The Dragon of Avalon (13 page)

Gwynnia faced the mudmaker, another rumble swelling in her armored chest. But the tall, gracious being stood fast. Cradling Basil, she spoke firmly to the wrathful dragon.

"Revenge seek you not," she declared. "A wedding this is, not a battlefield."

Gwynnia hesitated, and her orange eyes narrowed a bit. Then her baby whimpered, pressing his sore nose against her leg. Instantly, her anger flared again. The threatening rumble grew stronger.

"Stop!" shouted a commanding voice.

Gwynnia, along with Basil and Aelonnia, turned to see Merlin striding toward them. Trouble, the silver-plumed hawk, gripped his shoulder tightly. Hands raised, Merlin surveyed the group, then looked squarely at the irascible mother dragon.

"No one gets eaten today," he declared.

Gwynnia bared her terrible teeth at this outlandish idea, but Merlin continued, "Just as no one gets scorched. Or pounded. Or torn to shreds. So put aside your grudge against that—" He halted, waving toward Basil. "That . . . well,
whatever
it is."

Basil cringed.
So even a powerful wizard has no idea what I am.

Merlin, sensing the dragon might disobey his command, leaned toward her gargantuan head. Trails of black smoke curled from her nostrils. Quietly, he said, "I'm asking you not for me, Gwynnia, but for Hallia. Your old friend who took care of you when you were no bigger than your child."

The dragon's eyes flicked toward Hallia. She was still standing between the great doe and stag, a plaintive look upon her face. Reluctantly, Gwynnia sighed, exhaling a blast of hot air that melted all the remaining snow around the living stone. Gathering her infant in the cupped edge of her wing, she turned to go and rejoin her other offspring—but not before she cast a withering glance at the little lizard who had caused so much trouble.

As their eyes met, something strange occurred. While they started out glaring at each other, both creatures suddenly tilted their heads. For both of them had sensed something unexpected. A new look transformed Basil's expression, a look that Gwynnia shared.

It was a look of surprise, mixed with confusion. As if . . . their destinies, so utterly different, were actually somehow connected.

Gwynnia snorted loudly, sending up a cloud of smoke, as she banished such an impossible, insulting notion. She turned to depart without giving Basil another glance. Even her child, wrapped in her wing, pointedly looked away.

The object of Gwynnia's ire, though, continued to stare after her.
What was that about?
Basil wondered.
Probably just that knock on my head, that's all.

Merlin himself started to go, but paused to give a respectful bow of his head to Aelonnia the mudmaker. As she did the same in return, the wizard's gaze fell again on the peculiar little creature she now held. A look of puzzlement creased his brow, and he asked, "Do I know you, little fellow?"

"N-no," stammered Basil, thumping his tail nervously against the mudmaker's arm.

The wizard's bushy eyebrows lifted. More sternly this time, he asked, "Did Hallia or I invite you to this wedding?" His voice lowered. "Or are you . . . an intruder?"

Basil's heart pounded wildly within his chest. Yet he was less aware of his own rising panic than of the harsh scrutiny by the wizard—and by others. Above, on the branch of a willow spirit, Nuic clucked his tongue knowingly. Off to one side, the jester with the floppy hat lined with bells started clearing his throat to sing. And nearby, the Grand Elusa perked up, gnashing her immense jaws—so vigorously that the shredded remains of a living stone, caught between her teeth, flew off and hit one of the hoolahs, who howled in pain.

"Answer me," commanded Merlin.

Basil gulped. His wings shook uncontrollably. Finally, he admitted, "No one . . . invited . . . me."

For a timeless moment, Merlin peered at him. At last, with a decisive nod, the wizard declared: "Then, little fellow, I will invite you myself. Consider yourself my guest."

Stunned, Basil could barely open his mouth. But he did manage, somehow, to whisper, "Thanks."

Although his voice was barely audible over the surprised murmuring of the guests—and the loud snarling of the great white spider—Basil's response caught the wizard's attention. Merlin leaned closer and gave him a wink. "I'd do anything, anything at all, to keep that fellow over there"—he waved at the jester—"from singing! Why, a few notes from him would make most of our wedding guests leave. Or fall down dead."

Merlin grinned. Yet Basil's mind had locked on the wizard's final phrase.
Fall down dead.
In a flash, he remembered the horrible dream from long ago—a dream in which Merlin did, in fact, fall down dead.

