The Seven Songs (32 page)

By the sounds and smells that moved through the darkness, as well as the shifts in Shim’s strides, I could sense some of the changes in terrain. After emerging from the channel, he marched over the rising coastal plane and swiftly mounted the hills. Soon his steps shortened as the grade steepened. We moved higher into the snowy ridges near the city of Varigal. At one point I thought I heard deep voices chanting in the distance, though the sound quickly died away.

The alpine air grew misty and damp as we descended into a maze of hills and swamps. Somewhere near, I knew, lay the crystal cave of the Grand Elusa. Was the great spider there herself, curled up among the Treasures of Fincayra? Or was she out prowling for wraiths and goblins to satisfy her limitless appetite?

The crashing and snapping of limbs below announced our entry into Druma Wood. Rich, resiny smells tickled my nostrils. Immense shadows, some nearly as tall as the giant who bore us, pushed skyward. I couldn’t help but recall Shim’s ardent wish that he had confided in me so long ago.
To be big, as big as the highlyest tree.

His wish had been granted, to be sure. Sitting in the great palm, I stared all the harder at the dying moon, glimmering high above us. And I felt increasingly sure that my own deepest wish would not be granted.

Just when I began to wonder whether I could still detect the moon at all, or whether I was only imagining its pale glow, a new shadow loomed before us. Taller and fuller than the rest, it stood with all the grandeur of Dagda’s Tree of Soul. Here, at last, rose Arbassa. In its immense branches, glowing like a star, sat the aerial cottage that held Elen of the Sapphire Eyes.

Shim bent low, placing his hand on the oak tree’s burly roots. I grabbed my staff and leaped to the ground, followed closely by Rhia and a stumbling Bumbelwy. With a shout of thanks, I turned to Arbassa, hoping that this time the tree would not resist allowing me to enter.

At that instant the enormous trunk made a low, grinding sound. The bark creased, cracked, and opened. I plunged through the doorway. Taking the stairs two at a time, I bounded upward, not even bothering to glance at the runes carved on the walls. As I burst through the curtain of leaves at the top of the stairwell, Ixtma, the large-eyed squirrel, shrieked. He whirled around, dropping a bowl of water on the floor. Then, seeing Rhia come in just behind me, he scampered over to her, chattering noisily.

Elen, her eyes closed, lay on the floor just where we had left her. The same pine-scented pillow supported her head, while the same shimmering blanket covered her chest. Yet, as I set down my staff and knelt by her side, I could tell that much had changed. Her once-creamy cheeks looked whiter than dried bones; her brow showed the furrows of prolonged suffering. She seemed much thinner, as wispy as the vanishing moon. I lay my head upon her chest, hoping to hear the beating of her heart, but heard nothing. I touched her cracked lips, hoping to feel the slightest breath of air, but felt nothing.

Rhia crouched beside me, her face nearly as pale as our mother’s. She watched, motionless, as I reached into my satchel and removed the vial containing the Elixir. Touched by the light from the hearth, it flashed with brilliant red, the color of Dagda’s own blood. The whole room flooded with scarlet hues.

Barely able to breathe myself, I dropped the Elixir into my mother’s mouth.
Please, Dagda, I beg of you. Don’t let it be too late. Don’t let her die.

I barely noticed when Ixtma whimpered, wrapping his bushy tail around Rhia’s leg. Or when Bumbelwy entered the room, shaking his head morosely. Or when the first faint rays of dawn touched the leaves draping the eastern windows. Yet I noticed with every particle of my being when my mother opened her eyes.

Seeing Rhia and me, she cried out in surprise. Rosy hues flared in her cheeks. Drawing a tentative breath, she weakly lifted a hand toward each of us. We clasped her hands in our own, squeezing the living flesh. Tears brimmed in my eyes, while Rhia sobbed quietly.

“My children.”

Rhia smiled through her tears. “We’re here now . . . Mother.”

Elen’s brow creased slightly. “Forgive me, child, for not telling you before you left. I thought that, if I died, your pain would be too great.”

“You didn’t have to tell me.” Rhia touched the amulet of oak, ash, and thorn upon her chest “I already knew.”

I nudged her and grinned. “Whatever this girl knows about instincts, she learned from me.”

We laughed, mother and daughter and son, as if all our years of separation had never occurred. For even if someday hence we might be forced to part again, right now a single, unalterable truth filled our hearts. On this dawning day, in the boughs of this great tree, we sat together. Reunited at last.

