The Dragon of Avalon (14 page)

Because that rock slide was part of my past
, he told himself grimly.
And the dream—the dream is part of my future. I don't know why I feel that way . . . but I do.

He gazed at the rocky ridges below, rising like waves in an endless sea of stone. But at the edges of his mind lurked other shapes—darker, more jagged, more deadly.
Did those wings belong to me? Or someone else?

From deep in his slender throat came a growl.
The only
way I'll ever find out is to discover who I really am. What I'm meant to be.
The growl deepened.
And the first step to doing that is to find out if there is someone—anyone—who belongs to my kind. Whatever kind that may be.

Sure, he couldn't find anyone else at Merlin's wedding who looked like himself. But what did that prove? Nothing! Even Aelonnia, who had been so struck by his unusual nature, wasn't entirely sure that he was the only member of his kind. She had said, in her lilting whisper,
Possible, it is, that no one else like you exists.
Yes—
possible.
But by no means certain.

Somewhere out there
, he told himself,
is someone who looks like me! Who acts like me. Who maybe even dreams like me.

A new resolve crystallized in his mind.
And I'm going to find that someone. Whatever it takes.

He banked, gliding toward the slope with the portal.
And so I will travel—yes, far and wide! I'll go to all seven realms if I can. And somewhere out there . . . I'll find what I need to know.

The power of this decision surged through Basil, overflowing, as if a swollen river had suddenly filled an empty channel. His eyes glowed brightly as he declared, speaking to the sky and the stone and everything in between: "I will go where I choose. Seek what I want. And find what I need!"

Even as he nodded, emphasizing his resolve, he saw a thin plume of dust rise up from the steepest part of the slope. As the plume thickened, spreading across the boulders, a grinding, roaring noise filled the air. It swelled into a rolling explosion, a gargantuan thunder.

Rock slide!

He watched, aghast, as the entire mountain seemed to tumble over itself. For a brief instant, he glimpsed a flash of green amidst the dust and blur of motion. Then it disappeared.

Bending his wings, Basil sped downward. Straight toward the spot where he'd seen the portal's flames he flew, whizzing through the air like a hawk plunging toward its prey.

By the time he neared the slope, the boulders had mostly settled again. The thunder had diminished. And the clouds of dust had started to clear. Yet despite the improved visibility, he stared harder than ever before.

The portal had vanished!

Basil swooped lower, circling the area. Again and again he flew across the cluttered slope, peering into crevasses and between boulders, searching for any sign at all of those magical flames. But he found none.

His snout furrowed. The portal . . . gone! It had disappeared under a mountain of rock—and with it, his best chance to travel to other realms. His best hope to find his own identity.

Tiny though his claws were, he squeezed them tight.
I'll find it
, he promised himself.
I'll search every crack, every shadow, every mote of dust. For as long as it takes.

Flames of a different kind sparked within his eyes.
Forever, if I must.

16:
B
RIGHT
D
REAMS

Magic is merely a tool. A strange, mysterious, powerful tool . . . but a tool nonetheless. Like a carpenter's hammer, it can be used to build a house—or to smash a skull. For peace or war. For delight or torment. The most important quality of any magic is not the power it provides, but the person who wields it.

Y
EAR OF
A
VALON 30

Relentlessly, Basil searched. Scouring the slope with his gaze, he flew above it every day, heedless of rain or hail or snow. Between flights, he explored the mass of boulders, crawling between them and wriggling under them. Not a single stone on that slope escaped his scrutiny.

Yet he found nothing. No sign whatsoever of the magical green fire that could transport him off this mountainside . . . and into the future. A future that would reveal, at last, who he really was—and what he could become.

Even so, he persisted. Often, he started each day before the morning's first light, when the stars of Avalon were still dim, probing the darkened gaps between boulders. Just as often, he ended the day in the same fashion, searching among the evening shadows.

And so . . . three years passed in Stoneroot.

One chilly autumn morning, Basil crept slowly through the brittle fringe of moss that lined the bottom of a gulley. In the spring, this path would hold a splashing rivulet, a vein of melted snow from the ridges above. Now, though, it held nothing but moss and bronze-colored stones that had been rounded by centuries of wind and water. And one thing more: a chubby little gnat who had caught Basil's eye. Or really, his stomach, since he hadn't eaten for three days.

