The Eternal Flame (14 page)

Though her throat was dry, Elli swallowed. She couldn’t bear to tell the old elf the truth—that the Sapphire Unicorn, along with the child she was expecting, had been brutally killed by Rhita Gawr’s treachery.

“Er, well, perhaps,” she fumbled, “you could try again sometime.”

“Perhaps,” he replied. “Yet I suspect that I will not succeed. Just as courage is not my nature, neither are the mysterious workings of magic.” Again he sighed. “Or love.”

“Elliryanna,” said Nuic quietly, “is there anyone you would like to see before we go?”

“Yes,” she answered, not sure whether she felt more annoyed or amused that the sprite knew her so well. He could read her clearly, even in the dark.

She concentrated on Tamwyn. Barely an instant later, the crystal flashed, painting the rock around them with rippling green light. There he was! She bent closer to the Galator, watching intently.

Tamwyn’s long black hair streamed behind him. Although she could see only his face, he seemed to be riding something, moving fast. No, not riding—flying. And he looked happy, as happy as she’d ever seen him. A blur of wings obscured him for a second, and then the scene abruptly changed.

Now she was viewing him from afar, at such great distance that he was only a tiny speck amidst bright circles of flame. The stars! He had actually made it all the way to the stars! The place he had always longed to see, the place his father had tried to reach, the place where his quest would be won or lost.

Suddenly she noticed something approaching him from behind—something huge and menacing. Gaining on him rapidly. Whatever it was had wide, dark wings—even darker than the spaces between the stars. Could it be a dragon? Then she sensed, with a surge of panic, that it was something still worse. Her heart froze. That dragon could be Rhita Gawr!

The image jerked sharply back to Tamwyn’s face. Elli focused her gaze on him, trying to warn him somehow. But he seemed blissfully unaware of the danger. Only seconds remained, she was sure, before Rhita Gawr attacked.

Warn him! I must warn him somehow.
She marshaled all her mind’s energy, trying to send him her thoughts. Tears welled in her eyes. Her whole body quaked. She couldn’t think any more clearly, or care any more deeply.

But he didn’t notice. He looked relaxed and serene—aware, it seemed, only of the beauty of the stars.

“Tamwyn!” she cried aloud, her voice breaking. “Look out!”

For half an instant, his face changed. He looked almost as if he’d heard something—

The image suddenly disappeared, flooded with swirling colors. The Galator, though, continued to vibrate with light—a residue, perhaps, of what had just happened. It glowed dimly, just enough to illuminate the companions’ own faces in the dark cavern.

Elli felt wretched. Did he hear her cry? Did she actually warn him in time? She couldn’t tell. Most likely, she wouldn’t ever know.

Worse, she suspected that she was only indulging in wishful thinking. How could he possibly have heard her? After all, everyone knew that the Galator had never done such a thing before. Rhia herself had declared that speaking through the jewel was impossible. So had Nuic.

She stopped peering solely into the glowing jewel and instead looked at the sprite who wore it. Nuic’s skin had turned black with thin veins of red and silver running down both his arms, a pattern she’d never seen on him before. But what surprised her most of all was the expression on his face. He, too, seemed surprised—and, though she couldn’t be sure, almost hopeful.

Just then someone spoke. Someone outside the cavern! The voice, practically a snarl, cut through the darkness. “Over here, men. ‘At’s where I heard the shout.”

Gobsken.
Even as all the remaining light faded from the Galator, a new source of light appeared beyond the cavern’s entrance. The warriors’ torches were drawing swiftly nearer.

Before Elli could move, Grikkolo’s hand reached out and grabbed the front of her robe. “Hear me,” he whispered urgently. “Do not follow me. Do you understand?
Do not follow.”

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

The old elf didn’t answer. He simply turned away and started crawling out of the cavern. Seconds later came the sound of his feet shuffling over the small stones outside. And then came another sound: Grikkolo’s voice.

“No gobsken will ever catch me,” he cried boastfully.

Several harsh voices responded. Boots thudded over the ground. The torchlight grew stronger.

“No,” moaned Elli. “He’s made himself a decoy! He’ll get killed.”