A new spasm of panic seized him. Should he tell Merlin? Warn him? But what, exactly, was the warning? He could tell Merlin to avoid any creatures with jagged, bony wings. But wouldn't that include Basil himself?

However crazy it may sound
, he decided,
I must tell him. Must warn him!

But by now the wizard had turned to go. He was already several steps away when Basil cried out, "Merlin! Wait."

Too late. His words were drowned in the rising chorus of cheers, neighs, growls, and whistles that accompanied Merlin's return to the center of the crowd. For everyone sensed the ceremony was about to begin. When the wizard reached for Hallia's hand, the chorus rose to its peak.

Alone among the crowd, Basil watched glumly. He had missed his chance!

As soon as Merlin and Hallia joined hands, the powerful stag beside them stamped his hoof on the snow-covered ground. The entire summit fell silent once more. "It is time," Dagda proclaimed.

Raising his head with its massive rack of antlers, the great spirit declared: "Many are the wonders, great and small, that fill the wide universe. And many are the mysteries to be found in the stars and the spaces between them. You stand here now in a world profoundly rich in both wonder and mystery—the Great Tree of Avalon. It is a world of unfathomable beauty, a place where all creatures may learn to live in harmony, a place that has never been touched by the wickedness of Rhita Gawr."

At this, Merlin nodded. "Long may Avalon stay free of that evil spirit! We have no place here for Rhita Gawr."

Supportive murmurs, growls, hoots, and cries arose from the crowd. The hawk on Merlin's shoulder released a sharp whistle, and Rhia applauded vigorously. Virtually everyone in the ring of guests, save the flamelons and a few of the gnomes, made clear their approval.

Dagda waited for silence to return before continuing. "And yet," he said, glancing at Merlin and Hallia, "there is no greater wonder, and no deeper mystery, than the bond of true love between two people."

His words echoed a long moment, as if carried aloft on the breeze. Then, with a graceful bow to Lorilanda, the god of wisdom stepped aside. As he did so, the goddess of birth and renewal came forward.

With a flick of one hoof, she kicked at a snowdrift. As the icy flakes flew into the air, they transformed magically into rose petals. Hundreds of bright red petals, carrying the scent of spring, showered the young couple.

"May this gift remind you," the goddess said kindly, "that you share in all the powers of nature. You hold in yourselves the miracle of a seed . . . and the light of a star. You can find new morning light after long darkness. You can move from violent thunderclouds to the sweet serenity after a storm. And you can, like the spring, transform crystals of snow into petals of flowers."

Nodding, Merlin faced Hallia. "So where," he asked, "does the source of music lie?"

She smiled, remembering the riddle of the harp they had learned so long ago. Softly, she spoke the second part: "Is it in the strings themselves, or in the hands that plucked them?"

"The answer lies in both, my love," he offered. "Just as the answers to our deepest questions lie somewhere in both of us."

"Yes, young hawk. And whatever those answers might be, we will look for them together."

"Indeed you shall," declared Dagda. Glowing shreds of mist twined themselves about his antlers. "For now you enter this world as husband and wife. And wherever you may go in your mortal lives, you shall go with our everlasting blessings."

At those words, Merlin and Hallia kissed. The crowd erupted. Rhia raised her arms and cheered; Elen cried. Trouble, still perched on Merlin's shoulder, whistled triumphantly.

Shim pounded his giant fist happily on the mountainside, so hard that the tremors from his blows caused a stampede among the deer people and nearly knocked over the wedding couple. As his enthusiasm swelled, he unwrapped the scarlet snake from his neck and started to swing it in the air above his head—all the while continuing to pound his fist harder than ever. Landslides crashed down the mountain's lower slopes, sending clouds of dirt and crushed rock into the air. Birds and beasts for leagues around tried to find someplace safe to hide, hoping to survive the quake.

But Shim remained unfazed. Grinning broadly as he swung the huge snake, he bellowed, "Today is a happily day! One of the bestest ever. And now . . . time for some honey! Certainly, definitely, absolutely."

Meanwhile, the sturdier guests at the wedding continued to celebrate. A trio of canyon eagles leaped skyward and screeched loudly, raking the air with their talons. By contrast, the misty sylph floated silently, spinning graceful circles above the summit. Tree spirits raised their ethereal voices in a song that, when joined by the museo, made every listener feel both the joy of spring's beauty and the sorrow of its brevity.

