The Great Tree of Avalon (29 page)

Scree raised his right wing, banking a sharp turn over the ridge. Wind blew his long brown hair against his human head, and flattened the rows of silver feathers that covered his chest as well as his powerful legs and sharp talons. By bending his upper wing—what would, in his human form, be his forearm—he swept low across the ridge. As air rushed over his feathers, their red tips glowed as bright as the flame vents below.

How he loved to fly! To ride the wind, to sail the skies like a feathered boat that claimed no port. And knew no anchor.

“But that’s not true, and you know it,” he said to himself. “You
do
have an anchor.”

He glanced down at his right talon, and the staff it held. That staff had been on his mind all day long, weighing him down.

Most days, when he soared above the cliffs, he thought about flight—the surge of the wind, the power of his wings, the feeling of freedom. Or he thought about finding his next meal: cliff hare or wild boar. And, of course, he thought about spotting intruders, whether they walked, like men—or flew, like ghoulacas.

But today . . . he was thinking about the staff. The gift of a wizard, entrusted to his care. He remembered exactly what had happened the moment he’d held it in that whole new way, the moment he’d spoken those powerful words:
I am the true heir of Merlin.

He tilted his left wing, circling close to a pinnacle of black rock—so close that his wingtip nearly brushed its edge. Dark smoke, reeking of sulfur, belched from its top. He caught an updraft and climbed up, up, up toward the stars, until he could look down on everything below. The charred ridges, the smoking vents, the tallest volcanoes—all stretched far beneath him. He was the master of the skies.

He leaned to one side, catching the full force of the rising wind. And then he flapped his powerful wings once, twice, three times. His speed increased; the wind roared in his ears. Like a shooting star, he soared across the cliffs. Black ridges, orange flames, red clouds—he sped past all of them, hurtling faster than anything alive.

Free! He was truly free. Yes, even with the staff he carried. Even with everything he now knew . . . about himself, and his own destiny.

Scree cut a wide arc through some smoky clouds, his yellow-rimmed eyes gleaming. Then he arched one wing and veered again, streaking across the sky. He knew he was tied to this staff, no less than a boat was tied to its anchor. But now . . . he knew something more.

As he approached the jagged edge of the crater where he made his home, he caught a glimpse of some movement far below. Clambering up the rocky face of the cliffs were a pair of figures. One looked tall and slender, and moved nimbly over the rocks, while the other looked very short, oddly proportioned, and rather clumsy. No matter—they were two-leggeds, climbing toward his cave. Intruders!

A powerful screech—part eagle, part human—echoed across the cliffs. Scree drew his great wings tight against his body. Downward he plunged to make the kill.

27
•
Prosperity

Tamwyn awoke in bright daylight. He was lying on his back upon something soft. There was a strange taste, like licorice, on his tongue. The gray mist had gone—though a different kind of mist filled his brain, clogging his thoughts.

He sat up. He was on a couch with fat green pillows. Inside a room!

Indeed, it was the largest room he’d ever seen, larger than the whole house that he’d helped thatch in Lott’s village. Windows, with fitted wooden shutters open wide, were on every wall. An immense hearth, glowing with still-warm coals, sat in one corner. Judging from the intricate stonework—deftly fitted slabs of pink granite—it had been built by a master stonemason. On one wall, between the windows, hung a richly woven tapestry of a garden overflowing with colorful vegetables. Beneath it sat a great oaken table, surrounded by a dozen chairs, on a thick woolen rug of azure blue.

Seated on two of the chairs were Llynia and Elli, joined by Nuic, who seemed quite content to sit on top of the table itself. They were listening to an old, white-haired man who wore a gray robe with long, wide sleeves, and several hooks and pockets that held spades, clippers, plant bulbs, and seedlings. So much dirt was smudged on the robe that Tamwyn wondered for an instant whether some of the seedlings had taken root inside the pockets.

As Tamwyn cleared his throat to speak, the old man turned his way. He smiled and nodded in greeting, bouncing his necklace of garlic bulbs. “Ah, then, you’ve awakened.”

“Have I . . . been asleep long?” Tamwyn asked groggily. “And where are we? Is everyone all right? That mist . . .”

