The Dragon of Avalon (11 page)

Turning to the other side of the boulder, Basil caught his breath. More winged people! Though no flames danced on their bodies, they looked just as majestic as the fire angel. And more like mortal men and women.

Eaglefolk! Basil recognized them from all he'd heard. Six of them stood together, rustling their powerful wings. Their yellow-rimmed eyes flashed with fierce pride; their powerful talons clutched the snow. Row upon row of feathers, entirely silver except for their red tips, shimmered in the light from Avalon's daytime stars. Feeling suddenly inadequate, he pulled his crumpled little wings tighter against his back.

What's the point of looking for relatives
? he thought glumly.
Nobody who looks like me would have been invited! This wedding is for mighty folk like angels and eagles, giants and unicorns.

Then, crawling by his side on the boulder, he saw a pair of rust-colored beetles. One carried a broken wing, hanging loosely from its back; the other seemed so old and frail it could barely move its legs. Yet here they were, scaling a small tuft of snow on the boulder, doing their best to get a better view.

With a nudge from his tail, Basil helped them climb their little mountain. The older beetle waved a wing in thanks, and Basil replied with a courteous nod. Just then his attention was caught not by another creature, but by a fluffy cloud of mist that was sailing just over the heads of the deer people. It moved in a focused, almost deliberate, way. As the cloud turned sharply and passed right above him, he clacked his teeth in surprise.

It's moving against the wind.
Amazed, he dug his tiny claws into the snow on the boulder.

As Basil watched in wonder, the mass of mist sailed straight into the gusty breeze that flowed across the mountaintop. Completely unaffected, it flew into the center of the ring and approached Merlin and Hallia from behind.

Somehow sensing the cloud, Merlin spun around. And then the wizard did something unexpected: He waved his hand in greeting. At that, the cloud did something even more unexpected. Rippling like a windblown sail, it rose into a vertical position, Then, slowly, its upper portion bent forward in a stately bow.

It's alive!
Basil realized.
A creature of mist!
A sylph from Airroot, that's what it was. Ever since he first heard of them, he'd wanted to see one. Wise as well as mysterious, they rarely left their realm, preferring to float silently through the Harplands, where the clouds themselves made music, or to roam across the skies, moving with the wind.

All at once he remembered another creature of wind! One whose touch he hadn't felt since the day he was born. At the instant his egg fell into Woodroot and cracked open on a bed of moss, a warm breeze had swept around him—full of the smell of cinnamon and the gift of friendship. Could she, perhaps, be here? Could she find him once more?

Basil scampered over to the boulder's highest edge. Stretching his neck upward, he lifted his small head toward the sky. Then, remembering the danger of being caught as an intruder, he hesitated—for an instant. With a hearty shake, he banished the worry. His first friend might be here! And so he cried:

"Aylah, are you anywhere near? Come find me, wind sister! Come find me again."

The chill breeze scurried across the mountaintop. But it carried no answer.

"Call as you wish," whispered a voice right behind him. "Yet expect a reply you should not."

12:
M
YSTERY
B
EAST

Here's the hard truth, straight from me:

To know who you are, it is less important to find who you were than to decide who you will become.

Whirling around, Basil saw an immense creature who towered over the boulder. Never had he seen anything like this before! The creature, whose whispered voice sounded distinctly feminine, stood more than twice as tall as Merlin. As she bent her rounded head lower, her deep-set eyes, as brown as the rest of her body, examined Basil closely. All the while, her four slender arms, each with three long fingers, stirred the air as if plucking invisible strings, making some sort of silent music.

"Who—who are you?" he demanded, spreading his wings to take flight.

"Aelonnia of Isenwy am I, a mudmaker of Malóch." Her resonant whisper somehow seemed to calm Basil's nerves. He felt himself relaxing as she spoke. Just to be safe, though, he kept his wings wide open, ready to fly in an instant.

Her deep brown eyes peered at him, so intensely that he wondered if she were reading his mind. Nervously, he slapped his tail on the boulder, sending up a puff of snow. Her gaze never wavered, making him feel more anxious by the second. The tension grew and grew—until, at last, she spoke again.

