The Great Tree of Avalon (15 page)

Elli shook her head, and her curls bounced. “What does all this have to do with me?”

Coerria smiled. “You, my child, have suffered greatly. But those gnomes, unwittingly, also gave you a gift.”

Elli’s back stiffened. “Gift?”

The High Priestess nodded, making hundreds of delicate braids slide across the shoulder of her gown. “The gift of understanding another people, very different from your own. I cannot say how or when, but I do believe that someday you’ll be grateful for that.”

“Nothing about gnomes will ever make me grateful.”

“Perhaps not. In time, you’ll know.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then the High Priestess shifted on her stool, making her gown ripple like starlight on the sea. Seeing this, Elli’s face brightened. Gingerly, she ran her hand along the hem of the gown.

“It’s beautiful,” she said with wonder. “The most beautiful thing in Avalon.”

“That it’s not, my child. It’s no more than a dead leaf compared to the miracle of élano, which flows from the depths of Avalon’s roots and gives life to us all. Still, it is a remarkable bit of clothing. Woven for Elen herself long ago . . . by the great white spider of Lost Fincayra.” She peered at Elli, a curious light in her eyes. “And it’s truly wondrous to wear.”

“For Avalon’s sake!” declared Nuic, pacing on the top step of the waterfall. “Aren’t you ever going to tell her your secret?”

“Why, yes, Ancient One,” said Coerria good-humoredly. “It’s time.”

“Finally,” grumbled the pinnacle sprite. “Lots is happening out there, you know! Stars dying, droughts worsening, Elders panicking . . . ” He paused, savoring a thought. “Even some priestesses turning green. With a bit of expert help, of course.”

Elli’s hazel green eyes widened. She waved at Nuic to shush, before glancing fearfully at the High Priestess. To her amazement, the old woman showed no outrage, or even concern. In fact, her face seemed almost mirthful.

Before Elli could speak, Coerria raised her hand. “The less I hear about that, the better.”

Elli nodded. “And so . . . the secret?”

The old woman’s expression turned serious, and she drew a deep breath. “Llynia is not the first priestess, you know, to have a vision.”

“You?”

“Yes, my child, just after I became High Priestess. It was the only vision I’ve ever had. And, like Llynia’s, it was of the Lady of the Lake.”

Elli frowned. “Do you think she really saw the Lady? Welcoming her into the lair? That’s what people say she told the Council of Elders.”

Coerria shook her head slowly—until Uzzzula’s reproachful buzzing made her stop. “I don’t know, child, I really don’t. But I do hope she has—not for her sake, but for Avalon’s. Because as remote and mysterious as the Lady is, she has always shown a special concern for our Society, and our world. And right now we need her help more than ever.”

Rubbing her chin, Elli asked, “But who, really, is the Lady of the Lake?”

“All anyone knows is that she is an enchantress, very old and very wise. And terribly difficult to find! Many have tried; none have succeeded. People say she lives in the eastern part of Woodroot, what the elves call El Urien, where the forest is deepest. But no one is certain—not even Belamir, whose school is in that region.”

Coerria’s eyes brightened like prisms. “When the Lady came to me, she glowed with light—blue light. And she began by reminding me of the Dark Prophecy that she’d uttered so long ago:

“A year shall come when stars go dark,
And faith will fail anon—
For born shall be a child who spells
The end of Avalon.

“The only hope beneath the stars
To save that world so fair
Will be the Merlin then alive:
The wizard’s own true heir.”

Elli swallowed, then asked, “And the secret?”

The Elder’s voice grew softer than the splash of the waterfall. “That when Merlin finally departed Avalon, at the end of the Age of Storms, he left something behind. Something precious.”

“What?”

“A way to find the true heir of Merlin.”

“Really?”

Coerria pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You see, when the Lady finished reciting the Prophecy, she added these words:

“So find the staff of Merlin true
And you shall find the heir:
Like a brother to the darkened child,
The light of stars shall bear.”

Elli’s brow furrowed. “That’s it? That’s all?”

“It isn’t much, child. Just an idea. But a whole world could change because of one idea.” The wrinkles around her eyes deepened. “Or one person.”

The young priestess twirled one of her curls with her finger, coiling it like a bit of twine. “What do you make of that line about the brother? I mean, the true heir couldn’t be the brother of the child of the Dark Prophecy. They’re enemies, aren’t they?”

