The Eternal Flame (10 page)

Most striking of all, though, were the musical instruments. Palimyst had put so many of them on the shelves that they leaned against each other or sat in jumbled piles, making it difficult sometimes to tell them apart. But Tamwyn had no trouble recognizing several flutes, carved from bone or wood; a set of crystal drums; the largest lute he’d ever seen; and many beautiful harps, whose sound boxes of oak or ash or maple had been intricately carved with flowing designs.

“Well now, my two-legged frrrrriend, what do you think of this collection?”

Tamwyn realized that he’d been so engrossed in viewing the treasures on the shelves, as he strolled slowly down the path, that he had almost walked right into Palimyst. His mammoth host had been waiting for him to catch up. Looking up into Palimyst’s face, he fumbled for words.

“It’s, it’s—well, fabulous. Too much, too big, for description. As you promised, just remarkable.”

The enormous eyes studied him. “Rrrrremarrrrrkable, yes. Not because of me, howeverrrrr.”

“Not because of you?” Tamwyn stared at him in surprise. “But you made all these things, didn’t you?”

“Many of them. And the otherrrrrs I have collected overrrrr the yearrrrrs. Yet all I have rrrrreally done is take the naturrrrral gifts of Avalon, alrrrrready so beautiful, and rrrrreshape or rrrrrearrrrrange them.”

Still bewildered, Tamwyn shook his head. “You’ve put so much work into these things.”

“Parrrrrt of theirrrrr virrrrrtue, to be surrrrre. Yet everrrrrything you see herrrrre—” He paused to wave his arm at the mass of objects on display. “Combines naturrrrre’s infinite gifts with a crrrrraftsman’s finite skills. And the rrrrresult is a special kind of beauty: one that mixes the Trrrrree and the hand, immorrrrrtal and morrrrrtal.”

For a long moment, Tamwyn was silent. At last, he said, “I think, maybe, I understand. A carver can do nothing without wood. Or a weaver, without thread. Or a painter, without pigment. But it’s even more than that, isn’t it? More than just the raw materials that we need. For none of those crafts would even begin to happen without
inspiration.
And that, too, we get from the natural world—from noticing and appreciating its many wonders.”

With the fingers of one hand, Palimyst gently drummed the young man’s shoulder, his touch as light as falling rain. “That is the wisdom of a crrrrraftsman, a trrrrrue makerrrrr of arrrrrt.”

The word
maker
rang in Tamwyn’s mind. He remembered how it had been used by Aelonnia, one of Isenwy’s ancient mudmakers. For her, a Maker meant someone with magic in his hands, and humility in his heart. How different was that, really, from Palimyst’s view of a craftsman?

“Now,” announced Palimyst, “I will show you one thing morrrrre. And then, Tamwyn Eopia, I will tell you what I know about how to stop time.”

As Tamwyn watched eagerly, his host swung around and gestured at a large tapestry that hung by itself on the side of the tent. Instantly, the young man recognized its design. It was a map of the stars!

Luminous silver threads marked each star in the sky, while the background colors melted from pitch black to azure blue. Although Tamwyn could identify his favorite constellations—Pegasus, the Twisted Tree, the double rings of the Circles, and of course, the now-darkened Wizard’s Staff—they seemed to be in unfamiliar shapes, as if they’d been stretched a bit out of proportion.

Of course!
he realized. This was how they looked from Holosarr, the lowest branch of the Tree. All his life, he had seen them from a slightly different angle, down in the root-realms.

Despite this unfamiliarity, though, he gazed with wonder at the tapestry, almost as if he were seeing the stars themselves. For all his life, long before he had ever embarked on this quest, the stars had intrigued him. Called to him, almost. If they had been a text, with mysterious letters blazing on a blackened page, he would have longed to read it; if they had been a field, with radiant flowers blooming underfoot, he would have longed to run through it.

Suddenly he noticed something else that seemed a bit odd. There, running down the middle of the sky, was a vague line of light. The same line that he had seen when he first arrived in Holosarr! Like a subtle crack in a backlit piece of wood, it glowed ever so slightly, inviting a closer look.

“What is that line?” he asked, pointing.

Palimyst’s deep growl bubbled. “That, my frrrrriend, is what I wanted to show you.”

Shifting his great bulk, he bent lower—so low that his snout wasn’t far above Tamwyn’s head. “The Rrrrriverrrrr of Time.”

“A river? In the sky?”

“That is rrrrright. It was called, in the Taliwonn’s most ancient tongue, Crrrrryll Onnawesh, which means
the seam in the tent of the sky.”