“Yes, yes, all in time.” The old fellow got up and stepped lightly over to his side. His face, round and friendly, creased in a web of wrinkles as he smiled again. “To start with your first question, you’ve been asleep quite some time. All last night, since I found you, and most of the morning, in fact. But don’t worry,” he said with a glance toward Llynia, who brightened visibly, “we’ve been having a lovely conversation.”

“It’s good you stayed asleep,” said Elli with a toss of her curls. “If you’d been up walking around, you’d probably have broken some furniture.”

Despite Tamwyn’s scowl, the old man seemed to take this as just a good-natured jest. “Ah, but there is very little here that could break, unless he can crack oaken tables and break stones.”

“You’d be surprised,” muttered Nuic, his small body now a radiant golden brown.

Elli giggled at this.

The old man stretched out his hand and placed it gently on Tamwyn’s shoulder. The hand, like his robe, was smudged with dirt. Every wrinkle of his knuckles and palms, and every black-lined fingernail, announced that this was the hand of a gardener. One of his thumbnails was broken, perhaps by a digging tool.

“I am Hanwan Belamir,” he said in a deep, resonant voice. “Welcome to my humble school and garden.”

“Come now, Hanwan,” interjected Llynia. “No need for modesty, especially to my . . . er, porter here. This is no mere school! This is the Academy of Prosperity.”

“Yes, well . . .” said the old man quietly. “So it is.”

“And this,” continued Llynia, with a dramatic wave in his direction, “is no mere gardener. You are speaking to the Academy’s founder, the man many have dubbed
Olo
Belamir, the first person to bear that name since Merlin himself ages ago became Olo Eopia.”

Now the fellow was looking positively embarrassed. “Such names are meaningless,” he protested. “Mere distractions.” He turned back to Tamwyn. “All you need to know is that I am an old man who loves nothing better than to dig around in my garden. And whose school is built upon a few useful principles.”

“Hmmmpff,” said Nuic, his color reddening. “Arrogant principles, if you ask me.”

“Nuic!” scolded Elli, her own face reddening. “I’m surprised at you. You heard this man’s letter to the Council of Elders, didn’t you? You told me yourself that it helped. And besides, we’re his guests! He
saved
us, if you recall.”

Belamir just waved aside the praise. “Actually, that was just good luck that I happened to be out on my afternoon stroll.”

“The mist,” asked Tamwyn with a shake of his head to wake himself fully. “What was it?”

The teacher’s face darkened. “A terrible thing, that! One of the hazards of the untamed forest—a kind of gas produced by mountain ash trees. To ward off animals who might covet their berries, I believe. Although it merely induces sleep, it can in time prove fatal. Those who succumb to it may never wake up again, unless they are removed from the spot and given the antidote, a special blend of licorice root and clover honey.”

Tamwyn licked his lips, tasting again the hint of licorice. “So you did save our lives.”

Belamir bowed slightly. “My pleasure. Although,” he added with a wry grin, “it wasn’t so easy to give the antidote to that, well,
creature
inside your pocket! It finally drank a bit, then flew off, babbling at me in a language I couldn’t understand.”

“You’re not the only one,” said Tamwyn. He patted his robe pocket to confirm that Batty Lad wasn’t there. “I’m sure he’s all right, thanks to you. He’s probably out hunting for insects, or just napping somewhere else.”

“As I said, it was my pleasure to help you. And also my good fortune.” He turned back to Llynia. “How else would I have ever met the Chosen One—the next leader—of the Society of the Whole?”

Llynia blushed.

“Who promises,” Belamir added in a lower voice, “to be a distinct improvement.”

As Llynia beamed with pride, Elli frowned. “I thought you and the High Priestess got along just fine.”

“We do.” He looked at her kindly. “But there are certain . . . shall we say,
limitations
in Coerria, which someone of your youth may not have noticed.”

Llynia, looking quite pleased with herself, gave a smirk.

But Elli, who was sure she had noticed
everything
about the High Priestess, shook her head. “I don’t understand you. High Priestess Coerria is the very best—”

“Person for her time,” finished Belamir. “But the times have changed. Dramatically, I should add. And the Society deserves better.” He pinched his lips together. “As does Avalon.”

His words, and worried tone, suddenly reminded Tamwyn of the warning from the old cherry tree. And that strange white lake at the canyon of the moaning wind. He wanted to tell Belamir about these things, and ask his advice. But something held him back, something he couldn’t quite put into words.