In the dim, flickering light, she glimpsed Nuic’s expression. And she knew that he felt exactly as she did. If there was any chance to save their friend—

Elli scooped up the sprite and scurried out of the cavern. Even as she stood, she saw Grikkolo’s peril. A pair of burly gobsken pounded up behind him, one brandishing a broadsword, the other holding a torch. He veered to the side, doing his best to run on the rock-strewn ground. But he was no match for his pursuers.

Elli dashed toward the gobsken, cradling Nuic in one arm. She didn’t know what she could do to help, only that she must try. And that she wanted to do more for the elf than she’d been able to do for Tamwyn.

“Stop!” she cried, just a few paces away, as one of the warriors drew back his sword.

Too late. The sword slashed across Grikkolo’s back. The old fellow crumpled to the ground as blood poured from his wound, soaking his tunic.

Oblivious to the gobsken who stared at her in surprise, Elli knelt beside the fallen elf. In the wavering light of the gobsken’s torch, she held Grikkolo’s head, feeling his thick white hair in her hands. Gravely, she peered down at him, then drew his body closer. If this had been Coerria herself dying in her arms, Elli could have felt no more sorrowful.

Suddenly remembering her healing water from the secret spring in Mudroot, she caught her breath. Might there still be time? Hastily she set Grikkolo down on the hard ground and reached for her water gourd. But Nuic grabbed hold of her arm.

“It’s too late, Elliryanna.”

Turning her gaze back to the elf, she knew that Nuic was right. Although Grikkolo’s large eyes were still open, they looked like icy pools, freezing fast.

The old elf blinked at her. “You?” he whispered hoarsely. “You should have . . . stayed safe.”

Elli shook her head. “Did you stay safe, my friend?”

“No,” he whispered, so weakly she could barely hear. “I am . . . just a fool.”

“Not true,” she replied. “You are—” She swallowed. “A person of great courage.”

The vaguest hint of a smile came to Grikkolo’s lips. Then he went limp, and lay still.

“Should I jest kill ‘em, too?” rasped the gobsken with the bloody sword.

“No,” answered the other. He stared down at Elli and Nuic, rubbing his chin with his three-fingered hand. “Methinks there’s something more going on. Why else would these strangers be out here? Let’s take ‘em back to the mine. Then ol’ scarface can question ‘em. An’ kill ‘em hisself.”

The first warrior grinned, his greenish tongue dancing around his lips. “Kulwych will like that.”

“Right. An’ there’ll be a goodly reward fer us.” The gobsken kicked Elli’s back. “C’mon, move! Yer our prisoners now.”

17
•
The Magical Mist

Tamwyn continued to climb the mist-shrouded path, just as he’d done for several hours. Merlin’s Pinnacle was high, all right, just as Palimyst had warned him. But now it felt more like endless. Part of that feeling came from the smooth, unchanging slope of this trail that climbed steadily into the clouds. And part came from the fact that he could see nothing.

Nothing but mist.

Curling shreds of vapor—some as thick as grass snakes, others thinner than yarn—wound around his legs and slid between his toes. More threaded through his hair or curled around his neck. Unlike any mist he had ever encountered before, this vapor seemed to rise right out of the ground, weaving and braiding as it lifted. And stranger still, it seemed almost intelligent, moving with a will of its own.

Like it’s examining me,
he said to himself. He brushed away a curl of mist that had wrapped itself around a lock of hair, tickling his ear lobe.
Deciding whether or not I’m acceptable. Or capable.

Or,
he added with a slight frown,
worthy.

He recalled Palimyst’s old Taliwonn saying, making his frown deepen:

To swim within the River of Time
Thy soul must be worthy, thy motive sublime.

At least his motives were good enough! What could be more sublime than to hope to save Avalon? And in the process, to complete his father’s journey, taking his torch up to the stars?

He waved away a shred of mist that was dangling from his eyebrow. To be honest, there was one more motive—one not nearly so sublime. He simply wanted to
go
to the stars. To run freely among them, as he loved to run through the meadows and glades of Stoneroot.

Even so, Tamwyn knew that his problem was not whether his motives were truly sublime—but whether he himself was truly worthy. Palimyst had called him a
maker,
the same term Aelonnia of Mudroot had used. But could he make anything really important, really valuable?