"Your name I know not, little one." With each word, her delicate fingers wove flowing patterns in the air. "Yet you a riddle could be called. Truly I speak! Many creatures have I seen, in many realms. Yet none like you have I ever found. Even possible, it is, that no one else like you exists."

Basil caught his breath. A deep chill, colder than the snow, spread through his body. How could she say that? How could she be so sure? With a shiver, he declared, "I don't believe you."

"Perhaps not. But wonder you do, I can tell." Her resonant whisper softened. "Tell me, little one, why do they matter so much, my words?"

"Because they do!" he blurted. "Wouldn't it matter to you if you had no family? No race? No identity?"

"An identity you have," she declared, bending her rounded head lower. "But unlike any other it is. True that must be—whether or not any more of your kind exist."

Basil's cupped ears trembled. "What
am
I, though? If there are no others like me . . ."

"Then," finished the mudmaker, "you are a mystery beast."

"That much I already knew." He gave a halfhearted chuckle and tucked his wings against his back. "Now, tell me. Do you always talk with people about—well, about what they . . . um, well, what they—"

"Truly are?" Her fingers stroked the air ever so gently.

Hesitantly, he nodded.

"No, little one. But with you . . ." She paused, tilting her massive brown head. "Strange magic do I see in your eyes. Yes, strange magic indeed."

Uncomfortable with this whole conversation—and not at all sure what to make of this tall, sinewy creature—he decided to change the subject. Right now.

"Never mind about that," he snapped, drumming his tail on the boulder for emphasis. "Why did you say what you said before? About Aylah—that I shouldn't expect her to answer me. What did you mean?"

The mudmaker sighed. "Only that a wishlahaylagon she is, a wind sister of the sky. Always moving, never at rest." Her delicate fingers swept through the air like swirling wind. "Answer the call of other creatures they do only quite rarely."

Feeling the truth of her words, Basil blinked his green eyes. Quietly, he asked, "So I shouldn't hope . . . to meet her again?"

"Hope you may, little one," Aelonnia whispered. "But only because, here in Avalon, anything is possible. How else to explain the magical mud of my realm? Power it holds, thanks to Merlin—power to make new creatures."

"Creatures? From mud?" In a flash, he remembered what the gossiping crows had said. "So it's really true?"

Aelonnia's deep-set eyes seemed to smile. "Like you, little one, the mud of my realm is more than it seems. For all the elements of élano it contains—including the magic of Mystery."

"Mystery?"

"Yes, little one. A gift from the gods that is, a gift to Avalon."

Before Basil could respond, a loud, heartrending wail erupted from the snow by Aelonnia's feet.

"Oh, terribulous painodeath! My endalife, tragicmost, all too soonswift. Such a dastardous fate, horribulous end!"

Peering over the edge of the boulder, Basil looked for who was dying—for surely nothing less could cause such mournful keening. What he saw, rolling in misery in the snow, was a creature unlike any he'd ever imagined. Dark, rounded, and sleek, the creature resembled a seal—except that he had three claws on each fin, plus a row of several tails, each one coiled into a spiral. Suddenly the creature wailed again, his long whiskers quivering.

"Mepoorme, to shriveldie so soon! And I still so youngsweet, almost a barebaby."

With a groan, the mudmaker stooped down and picked him up. "There now, little ballymag. Stop your whining, you must."

"Is he going to die?" asked Basil, his eyes wide with concern.

"Yes!" shrieked the ballymag. "Oh, such agonywoe, such painodeath."

"No," declared Aelonnia, sounding rather annoyed. "Perfectly fine, he is. Misses the mud of our realm, he does. When home to Malóch he returns, all well will he be."

Puzzled, Basil scrunched his lizardlike nose. "You mean he's just homesick? Making so much fuss?" Seeing Aelonnia nod, he asked, "Why didn't he just stay in Mudroot?"

Aelonnia's round shoulders shrugged. "A friend of Merlin and Hallia he is, from long ago."

"Tried to cookpot and swalloweat me, Merlin did!" wailed the ballymag. "But I somehow survivedstill." His head drooped, and tears welled in his eyes. "Only to die here today, in this dreaduious, mudforsaken place."

"Here," declared Aelonnia, fixing her eyes on his. "Give you something magical to help, I will. But only if
quiet
you stay."

The ballymag instantly fell silent, though his body still shuddered with sobs. He lay like a baby in her arms, waiting for help.

