The Eternal Flame (28 page)

Elli, Lleu, Nuic, and Catha, all jumbled together in the middle of the cupped hands, stared at the face above them. It was truly gigantic. Its nose alone was the size of an elephaunt, and a pregnant elephaunt at that. Shaggy white hairs, each as long as the ropes of cloudthread that supported Airroot’s Misty Bridge, curled around the massive head.

Shim peered down at them, smiling broadly. He was wearing a huge cloak of woven willows that he’d taken from the giant felled by Harlech’s claw. Its leafy collar alone was as large as a whole grove of trees; if he lay down, the cloak would have made him look like a forested hillside.

“Such a sweetly thing has happened to me,” he bellowed in a voice as loud as an avalanche. “Certainly, definitely, absolutely.”

34
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Starkeepers

Tamwyn stood on the head of Basilgarrad, whose wide green wings rode the winds of Avalon’s highest reaches. One of the young man’s hands held on to the dragon’s ear; one hand grasped the torch, shimmering with magical fire. Feeling wonder, satisfaction, and amazement all at once, he gazed at the seven stars of the Wizard’s Staff, flaming brightly once again.

Without even turning, he sensed Gwirion’s approach from behind. For before he heard the familiar crackle of the fire angel’s wings, he could feel their heat on the back of his neck. He turned around just as Gwirion landed.

The fire angel closed his wings upon his back and stepped toward Tamwyn, careful to place his feet only on the dragon’s undamaged scales. He stopped about two paces away, as close as his fires would allow without burning his friend. For a few seconds, he simply observed Tamwyn and the flaming torch, whistling thoughtfully as he gazed.

“Well, human son, you have found your soulfire at last.” Gwirion reached up and touched, with a flaming finger, the Golden Wreath on his brow. “Just as you found this.”

Tamwyn nodded. “And let me tell you, it was almost as painful as swallowing fire coals.”

Gwirion laughed, a sound like wood rich with sap popping on the fire.

That laughter reminded Tamwyn of the fire angel’s sister, and her heroism that had saved his life. “I’m sorry about Fraitha.”

For an instant, Gwirion’s fires dimmed. “She would have been proud to see what you have done.”

“What
we
have done. We only prevailed thanks to your warriors.” Tamwyn waved at the remaining Ayanowyn, who were flying in joyous loops around them. Then he thought of Ahearna, the Star Galloper, whose wide wings had carried him all the way here. And of Henni, who had never, in all their adventures, really believed that he could die. Feeling as if his own soulfire had dimmed, he said quietly, “And thanks to those who gave their lives today for Avalon.”

“Yes,” agreed Gwirion.

Tamwyn took a deep breath, then declared, “In addition, we never could have succeeded without one especially great warrior.” He leaned into the dragon’s ear, and added, “One who pretended to cower in my pocket.”

The enormous head beneath them quaked as Basilgarrad rumbled in approval.

Gwirion nodded. “All this is true, my friend. But only you could relight the stars.”

Tamwyn grinned slightly, then said, “There is one left to light.”

He spoke again into the dragon’s ear. Immediately, Basilgarrad raised one immense wing just enough to sail into a turn. As the wind gusted over them, making Gwirion’s flames crackle louder, they came around to face a different part of the sky. In the distance, near the glowing ribbon of light that was the River of Time, hung the last of Avalon’s darkened stars. The Heart of Pegasus.

Tamwyn drew a full breath, then blew once again upon his torch. A single radiant spark lifted off and drifted away on a gust of magic. Though it was as small as a mote of dust, Tamwyn knew that it held all the power to rekindle a star. Just as a tiny seed had given birth to his entire world, this spark could give new light to an entire swath of sky.

For you, Ahearna,
he thought sadly, as he watched the spark float away.
I only wish you could see your star return to flames.

To Tamwyn’s great surprise, the spark abruptly stopped. It continued to burn brightly, but it hung there in the sky like a miniature star itself, fixed in place. Tamwyn traded puzzled looks with Gwirion, while the dragon who bore them rumbled uncertainly.

Then came a greater surprise. From the central star of the Wizard’s Staff, another spark drifted over and merged with Tamwyn’s spark, making it glow even brighter. Then sparks from the other stars of the constellation arrived, followed by additional sparks from stars nearby. More sparks came, and more. Stars all across the sky joined in, each sending a tiny bit of their light. Before long, every star on the branches of the Great Tree of Avalon had added to the new point of radiance.