Only after much more laughter and much more talk did we pause to eat a hearty breakfast of Ixtma’s honey-soaked nuts and rosemary tea with plenty of mint. And only after my fifth helping did I catch sight of the glittering object resting by the hearth. The Flowering Harp, its magical strings aglow, leaned against the wall of living wood. Suddenly I caught my breath. Behind the Harp, several more objects lay stacked. Staring at them with amazement, I licked the honey from my fingers, pushed myself up from the floor, and stepped closer.

I couldn’t believe it, yet I knew it was true. All of the Treasures of Fincayra were here! Right here in Rhia’s cottage.

There, gleaming darkly, sat the Caller of Dreams, the graceful horn that Cairpré had once told me could stir any dream into life. Beside it rested the double-edged sword Deepercut. When I reached to touch its hilt, the powerful blade hanging on my belt rang softly, reminding me that my sword, too, had been wrought to fulfill a remarkable destiny. Next to the twining branches of the wall rested the fabled plow that could till its own field. Beside it stood the hoe that nurtures its own seeds, the saw that cuts only as much wood as is needed, and the rest of the Wise Tools, except of course the one that had been lost. I wondered, for an instant, what sort of tool it was—and where it might be now. Then my attention turned to the last of the objects, the Orb of Fire. The orange sphere glowed like a radiant torch. Or, as Dagda had said, like a radiant spirit.

“The Treasures,” I said aloud, unable to turn away from them.

Rhia, who had silently joined me, took my arm. “Ixtma told me the Grand Elusa brought them here, not long before we arrived.” Hearing the squirrel chatter angrily, she grinned. “He reminds me that she only brought them to the clearing outside Arbassa. Since she was far too big to carry them inside herself, she asked—well, commanded—Ixtma and his family to do the rest.”

Perplexed, I ran my finger over the Harp’s oaken sound box. “Dagda must have sent the Grand Elusa a message, as he did Shim. But why? The Treasures were safe enough where they were, in her crystal cave. She had agreed to guard them for all time.”

“Not for all time. Only until she could find someone wise enough to choose the right guardians to take care of them. The Treasures, before Stangmar, belonged to all Fincayrans. The Grand Elusa believes it should be that way again. And I agree.”

More confused than ever, I shook my head. “But who is wise enough to choose the guardians? Surely the Grand Elusa herself could do that better than anyone else.”

Rhia observed me thoughtfully. “That’s not what she thinks.”

“You don’t mean . . . “

“Yes, Merlin. She wants you to do it. As she told Ixtma,
The isle of Fincayra holds a wizard once more.”

I swallowed, glancing again at the objects stacked by the wall. Each of them, regardless of shape or size or materials, possessed a magic that could enrich all the inhabitants of Fincayra.

Rhia grinned at me. “So what are you going to do?”

“I really don’t know.”

“You must have some ideas.”

Bending down to the floor, I retrieved my staff. A wizard’s staff. “Well . . . I think the Caller of Dreams should go to Cairpré, wisest of the bards.” I indicated Bumbelwy, still stuffing himself with nuts and honey. “And I think a certain humorless jester deserves the honor of delivering it to him.”

Her grin broadened into a smile.

Warming to my task, I grasped the handle of the plow that tills its own field. “I’m not sure just yet about most of the Wise Tools. But this plow is different. I know a man named Honn who will use it well. And share it gladly.”

Then I bent to retrieve the glowing Orb of Fire. I hefted it, feeling its pulsing warmth. Without a word, I handed it to Rhia, whose leafy garb danced with the orange light.

Surprise filled her face. “For me?”

“For you.”

She started to protest, but I spoke first. “Remember what Dagda told us? The Orb of Fire can rekindle hope, joy, and even the will to live. It belongs in the care of someone whose spirit shines as bright as it does.”

Her eyes glistened as she studied the sphere. “You’ve given me something even more precious than this.”

For a long moment, we held each other’s gaze. At last, she pointed to the Flowering Harp. “Now what about that?”

I grinned. “I think it ought to go to two people with a garden. A garden that flourished even in the middle of the Rusted Plains, when everything around it lay dying.”

“T’eilean and Garlatha?”

I nodded. “And this time, when I carry the Harp to their home, I’ll expect nothing more than to be welcomed as their friend.” Again I touched the oaken sound box. “First, though, I will take the Harp myself for a while. I have some unfinished work to do in the Dark Hills.”

As she lifted her gaze to Arbassa’s arching boughs, Rhia’s face glowed. “Well, as it happens, so do I.”

“Really?” I raised an eyebrow. “What work do you have there?”

“Guiding. I have a brother, you see, who gets lost easily.”