“Cryll Onnawesh,” repeated Tamwyn. “But how is it like a river?”

Palimyst exhaled, growling thoughtfully, as he chose the best words. “The Rrrrriverrrrr,” he explained, “divides the two halves of time—past and futurrrrre. So the Rrrrriverrrrr of Time itself is always in the prrrrresent. The now. And yet, even as it stays in the prrrrresent moment, it moves within itself, flowing ceaselessly thrrrrrough all the worrrrrlds that exist. In that way, it connects all the worrrrrlds—not in space, but in time.”

He bent the tiniest bit lower, so that Tamwyn felt the warmth of his apple-scented breath. “And herrrrre, Tamwyn Eopia, is the mirrrrracle. If anyone can enterrrrr the Rrrrriverrrrr, he can move acrrrrross the whole rrrrrealm of the sky—but stay in the prrrrresent time.”

Tamwyn nodded, his thoughts racing. “In other words, he can stop time.”

The craftsman gave a deep, affirmative growl.

“And so,” Tamwyn continued, “if the stars are really doorways to other worlds, and if Avalon is the world in between all the others, then someone who enters the River of Time from Avalon can ride to anywhere.” He paused, feeling the magnitude of this idea. “And never leave the present moment.”

“Now you underrrrrstand.” Palimyst straightened up, though not enough to remove his hunchback. “Yet you must rrrrrememberrrrr my warrrrrning: As much as I can tell you about this new crrrrraft, only you can masterrrrr it.”

Tamwyn’s brow furrowed. “Then you don’t know how to enter the River? “

“No, my frrrrriend. As often as I have trrrrried, I have neverrrrr been able to do it myself.” His many fingers worked the air, as if they were pulling invisible threads. “Yet I do believe it can be done. Forrrrr the wizarrrrrd Merrrrrlin himself once did that verrrrry thing.”

“Really? When?”

“On his final deparrrrrturrrrre frrrrrom Avalon, when he left forrrrr the worrrrrld called Earrrrrth. He did not rrrrride into the starrrrrs, as he had done beforrrrre, on the back of the grrrrreat grrrrreen drrrrragon Basilgarrrrrad—although no one, not even the drrrrragon himself perrrrrhaps, knew why. That was especially strrrrrange, since he had just rrrrridden the drrrrragon to rrrrrelight seven darrrrrkened starrrrrs—the constellation we call the Staff of Merrrrrlin. “

Tempted as he was to say something about his own quest to relight those same seven stars, Tamwyn didn’t want to interrupt the tale. “What did he do instead? To enter the River?”

“He climbed to the highest point on the highest rrrrridge of Holosarrrrr, the place we now call Merrrrrlin’s Pinnacle, and left frrrrrom therrrrre.”

“But how?” The young man ground his foot into the dirt. “Do you know anything more?”

“Only this, I am afrrrrraid. Therrrrre is an old saying among my people:

“
To swim within the Rrrrriverrrrr of Time
Thy soul must be worrrrrthy, thy motive sublime.

“Perrrrrhaps you possess those two qualities, Tamwyn Eopia.”

“And perhaps not!” Frustrated, he swung a punch at the air. “All you really have for me, then, is a legend. And a saying. They could be just one big lie.”

“They could be,” Palimyst replied. His fingers reached out and picked up one of his harps, carved from the burl of an old cherry tree. He hefted it, feeling its balance of wood, air, and strings. “Orrrrr they could be morrrrre like this harrrrrp: its surrrrrface shaped by morrrrrtal hands, but its essence made by immorrrrrtal trrrrruth.”

Tamwyn swallowed. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have spoken that way. It’s just that . . .” He ran a hand through his long black locks. “I had, for a moment there, such hope.”

The mammoth fellow placed three of his fingers, very lightly, on Tamwyn’s chest. “I still have hope. Rrrrreal hope. You may be just the one to do what only the wizarrrrrd Merrrrrlin has done—to enterrrrr the Rrrrriverrrrr of Time.”

He paused, studying his guest thoughtfully. “And to rrrrrelight, once again, those seven starrrrrs.”

Tamwyn started. “How—how did you know?”

Hefting the harp in his great hand, Palimyst replied, “To carrrrrve wood successfully, one must learrrrrn to rrrrread the grrrrrain. And each perrrrrson, like each piece of wood, has a special grrrrrain of his orrrrr herrrrr own.”

“Thank you,” whispered Tamwyn.

“No,” came the response. “It is I who should thank
you.
Forrrrr I neverrrrr expected, when this day began, that I would meet someone who is both so verrrrry small, and so verrrrry larrrrrge, at once.”