All at once, the collection of sparks exploded. Spots of light flew in all directions. But they did not go far. Instead, they gathered themselves into two new shapes, creating a pair of luminous images in the center of the sky.

Faces.

One face of a man and one of a woman formed in the sky. They grew more defined, and more alive, by the second. Before long, they turned toward Tamwyn and his friends. And the young man knew, right away, exactly whose faces they were.

“Dagda and Lorilanda,” he whispered in wonder.

“Our images, not our true selves,” said the glowing face of the man. Hisvoice,while deep and resonant, was not loud. Yet Tamwyn could hear it easily, as if Dagda were standing beside him on the head of the dragon. “For we have promised never to enter the mortal worlds, to allow creatures of free will to choose their own destiny.”

“Which you have done, Tamwyn, and done beautifully.” The woman’s face smiled as she spoke. The sound of her rich mellifluous voice made Tamwyn think of a tumbling stream in his favorite alpine meadow, high on the flanks of Hallia’s Peak. He shifted his stance, jingling the small quartz bell on his hip, and the bell’s voice rippled right along with the stream.

“While we could not come to Avalon ourselves,” continued Dagda, “we have watched you and your friends, every step of the way.” His radiant eyes filled with gratitude. “And we are deeply, deeply pleased that you have prevailed.”

“Much thanks to you, good dragon,” said Lorilanda with affection. She waited a moment as Basilgarrad flapped his wings majestically, then added, “You are truly the grandest of your kind ever to have flown.”

Basilgarrad gave a small whimper of embarrassment, a sound that seemed impossibly little for someone so gigantic.

“And much thanks to you, as well, Gwirion of the Ayanowyn.” Hearing her words, the flaming man stood completely still, although his fires burned brighter than ever before.

“That is true,” declared Dagda. “Only because of your courage and faith are we speaking to you now, as your people prophesied. For as you know well, our destinies can take as many shapes as a flame.”

Lorilanda’s face expanded a bit, as if she were leaning closer. “You have brought your people back into the light, Gwirion. Now you and your descendants shall paint another story, even greater than the one you call Lumaria col Lir. And brighter, as well, for the brushes that you use shall themselves be aflame.”

Gwirion’s jaw trembled, along with his soulfire. “May I ask you a question that has long burned in my mind?” Seeing the luminous faces nod, he touched his Golden Wreath. “I have heard that this wreath is more than a symbol of leadership, that it also carries a special power. But what that is, I know not.”

Dagda and Lorilanda glanced at each other. Then Dagda spoke again.

“It is the power to guide you safely to the Otherworld.”

“Your realm of the spirits?” asked Gwirion in disbelief.

“Yes,” replied Dagda. “Like Ogallad before you, you may sometimes need to enter one of the seven flaming doorways to our world. If you are wearing the Golden Wreath, you shall survive the journey and find us waiting.” He paused, scrutinizing the winged man. “You are wondering why you might ever need to do this.”

“I am.”

“Because your people’s new responsibility, the great story Lorilanda described, shall be to serve as eternal guardians of the stars. To guard all the flaming doorways into Avalon that surround us here and now. To make certain that if Rhita Gawr should ever try again to enter your world, your people will warn all the rest of Avalon.”

Gwirion’s face shone almost as bright as those of Dagda and Lorilanda on high. “As well as do our best to send him back to the Otherworld.”

Lorilanda laughed, turning the sound of the stream into a lilting waterfall. “That attitude is why we have chosen to give you this new role.”

“And why we have also chosen,” added Dagda, lowering his voice, “to give you something else. Your people’s true name.”

Gwirion rocked backward, nearly slipping on Basilgarrad’s scales. The fulfillment of the prophecy!

“From this day forward,” declared Dagda, “you shall no longer be known as Ayanowyn—but as Hie Connedan. Do you know what that means, in the most ancient language of Avalon?”

“Starkeepers,” whispered Gwirion. “Guardians of the stars.”

Tamwyn nodded. “Fits you, my friend.”

Gwirion, first leader of the Starkeepers, said nothing. He merely gazed at Dagda, Lorilanda, and the glittering lights around them.