“And I suppose,” grumbled Nuic, “that you know exactly what Avalon needs.”

Belamir looked down at his dirty hands, turning them in the light from the windows. “I know only what I’ve learned from my garden. If that is helpful to Avalon, I am grateful.”

Elli, who still felt offended for Coerria, started to speak again, but the old man cut her off. “Come now, you must be famished! I’m sorry your other two friends aren’t here to join us for a meal.”

“Don’t be,” answered Llynia. “My maryth wouldn’t eat anyway, and she’s happier just being outside. And as for the hoolah . . .” She scowled. “Meals are always more pleasant without him.”

“More plentiful, too,” added Nuic. “But I’m sure that even now he’s helping himself to some of your fresh produce.”

“He’s welcome to it,” said Belamir. “We have plenty.” He picked up a copper bell and rang it twice.

A door opened by the tapestry of the garden, and a very old servant hobbled in. He looked like an ancient, wind-blown tree, with scraggly hair sprouting from his chin and both sides of his head above his ears. One eye, irritated somehow, was so bloodshot that it looked entirely pink. The old man bowed, pressing together his hands, which were as black with dirt as Belamir’s. “You called, Master?”

“Yes, Morrigon. Please have food prepared for our guests.”

“Of course, Master.” The servant bowed, then hobbled back through the door.

Seconds later, they heard a loud bustle and clatter from the next room. Tamwyn guessed it was the sound of platters, trays, and heavy containers. Feeling fully awake at last, he stood up and walked over to one of the windows—but not without stumbling against the corner of the couch. He cast a sheepish glance at Elli, but fortunately she hadn’t noticed.

What he saw out the window was more than just a school . . . or even a full-blown Academy. It was an entire village, complete with houses, buildings for various trades, and farmed fields. But this village looked very different from those he’d seen in Stoneroot. It wasn’t just the absence of bells on rooftops, weather vanes, doorways, plows, and animal collars—something he’d come to expect in every village. No, the biggest difference was the sheer
bounty
of everything.

The houses, all painted in crisp, bright colors, had walls built of sturdy wooden planks. No thatched roofs anywhere, Tamwyn was glad to see: The roofs, too, were made of wood. Expansive vegetable gardens, with wire fences and signs labeling what had been planted in every row, flanked every house. From the look of it, the people who lived here had plenty of tools, seeds, and bulbs. And, it seemed, plenty of fruits and vegetables to show for it. Grape arbors hung with heavy purple bunches; squashes, pumpkins, and melons covered the ground; people were filling baskets with lettuce, carrots, radishes, beans, and more. Fruit trees—apples, pears, and plums mostly—grew in most every garden. And in the branches of one of them, Tamwyn saw the unmistakable shape of a hoolah, eating apples as fast as he could pick them.

In the courtyard in front of the school building, Tamwyn counted sixteen children (and several adults) playing on swings and a seesaw, running after balls, or jumping rope. Nearby, a forge echoed with the rhythmic sounds of blacksmiths’ hammers and bellows, a village trading center displayed a wide variety of farming tools and handmade furniture, and a communal stable housed dozens of well-fed sheep, goats, and pigs. Surrounding the settlement were enormous cultivated fields, with corn and various grains, that ran all the way to the high wooden fences that bordered the village, separating it from the forestlands beyond.

Everything about this village felt productive. And prosperous. And bountiful, beyond anything Tamwyn had experienced. Whatever ideas Belamir had developed, they certainly seemed to be working.

The door by the tapestry opened again, and old Morrigon entered. He was followed by four men and women, all wearing brown robes covered with pockets. They carried trays, bowls, and platters full of food: melons, all sliced and dripping with juices; piping hot pies filled with roasted lamb, barley, almonds, and apricots; overflowing salads; five different kinds of grainy bread; strawberry and pear puddings; honey-glazed tarts and crusty apple pastries. To drink they brought mint, orange, and clove teas; tall beakers of freshly squeezed plum and apple juice; and a large bottle of crimson mead, which Belamir placed right in front of Llynia.

The travelers, all hungry, plunged right in. Nuic, who had sat himself in a large bowl which he’d filled with water, stuffed himself with fresh salad. Llynia and Elli both began with big slices of lamb-and-barley pie, and then had seconds. Tamwyn, meanwhile, consumed enough juicy melons to make up for several months of drought.