His bare feet tramped along the pathway, pushing into the soft, damp grass that never grew any longer than the fur on a rabbit’s back. Yet strangely, he never left any footprints. Was that to be the sum of his life? To have walked many places, without ever leaving any mark?

Merlin’s Pinnacle kept rising higher and higher. He wondered how much farther it would be to the top. To the place where he’d find out whether he could, in fact, enter the River of Time. But there was no way to tell. All he knew was that this trail kept climbing upward—and that it rose in a steady spiral, always circling the misty mountain.

His thoughts turned to Palimyst, the humble craftsman with such skillful fingers. And also such wisdom, to make his goal shaping nature’s immortal gifts with his own mortal hands. The mammoth fellow had convinced Tamwyn to stay the night beneath his tent, despite Tamwyn’s sense of urgency that time was fast disappearing. But now, having climbed for so long, he was glad he’d taken a few hours’ sleep. Besides, even with his night vision, which seemed stronger than ever, he wouldn’t have wanted to walk here after starset. All this thick mist would have made the darkest night he’d ever known.

Not as dark as Shadowroot, though.
Worried about Elli, he tugged on the strap of his pack, jostling the harmóna wood within. A soft, melodic hum came from the half-finished harp, someday to be fitted with the strings from Palimyst.

Tamwyn grinned wistfully, despite his worries. It always lifted his spirits to hear that sound. He tapped the sheath of his dagger, whose blade bore those mysterious, ancient words about Rhita Gawr. Someday, when all this was over, he would finish carving the harp. Yes, and give it to Elli at last!

If we survive, that is.
His grim mood returned, as he continued to trudge up the trail.
And Avalon, too, must survive.

His only hope, he knew, was to enter the River somehow. Nothing else would work, given how far he needed to go, and how little time remained. Cryll Onnawesh, Palimyst had called it: the seam in the tent of the sky. If the River really did divide the two halves of time—always moving among the stars but never leaving the present moment—then there really was a chance he could reach the stars before it was too late.

How to enter it, though? Merlin had done it somehow, and without the help of his fabled dragon, Basilgarrad. But that was small comfort. Merlin was, after all,
Merlin
—the greatest wizard of all time.
And yet . . . I have some of his blood in my veins. Just as I have the blood of Krystallus.

He stopped, as moist tufts of mist pressed against his face. Reaching inside his pack, he pulled out a glass globe held inside a leather strap—his father’s compass. Tiny waves of mist rippled across the globe’s surface, but Tamwyn could still see inside. The horizontal arrow, as always, pointed westward, while the vertical arrow pointed straight above his head. To the stars.

Krystallus, he remembered, had his own theory of how to ascend to the stars. Whether or not it had anything to do with the River of Time, nobody could say. All that was clear was that it involved some sort of horse, a
great horse on high.

Tamwyn nodded, reciting to himself the riddle that Krystallus had written in the letter hidden in the Great Hall of the Heartwood:

To climb ever starward,
To vault through the sky,
Discover one secret:
The Great Horse on High.

What did that mean? And did it have anything to do with Rhita Gawr’s boast that Avalon would fall
when the great horse dies
? The warlord’s boast, Tamwyn now understood, referred to the constellation Pegasus, and the ever-beating star in its center. But a constellation of stars couldn’t carry him up into the sky! Could there be more to this riddle, and to the Great Horse, than he had guessed? He scowled, tired of having so many questions, and so few answers.

Stowing the compass, he resumed walking. The path kept on spiraling higher, leading him ever upward. He couldn’t begin to guess how high he’d climbed. The mist hid everything around him.

Just as it hid the stars.

Rhita Gawr hid the stars, too,
he thought.
But in a totally different way.
He recalled the dreadful sight of those immortal warriors pouring out of the darkened doorways of the stars—the seven stars of the Wizard’s Staff constellation.
Even if I make it up to the stars in time, how will I ever relight them ? And close those doorways?

He blew a long sigh, scattering the mist. Figuring out Krystallus’ riddle seemed easy compared to figuring out how to do that. He didn’t have enough power to light something as small as his father’s torch—let alone something as great as a star. This went far beyond the skills of a wilderness guide.

Sure, I may be of Merlin’s blood. But I’m also a clumsy buffoon. As well as the Dark child, the person destined to destroy Avalon.