“The word
brother
could mean more than one thing.”

“All of them confusing!” exclaimed Elli. “And what does
the light of stars
have to do with anything? By the elbows of the Elders! What good is this secret if we can’t understand it?”

“Patience, child.” Coerria leaned a bit closer. “Like you, I have no idea what the last part means. But the beginning couldn’t be more clear.
Find the staff of Merlin true.
Merlin’s original staff must be somewhere in Avalon! If you can find it, you’ll find Merlin’s heir.”

Elli wagged her head. “But where do we look? Or even begin? It could be anywhere in the Great Tree!”

“Anywhere,” agreed the Elder. “But I can tell you this, from my studies of Merlin’s years in Avalon. If he really did leave his staff behind, it was no idle gesture. That staff, you see, is more than just an object. Much more. Its magic—some would say its wisdom—is beyond our knowing. Merlin even gave it a name of its own: Ohnyalei, which means
spirit of grace
in the Fincayran Old Tongue.”

She squeezed Elli’s hand. “And I can tell you this, too. If he wanted to hide the staff, he would have made the sacred runes on its shaft disappear—as he did once before, when he had to hide it from Rhita Gawr. Those runes, you see, are the staff’s essential markings. Hide them, and you have just an ordinary-looking walking stick. The runes glowed blue during the years the staff was in Lost Fincayra, but turned green when Merlin brought it to Avalon. So, to keep the staff safe, he made them vanish completely. And they didn’t reappear until Merlin himself held the staff again—and said the words
I am Merlin
.”

Elli twisted another of her curls. “So if the runes are hidden the same way, they might also reappear the same way.”

“Exactly.”

“Then if the right person holds the staff and says,
I am the true heir of Merlin
, the runes could return.” Elli paused, her mind racing. “That gives us a way to tell an impostor— say, the child of the Dark Prophecy—from the real heir.”

“That’s right, my dear. And that could be especially useful if they seem a lot alike.”

Elli nodded slowly. “Enough, maybe, to be brothers.”

The High Priestess gave a hint of a smile. “I don’t think you’ve missed much by skipping Formal Prayers.”

Suddenly her face turned grim. “You must remember, Elliryanna, that our troubles have all deepened in the seventeenth year after the Year of Darkness—the seventeenth year of the prophesied child. If he or she lives, this would be the year of coming into power.”

“It doesn’t seem like an accident.”

“No, my dear, it doesn’t.” The old woman squeezed her hand again. “Now, you must promise me something.”

“Anything, High Priestess.”

“You must beware of the child of the Dark Prophecy. And more than that. If you should ever meet him or her . . .
you must break the Drumadians’ first law
.”

Elli’s jaw went slack. “You mean . . . kill the Dark one?”

“That’s right,” answered Coerria. “Kill the Dark one.” She peered at the young apprentice. “Now promise.”

Though her throat felt like a dry riverbed, Elli said, “I promise.” Then her expression darkened further. “I’m worried, High Priestess.”

“As am I.”

“It won’t be easy to find the Lady. Or Merlin’s true heir.”

“That’s right.”

“And . . . well, there’s something else. I’m still not . . .” She licked her lips. “I’m still not sure why you asked me to go.”

“Ah, then perhaps you will discover that, as well.” She studied Elli thoughtfully. “But I think it would be fair to tell you . . . that I have an instinct about you. That someday, somehow, you will make a difference to the Society of the Whole. Perhaps a lasting difference.”

The young woman stared at her in disbelief.

“And you should also know,” Coerria went on, “that you remind me of myself, a very long time ago.”

Elli blushed.

The old woman stood, her gown shimmering. Elli rose and offered her arm. But at that moment, they heard a loud “Hmmmpff” from over by the waterfall.

As they turned to Nuic, he demanded, “Aren’t you going to ask my opinion? After all, it looks like I’m going to be part of this madness.”

The High Priestess bent her head in assent. “But of course, Nuic. So tell us, what do you think?”

Nuic’s colors brightened slightly. “I think . . . if you’re giving Elliryanna here permission to kill the Dark child, I’d like permission to do the same thing to Llynia.”

11
•
Tracks

Tamwyn found the hoolah’s tracks easily. No mistaking those flat, four-toed feet, even in the dry soil of the fields outside the village.