The fire angel flamed bright, blazing like a great winged torch. (A dramatic way to celebrate, to be sure, but not so pleasant for the guests who happened to be standing next to him when he lit up.) Aelonnia's tall brown form swayed happily to the tree spirits' song. Urnalda, the dwarf queen, danced with her murderous battle-ax. Nuic, losing all his grumpiness for a moment, turned a celebratory shade of rouge. Gwynnia's baby dragons cavorted happily. And somewhere in the snow, two hoolahs continued to wrestle as if nothing unusual had happened.

Among all the guests, however, one in particular summed up the whole affair. From deep within the crowd came a quiet, cooing voice, barely audible over all the sounds of celebration (not to mention the sound of Shim slurping down an entire vat of honey). That voice uttered just a single word:

"Mooshlovely."

15:
D
ARK
D
REAMS

When your feet are most firm, when your winds are most steady, when your plans are most assured—that's when everything changes. Believe me, I know.

Following the wedding, the guests departed straightaway for their homes. And Merlin and Hallia journeyed to some secret location for their honeymoon. Basil, however, decided to stay for a few days. Why not explore Stoneroot's high peaks a little, since he was here?

Catching chilly updrafts on the mountain slopes, he floated over the ridges, snowfields, and boulder-strewn basins. While food wasn't nearly as plentiful as in his home realm of Woodroot—being limited to rock lichen, alpine herbs, and the occasional beetle or fly that landed on the boulders—he enjoyed the absence of dactylbirds and other airborne hunters. Aside from a pair of wide-winged eaglemen who soared past him one morning, and a jabbering flock of crows, he saw no other creatures who could be called predators.

Only once did he spy a pinnacle sprite's parachute. Gleaming silver in the bright starlight of midday, it rode an air current over the western flank of Hallia's Peak.
Nuic?
he wondered, tilting his wings to swoop closer. But before he could get near enough to tell, the parachute disappeared behind a distant ridge.

Finally, Basil decided to return to the portal. Despite its dangers, which Aelonnia had kindly explained to him before she departed, it clearly offered the best way to travel between realms. No wonder so many creatures—including the mudmaker—preferred to move around by using portals. Whenever Basil was ready to go home, the portal would take him there in just a few seconds. By contrast, even if his small, leaf-thin wings could have carried him all the way to Woodroot, the trip would have taken him many years to complete.

"The question isn't
whether
to ride through that portal again," he mused aloud as he flew back to the boulder slope where he'd arrived in this realm. "No, the question is
where
."

Should he go right back to his treasured forestland? Where majestic trees, far higher than the stunted spruces of these ridges, covered leagues and leagues with their web of interwoven branches? Or should he venture farther? Explore the mists of Airroot or the molten lands of Fireroot? Or even . . . the endless darkness of Shadowroot?

Spotting a blue-winged fly zipping past, Basil suddenly remembered he hadn't eaten since the day before. Instantly, he veered and flicked his tail with expert precision. The knob at the end of his tail clubbed the fly straight into his open mouth. Tiny as his teeth were, they crunched down hard. Chewing contentedly, he banked to one side, resuming his flight to the portal.

As he leaned into the turn, he saw his wing at an unusual angle. Backlit by Avalon's bright sky, it seemed to glow; it loomed large before his eyes, although it was really no bigger than an oak leaf. What struck him most, though, were its bony, jagged edges, as sharply etched as dagger points.

Instantly, he remembered his dream. The wicked beast with batlike wings. The vicious attack on Merlin, The screams of anguish. The horror of it all—and the regret he felt for failing to share the dream with Merlin. To warn the wizard in whatever way possible, even if it turned out to be not a vision after all, but merely one creature's nightmare.

He shuddered, making his wings flutter in the wind. Either way, the dream remained as vivid as ever, after all this time.
Why can't I forget it? Why can't I just move on ?

Eyeing the boulder slopes below, he recognized the one with the portal. Though he couldn't yet see the telltale flicker of green fire, he knew that slope—just as he knew its dangers. Yet even though he'd almost died there in a rock slide, he didn't dread returning. Why was that sight so much less frightening than the memory of a dream?