Tamwyn merely gazed up at him.

Palimyst growled deeply, then continued, “I have some gifts forrrrr you beforrrrre you deparrrrrt. Dirrrrrections to Merrrrrlin’s Pinnacle, forrrrr one. A good meal of frrrrresh frrrrruits, tuberrrrrs, and rrrrroasted seeds, forrrrr anotherrrrr. And in addition, a chant that I shall teach you, which will help to shield yourrrrr eyes frrrrrom brrrrrightness. I use it to worrrrrk with the hottest coal firrrrres in my forrrrrge, but you can use it when you rrrrreach the starrrrrs.”

Tamwyn touched the thick hair of his friend’s arm. “I won’t forget you.”

Palimyst roared with laughter, and with such force that the tapestry of the stars fluttered. “How could you everrrrr forrrrrget me? That is not possible.”

Then, using all his fingers, he quickly untied the strings from the harp. Pressing them into his guest’s hand, he declared, “One last gift, Tamwyn Eopia—forrrrr that harrrrrp you arrrrre making.”

His lips curled in what might have been a grin. “Frrrrrom one crrrrraftsman to anotherrrrr.”

PART II

12
•
Song of the Curlew

To Brionna, the heavy wooden gates of the village of Prosperity seemed like the entrance to a dungeon. A dungeon that no living creature, certainly no elf, should be forced to enter. As they swung open, creaking horribly, she shuddered.

Even so, if she hadn’t been marched into the village as a prisoner, surrounded by a ring of green-clad men with bows and arrows ready to shoot, she would have been struck by how little this place resembled a dungeon. As she passed through the gates—along with the tall priest Lleu, the falcon Catha on his shoulder, and the little fellow Shim, who seemed more confused than ever—she entered a realm of greenery.

Not the greenery of the forest, which flourished just outside the gates. Nor even the greenery of emerging spring, which decorated the boughs of every living tree in El Urien. Rather, this was the greenery of a garden—a bountiful, productive garden.

Within the high wooden fences that separated the village from the forestlands, wide cultivated fields were already sprouting vegetable stalks, vines, and the season’s first leaves of lettuce and spinach. Radishes, cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes, cabbages, and peppers were not far behind. The earliest squashes, deep green and gold, swelled in earthen beds. And on many of the houses nearby, window boxes held flowers even more brightly colored than the houses’ own painted walls.

Fruit trees blossomed, giving the air sweet aromas of apple, plum, and pear. Also in the air were the scents of budding lilacs, freshly turned soil, and the first hint of juicy grapes on the arbors. Leafy bushes, draped with new green leaves, bordered every pathway.

Many men and women, with black earth under their fingernails, worked in the fields. Aided by some strange, clattering machines that spewed fumes far less pleasant than apple blossoms, these people sowed new seeds, plowed furrows, and sprayed plants with liquids that Brionna could not recognize. Just as many people, however, were simply playing outdoors. Children and adults cavorted on the swings in front of a pale yellow school building. Others chased through the village trading center, hurdling newly made benches and chairs. Meanwhile, plump goats and sheep, penned in the communal stable, jostled each other playfully.

As Brionna and the other captives were led through the settlement toward the large stone building by the central courtyard, none of the villagers paused to notice them. Indeed, the prisoners’ arrival roused no more interest than a windblown leaf drifting to the forest floor.
What could they be thinking?
the elf wondered.
Do they see so many prisoners that we’re nothing special? Or are the people of Prosperity so blind to their fellow creatures that they really believe none of this affects their own lives?

Even as they marched past a row of pear trees, the young curlew perched in one of the branches went on singing melodiously.
So he, too, cares nothing about us,
thought Brionna resignedly.
Or about the war that’s going to happen.

Yet there was something sharp, almost urgent, underneath the bird’s spiraling melody. Brionna looked more closely. At once she saw something terribly surprising—and terribly cruel.

“That bird,” she cried out, stopping suddenly under the tree. “His foot has been tied to the branch! He can’t get away.”

“O’ course he can’t,” snapped one of the men as he jabbed her back with his arrow. “This way he’s got to keep on singin’ fer our people.”

“But that’s horrible,” she protested. “He should be free.”

“Know what we do to the ones we keep indoors?” the man asked with a delighted smirk. “We pokes out their eyes! Then they jest keep on singin’ and singin’, day and night.”

Brionna was so stunned by this idea that she couldn’t even speak.

“Keep on walkin’, elf-girl,” barked Morrigon. The malicious old man—if he was, indeed, a man—angrily pushed a low-hanging branch away from his bloodshot eye.