And no mistaking what the hoolah had done after he’d finished heckling—and making sure that Tamwyn was banished in disgrace. No, even a much less experienced tracker could have followed the hoolah’s path from the side of the partly thatched house, to the nearest cornfield, to a corn row where he’d stolen some husks. (He’d even left a row of broken stalks, like trampled signposts, to show beyond any doubt that he’d been there.)

Tamwyn looked at the cornstalks and shook his head.
By the time Lott’s finished telling the whole village how I wrecked his house, smashed his foot, broke his ladder, and then klonked his sweet little girl with a bucket . . . they’ll probably blame this on me, too.

He stamped his bare foot on the hoolah’s print.
Which, I’ll wager, that little menace also planned.

With that, he started following the tracks northward, toward the foothills that rose—after many, many leagues—into the high peaks of Stoneroot.
I’ll find that blasted pest, even if I have to track him over the Dun Tara snowfields. Or to the top of Hallia’s Peak!

As he hiked along, he thought back over the past hour. He’d woken an instant before dawn, at the very moment when the stars began to brighten—a habit he’d learned over years of sleeping outside. Bells on the weather vanes of the village’s stone houses, struck by the first breeze of the new day, had just begun to chime. Their slow, sleepy voices called to the bells around the necks of goats, cows, horses, and geese, rousing them also to sound. The jangling bells of a farmer’s old wheelbarrow joined in, as did the deep-bonging iron bell on the door of the communal barn. Soon the very air of the village vibrated with clinks, dongs, rattles, and rings.

Right then the hoolah wasn’t on Tamwyn’s mind. Nor even the dung heap where he’d spent the night. Instead, as he first opened his eyes, he heard again in his mind the magical voices of the museo and the bard with the sideways-growing beard. And saw again the graceful dance of the tree spirits.

And then, with a pang, he’d remembered what had happened to the Wizard’s Staff. And how the hoolah had humiliated him—and laughed uncontrollably as Tamwyn was driven from the village.

Now, as he tracked the hoolah, he took a whiff of his own sleeve, streaked with goat droppings and rotten fruit. He scrunched his nose in dismay. “After I finish with that hoolah,” he proclaimed out loud, “I’ll get myself a bath. Clothes, hair, everything.” Under his breath, he added, “If I can find a stream with enough water.”

Northward he hiked, following the four-toed tracks. Before long he left behind the last, distant chimes of the village bells. As he crossed a sloping field choked with gorse, whose yellow flowers seemed paler than usual, Tamwyn felt glad that the hoolah—like himself—preferred to make his own trails. There were too many other tracks and wheel ruts in the hard dirt of the established roads, making it harder to follow someone. And besides, the prettiest countryside began where the roads, and even the ancient footpaths that few people used any more, ended.

He hopped over a fallen spruce tree, and strode through a meadow whose grass had been chewed down by a flock of woolly brown sheep. He glanced up at the sky, and the morning-bright stars. Still no seventh star in the Staff! It had just vanished, like a doused coal in a campfire.

What in the name of Avalon happened?
The problem gnawed at his mind as he left the meadow and passed through a stand of alders and maples. Whatever, it can’t be good.

He picked a long stem of grass and chewed it thoughtfully. There was nothing that he—or anyone else, for that matter—could do about the stars. Why, no one even knew what they really were, let alone how to reach them! And yet . . .

He bit through the stem.
I’d really like to do something. If only I knew what.

Spying a broken stick on the ground, he bent down to study it. Sure enough, he found the depression left by a hoolah’s foot. He nodded grimly. Maybe he couldn’t do anything about the stars. But that hoolah . . .
that
he could do something about.

He pulled a pair of plump tubers from the soil and ate them quickly. They were at least juicy, if not very filling. That was all he’d have for breakfast this day. But for dinner, he’d dine on revenge.

Tamwyn started to run, with an easy, loping stride. He kept his eyes trained on the footprints—or, since the dirt was often too dry to hold a print, to broken blades of grass, bruised leaves, or disturbed pebbles that revealed the hoolah’s path. With every stride, the tiny bell at his hip chimed rhythmically. He ran with ease, moving as lightly as a fawn.

How he loved to run, just run! To feel the wind blowing back his hair, the ground compressing ever so slightly under the weight of his feet, the tension building in his thighs before every stride. And the rhythm, most of all: He loved the endless, constant rhythm of his feet pounding the turf, his lungs drawing new air, and his arms slicing up and down, up and down, up and down.