Slowly, Lorilanda turned, so that she no longer faced Tamwyn, Gwirion, and Basilgarrad. Instead, she faced the uppermost star in the line of seven stars that formed the Wizard’s Staff. Whispering quietly, she spoke to that star. Although he couldn’t understand any of her words, Tamwyn sensed in his bones that they contained deep magic.

All of a sudden, the uppermost star flashed brilliantly. Then it did something so unexpected that Tamwyn caught his breath. The star began to elongate, stretching downward, until its fires merged with those of the star just below. After a few seconds, the Wizard’s Staff had changed dramatically. Now, instead of a row of seven equally bright stars, it consisted of five equal stars topped by one remarkably tall flame.

“A torch,” said Tamwyn, astounded. “It looks like a torch.”

“Indeed it does,” answered Lorilanda. “Long may it burn bright, as a reminder to all of what happened today. And now this constellation, like Gwirion’s people, shall gain a new name. Henceforth, it shall be called the Eternal Flame.”

Her voice fell to a whisper as she added, “And it has only come into being because of a mortal man who always dreamed of climbing to the stars.”

Tamwyn swallowed.

Lorilanda, revered goddess of birth, flowering, and renewal, gazed down at him for a moment. Then she continued, “You have both light and dark within you, as the name Dark Flame suggests. In that way you are no different from any other human. Much wisdom can come from understanding and balancing those two sides, Tamwyn. But the balance is essential.”

Her image wavered, as if a chill wind had blown across the sky. “For in these dreadful times for your world, the darker side of your species has grown powerful. Too powerful. That is why arrogance and greed have flourished, why some humans have deemed themselves superior to all other creatures, and why those same humans have nearly destroyed the fragile bonds that hold this wondrous world together.”

She heaved a sorrowful sigh. “Even now, a fierce battle is ending in the lands below, on the Plains of lsenwy. The forces who cherish Avalon have prevailed, I am relieved to tell you. But their victory has come only at a terrible cost. And even with that victory, the deeper seeds of disaster—arrogance and greed—remain. They need only another season of darkness to flourish once again. For they are seeds ever present in the human soul.”

She paused, peering intently at the young man. “What makes this danger so terrible is that humans tip the balance of your world. No other species can make such a difference, for good or ill. If humans can live in harmony with other forms of life, the world rejoices. If not, the world suffers—and may not survive.”

Tamwyn scowled. “Which means that Avalon will always be at risk, as long as humans live here.”

“Or as long,” Lorilanda added, “as they have not yet learned to control their darker side.”

“That could be forever!” Tamwyn shook his head, discouraged, sweeping his hair across his shoulders. “Surely we didn’t endure all this just so it could happen all over again! Too many people have been killed, too many dreams have been destroyed.”

He squeezed the torch. “I wish you could take every last one of us humans out of Avalon! Bring us somewhere else—until we can live in harmony with our fellow creatures. That’s the only way Avalon will ever be safe, the only way something like this won’t be repeated.”

“We could not do that,” Lorilanda reminded him gently.

“I know, I know! The barriers between the worlds, the right to choose our own course. That’s why you and Dagda couldn’t help us. Even Merlin couldn’t come back to help us. But who
will
help us, if you can’t? Who
will
take humanity out of Avalon?”

Neither of the gods responded. A silence as vast and deep as the sky itself fell over the immortals. Beneath them, Basilgarrad continued to ride the winds, soundless but for the flapping of his slightly torn wing and battered scales.

It was Tamwyn who broke the silence, as he answered his own question. “We will do it ourselves,” he said with grim resolve. “I will lead humanity out of Avalon! At least, I will try. And if I succeed, we will go through that star doorway that is still open, the one that leads to Earth.”

“And after you have gone,” added Lorilanda, “we will make good use of that magical spark that you yourself released, for it still burns within us. We will send it into that star to rekindle the flames.”

“To close the doorway.” Tamwyn’s throat tightened so much it hurt. “I just wish that the only way to save Avalon was not to lose it.”

Now Dagda’s face seemed to draw closer in the sky. His eyes glowed warmly, and when he spoke, his voice sounded so tender that Tamwyn could almost feel a great arm wrapping around his shoulders. So real was this sensation, in fact, that Tamwyn’s pack seemed to move in response, jostling the broken pieces of Elli’s harp.