Slowly, stealthily, he wriggled through the moss. His prey, seated on a bronze-colored stone, was too busy caressing its own feet to notice. Just to make sure, though, Basil sent into the air a whiff of mountain sage—a fragrance so sweet that it overpowered other smells, including his own.

Closer he crawled, hidden from both sight and smell. Finally, he crept up to the edge of the stone. The gnat stirred, buzzed nervously for a few seconds, then went back to cleaning its feet. Meanwhile, Basil readied himself to pounce. Holding his breath, he braced his feet and judged the exact distance.

Now.

Just as he was about to leap, a thunderous
boom
shook the slope. Though it came from somewhere distant, it rattled the mountain's bones from foothills to summit. Pebbles shifted and scattered; boulders wobbled, threatening to slide. The gnat, startled, took flight. Basil jumped into the air in pursuit, but even as he started to fly, the bronze stone rolled and struck his outstretched wing. The blow flipped him over, and he slammed into the ground.

As he lay in the gulley, head spinning, the booming sound came again. And again. And again. Each time it grew louder—and, Basil suddenly realized, closer.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

All at once, he knew what it was. Footsteps! The footsteps of a giant.

Sure enough, over the ridge came a huge, hulking figure. All Basil could see, at first, was a great silhouette, rising above the ridge like a shadowy mountain and growing bigger by the second. Then, as the silhouette turned, he saw a wild mane of hair, a big bulbous nose, and a lopsided grin he knew all too well.

Shim! Strangely, the giant wore several cart wheels, tied together with ropes, from one of his gargantuan ears. With every explosive step, the lone earring jangled loudly, making a sound about as melodious as toppled trees snapping off and thwacking the ground.

Stranger still was what sat on Shim's other ear, instead of an earring. Nestled comfortably above his earlobe were passengers. And not just any passengers.

Basil scurried up to the edge of the gulley for a closer look. "Ogres' eyeballs!" he exclaimed, astonished. "That's Merlin!"

He squinted, peering closely.
No doubt about it. And in Merlin 's arms—why, it's his son! The boy I've been hearing about
from the crows for months.
Still not quite believing his eyes, he watched as the giant carried them closer.
I knew that Merlin wanders all over Avalon. But for him to come right here—to this very slope—I'd never have thought that could happen. And with his son, too!

Evidently out for an autumn stroll with his father and his favorite giant, the young boy seemed to be enjoying himself greatly. Squeals of high-pitched laughter came between each of the giant's pounding strides. Basil had heard that young Krystallus, as his parents had named him, liked nothing better than to travel. And what better way to travel than on the ear of a giant?

Topping the ridge just a stone's throw from Basil, Shim finally paused. He wiped his immense brow, then exhaled so forcefully that a flock of geese soaring over the peak were blown all the way to the Dun Tara snowfields. Amidst the drifting feathers, he wearily declared, "I is all puffily, master Krystallus. Time for a sitly rest."

"No, no, Unky Shim," protested the child. "No rest! More stomping an' bomping."

But Shim ignored his pleas. Exhausted, he lay down on the slope, gently enough not to crush his passengers—but heavily enough to rearrange the ridge's contours by flattening a cliff with his weight and knocking over several pinnacles with his arms and legs. In truth, Shim seemed to become a new ridge himself. For by the time he'd stretched out fully, placing his head on the summit and resting his feet far below, he looked like another mass of craggy cliffs. With hair that blew wildly in the mountain breeze. Only that blowing mane and the rhythmic movement of his chest as he breathed—and, very soon, snored—made it clear that this particular ridge was alive.

As the giant's snores echoed across the mountainside, an idea dawned in Basil's mind.
This is my chance! To speak to Merlin—to warn him about my dream. When will I ever be so near to him again?

