her purposes even from all her mentors’ divination until too late, until she had passed beyond control.

Then she became enormous; she became an enormity!

She did not change physically. If anything, she grew sweeter on the outside and more charming as her dark and inward power grew. But sorcerers of all degrees from across the realms could
feel
what was happening. They could feel each other’s consternation and helplessness, each other’s foreboding.

When Bavmorda turned her wiles on the young prince of Tir Asleen, what protection did he have against her? None! In no time she had spellbound him, in no time aroused his passions to meet her own. In no time she had lured him away from Fin Raziel. For days they would vanish together, making love in caves and bowers that only Bavmorda knew, while her minions kept watch, turning back all creatures from their natural haunts and habitats. In no time the young man was besotted by her. And, as she controlled him, so she controlled Tir Asleen!

Poor Raziel! Too late she realized what had happened—too late, when her own Way had eddied into backwaters and disuse. She rushed frantically from one sorcerer to the next, pleading for help, but there was nothing they could do. They could not lend themselves to such a cause, to a mere struggle of the passions.