With one of her delicate fingers, she rubbed the side of her head, scraping off a single flake of dirt. Whispering a soft, lilting chant, she pressed the dirt against the ballymag's round belly. At once, the dirt began to expand into a clump of dark, gooey mud. Sliding across his skin, the clump grew and grew until it covered all his belly, his back, and most of his tails. It continued to swell, covering him like a thick, luxurious blanket. Soon his entire body was coated in mud, right up to his eyes.

Seeing all this, the ballymag shivered with delight and hugged himself joyously. As he squeezed, sticky mud oozed everywhere, flowing across his body like thick molasses. A dreamy look came to his face—the look of someone who, after long suffering, had found paradise at last. Licking some of the mud that dripped from his whiskers, he sighed contentedly. And then he said the happiest word that Basil had ever heard.

"Mooshlovely. Ah, mooshlovely."

At that moment, the boulder where Basil sat began to vibrate. The shaking grew stronger by the second, until the entire stone seemed about to explode.

13:
T
HE
M
USIC OF
L
IGHT

Little troubles me now, after everything that's happened. Very little. Yet still, to this day, I wonder how he could have seen so clearly into the murky depths of my mind . . . and made me consider the weight of a single grain of sand. Or a single life.

The boulder quaked violently. Suddenly a jagged crack opened right under Basil! He leaped into the air and flapped over to the tall mudmaker's shoulder. Landing there, he perched among the folds of her soft brown skin.

Meanwhile, the crack expanded and deepened. Finally, with a resounding
crraaaaack
, it split the rock like a deep crevasse. Or, perhaps, like a gaping mouth.

"Warned you, I should have," whispered Aelonnia. "A living stone that is. Always hungry, they are, especially when food touches them."

Aghast, Basil watched from his perch as the living stone's bumpy gray tongue emerged. Slowly, dripping pebbles of hardened saliva, it probed, spending several seconds caressing the spot where Basil had sat so comfortably. At last, the tongue withdrew, the boulder shook again, and the crack closed completely.

Basil stared down at the creature who looked, once again, like a snow-frosted boulder. And heaved a sigh of relief.

"Basil, you ogre's eyeball! What are you doing here?"

Recognizing that gruff voice, the little lizard cringed. Slowly, he turned his head. Sure enough, he found himself face-to-face with Nuic. The grumpy sprite was seated high in the branches of a tree spirit—a willow, judging from the long, swaying tresses of hair. Nuic scowled at him, all the while shifting colors from outraged purple to angry red.

Drawing a deep breath, Basil said casually, "Just thought I'd, well, take a closer look."

"After all my pleadings? All my warnings? You crumple -brained cockleshell! The wedding is about to begin! Leave now before you get caught. Or are you as stupid as you are ugly?"

The mudmaker swiveled her head, turning her deep brown eyes on the pinnacle sprite. "Greetings, Nuic," she said in a resonant whisper that bore an unmistakable hint of sarcasm. "Your flattering tones would I recognize anywhere."

"Hmmmppf. Can I help it if I'm surrounded by idiots and vagabonds?" His colors darkened to a wrathful shade of crimson. "Did you know your little friend there just barged in, uninvited?"

Basil winced at the words. Furtively, he glanced around to see if anyone else had heard—especially anyone who resembled a gargantuan spider. Fortunately, with the constant din of the crowd, no one seemed to have noticed. And the mudmaker seemed unperturbed.

Then, as he turned back to Nuic, Basil's heart froze. The sprite looked as if he were just about to shout something at the top of his lungs. And Basil felt sure he knew what that something would be. He braced himself to hear the word
intruder
.

Nuic inhaled all the air he could hold and shouted: "Hear me, everyone! There is someone here—"

"Say no more," urged the mudmaker.

But Nuic kept going. "Who is—"

"Please," Basil pleaded, fluttering his wings anxiously. "Don't say it. Don't."

"An int—"

Nuic paused, drawing out the word. Heads on all sides turned toward him. Tree spirits clacked their branches angrily; eaglefolk raked the snow with their claws; flames of outrage sprang into the deer people's eyes. And over in the center of the ring, the wizard Merlin suddenly turned—and traded glances with the spider Grand Elusa.