Excitedly, the lizard's tail thumped on the edge of the gulley, causing a few pebbles to dislodge and tumble down the small slope. At once, a second idea came to him.
Maybe Merlin could help me find the buried portal!
With his powers—which were practically unlimited, as everyone knew—the wizard could surely restore the portal to working order. And Basil, at last, could embark on his search—wherever it might lead.

I'll just wait for the right moment, then ask.
His slender body, from the tip of his snout to the knob of his tail, quaked with anticipation. He rustled his wings. Suddenly, unbidden, an image flashed across his mind: Wings, dark and dangerous. Wrapping around the wizard. Smothering him to death.

No!
he told himself, now quaking from something other than excitement.
It won't happen. Can't happen. I'll make sure of it.
The image faded from his mind, though its shadow lingered—a shadow he could feel rather than see.

Slowly, he crept along the gulley's edge, wriggling like a tiny green snake across the stones and pebbles. All the while, he kept his eyes on the wizard, who had started to climb down from Shim's car. Holding young Krystallus in the crook of his arm, Merlin grabbed hold of one of the giant's hairs that dangled by the enormous ear. Carefully, he slid down the makeshift rope, until his boots hit the rocks of the ridge. Then he released the hair, pulled the staff from his belt, and gently set down his son.

"Go play awhile, Krystallus. See if you can climb any of these rocks."

The little boy, standing unsteadily, peered up at his father. His pure white hair contrasted starkly with Merlin's black locks. "Sure, Da, but then we ride Unky Shim again?"

Merlin smiled. "Yes," he promised, even as he glanced up and saw a large glob of drool about to drop on them from Shim's mouth. Calmly, he aimed the top of his staff at the unsavory glob. A bolt of white light shot out of the staff, striking the liquid missile just as it fell. The air sizzled, and then with a flash, the drool completely evaporated.

The boy, who had already started to climb a lichen-dappled rock, abruptly stopped. "Da," he asked enthusiastically, "when you teach me magic stick?"

The joy drained out of Merlin's face. He stared absently down at his boots for several seconds. "I don't know, Krystallus. It depends on whether or not . . ." He kneeled down to face his son. "Whether or not you, well . . ."

"What, Da?"

"Show any magic of your own."

What?
thought Basil, lifting his round ears in surprise. Had he heard correctly? How could the son of a wizard not have any magic of his own?

He crawled a bit closer, careful not to knock even a pebble into the gully. For he didn't want to make any sound. He didn't want to miss a single word of this.

"You see, Son . . ." began Merlin, pausing to swallow. "Wizards' powers often skip generations. It's possible—I'm not saying it will happen, just that it's possible—you might not develop your own magic. And without that, you can't . . . well, control a staff."

The wizard halted, looking much older than his years. Solemnly, he peered at the boy's brown eyes, which shone as brightly as his mother's. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Krystallus nodded. Then, in a gleeful voice, he asked, "So when you teach me? Magic stick fun!"

Pushing some stray locks off his brow, Merlin merely mumbled, "I don't know, Son." He stood slowly. With a sigh, he leaned heavily against his staff, which crunched on the ground. "Just find something safe to climb on while Shim naps."

The boy frowned. While he didn't comprehend his father's words, he clearly knew that his question hadn't been answered. And it seemed to Basil that he also sensed, somehow, that he'd been judged inadequate. Whether to impress his father or simply to prove him wrong, he started to climb the highest thing around. Not a rock, or even a boulder—but Shim.

"Look now, Da!" he cried, as he started to scale the folds of Shim's gigantic vest made from woven willow trunks.

But Merlin, lost in thought, hardly heard him. Without turning around, he began to walk slowly away. From his moss-filled gully, Basil watched him with concern. For a man who had defeated the powerful spirit warlord Rhita Gawr—more than once, if the tales of Lost Fincayra were really true—he now looked thoroughly beaten.

Basil knew this was his chance. He scurried ahead, racing along the gully, barely avoiding a rock sporting dozens of needle-sharp quartz crystals. Then, abruptly, he stopped. His tail swayed indecisively. Merlin seemed so troubled right now. Was this really the best time to talk with him?

No
, he told himself.
But it might be the
only
time.

Raising himself up on his hind legs, he called in his thin voice, "Ah, hello. Master Merlin?"