The Seven Songs (6 page)

Even so, my steps sometimes grew heavy. Whenever I came across a stone hut, or a grove of fruit trees, I leaned against my staff, frowning at the memory of my encounter with T’eilean and Garlatha. I wished that I had never thought of visiting them and their garden. In addition, every time I glanced at the shadowed ridges to the east, I felt the gnawing sense that I was making a mistake by not returning to the hills to finish my work there. Yet I just didn’t feel ready to go back. Not yet. Let Rhia and the others fret a while longer.

Flushed with anger, I strummed the Harp. To my surprise, this time the brittle grass beneath my boots did not transform into lush, green blades. Instead, the entire meadow seemed to darken slightly, as if a cloud had covered the sun. Puzzled, I looked skyward. But I found no clouds.

Impatiently, I strummed again. But the grass only stiffened, darkened. I frowned at the instrument. What was wrong with it?

A warm wind billowed my tunic. “You are angry, Emrys Merlin.”

I stiffened. “How do you know that?”

“I don’t know things,” breathed Aylah. “I feel them. And I feel your anger even now.”

I strode faster, eager to leave this meadow behind. The darkened blades of grass jabbed at my boots like thousands of thorns.

“Why are you so angry, Emrys Merlin?”

Having moved beyond the darkened patch of grass, I stopped. I drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly, “I don’t really know.”

Aylah’s airy form encircled me, filling my nostrils with the scent of cinnamon. “Could it be you are missing someone?”

I squeezed the shaft of my staff. “I am missing no one.”

“Not even your mother?”

My knees nearly buckled, but I said nothing.

The wind sister swirled about me. “I never met her, Emrys Merlin, though I know many who did. She must have been a good friend.”

I blinked the dew from my sightless eyes. “Yes. She was my good friend. Maybe my only friend.”

Aylah’s warm breath touched my cheek. “Tell me about her, would you please? I would like to hear.”

Twisting my staff in the dry, rust-colored grass, I started walking again. “She loved the night sky, with all its stars and dreams and mysteries. She loved stories about ancient places like Olympus and Apollo’s Isle of Delos. She loved green, growing things, and all the creatures who soar or shamble or swim. And she loved me.”

Although her spinning slowed, Aylah seemed closer to me than ever. Her winds embraced me.

“You’re right,” I admitted. “I do miss her. More than I ever believed possible.” Haltingly, I took a breath. “If only I could be with her again, Aylah! Even for just an hour.”

“I understand. Ahhh yes, I do.”

It occurred to me that Aylah, despite her airy form, shared some qualities with my mother. She was warm, she was caring. And she did not try to give me advice.

Just then I noticed, not far ahead, a patch of low bushes with bluish bark and broad leaves. I knew from watching Rhia that they made good eating. Setting down the Flowering Harp and my staff, I went to the bushes and pulled up one by the roots, revealing a thick, blue tuber. After cleaning its skin with my tunic, I bit into the tangy flesh.

“Can I share this meal with you, somehow? I don’t know what you eat, but whatever it is, I could try to find some for you.”

The broad leaves of the bush fluttered as Aylah passed over them. “I eat only the faraway fragrances of lands I have not yet explored. I am made to wander, you see.” Gently, she tousled my hair. “And now, I am afraid, it is time for us to part.”

I stopped chewing. “Part? Why?”

The airy voice spoke into my ear. “Because I am the wind, Emrys Merlin, and I must fly. Always soaring, always circling, that is my way. I have many places to see, on Fincayra and the other worlds as well.” For a moment, she seemed to hover near the Harp. “And you must fly, as well. For you still have work to do in the Dark Hills.”

I frowned. “You too, Aylah? I thought at least you wouldn’t try to tell me what to do.”

“I am not telling you what to do, Emrys Merlin. I am only telling you that the winds bring tidings of disturbing things, evil things, in the Dark Hills. Rhita Gawr’s allies are beginning to stir again. They grow bolder by the day. Before long the goblins will emerge from their caves, and with them the shifting wraiths. Then it will be too late for you to heal the lands.”

My stomach knotted at her words. I recalled Cairpré’s warning as he gave me the Harp.
The Dark Hills must be healed before Rhita Gawr returns, or we will have lost our only chance. Remember: If you shirk your task, you will never be forgiven.

I surveyed the ridges on the horizon. Shadows of clouds stalked them. “If what you say is true, I must go back now. Won’t you come with me? So we can travel together a while longer?”

“I have already stayed with you, Emrys Merlin, longer than I have ever been with a person who did not have wings of his own.” She breathed against my neck. “And now I must fly.”

Somberly, I tossed aside the tuber. “I’ve heard that Fincayrans once had wings of their own. Maybe it’s just an old fable, but I wish it were true. I wish they had never lost them. Then I might have some myself, so I could fly with you.”

I felt an eddy of wind across my shoulders. “Ahhh, Emrys Merlin, you know about that, do you? To have wings and then lose them. Such a tragedy that was! Even if many Fincayrans have forgotten how it happened, they cannot forget the lingering pain between their shoulders.”

I stretched my arms stiffly, feeling the old pain. “Aylah, do you know how it happened? Even Cairpré, with all the many stories he has heard, doesn’t know how the Fincayrans lost their wings. He told me once that he’d give away half of his library just to find out.”

The warm wind encircled me now, spinning slowly. “I know the story, Emrys Merlin. Perhaps one day I might tell you. But not now.”

“You’re really leaving? It’s always like this with me. It seems whatever I find, I lose.”

“I hope you will find me again, Emrys Merlin.”

A sudden gust of wind flapped the sleeves of my brown tunic. Then, just as swiftly, it was gone.

I stood there for a long while. Eventually, my stomach growled with hunger. I ignored it. Then, hearing it again, I bent down to retrieve the tuber I had discarded. I took another bite, thinking about Aylah, sister of the wind. At last, when I had finished it, I started walking—east, toward the Dark Hills.

All around me, the Rusted Plains rose and fell in great rolling waves. I shuffled along, dry grasses snapping beneath my feet. A soft wind blew against my back, cooling the heat of the sun, but it was not the wind that I wished for. And even more than Aylah’s company, I missed the feeling of joy in my task that I had only just regained—and lost once again. The Harp felt heavy on my shoulder.

Sometimes, as I walked, I touched the pouch of healing herbs that my mother had given to me just before we said farewell, in that dank room of stone in Caer Myrddin. I missed her more than ever. And I also knew that she missed me. If she were here, she would not desert me as the others had done. Yet she was as far away as the farthest wind.

As the golden sun dropped lower in the sky, I neared a scraggly group of trees planted in six or seven rows. Although I could see no fruit among the branches of the orchard, a few white flowers gleamed, wafting a familiar scent in my direction. Apple blossoms. I took a deep, flavorful breath. Yet it did little to lift my spirits. Perhaps playing the Harp, feeling again the joy of bringing new life to the land, would help.

I cradled the instrument in my arms. Then I hesitated, remembering my strange experience in the darkened meadow. Merely a fluke, I assured myself. Slowly, I drew my fingers across the strings. All at once, a luminous paintbrush swept across the trees and the grassy fields surrounding them. Apples burst from the branches, swelling to hefty size. Trunks thickened, roots multiplied. The trees lifted skyward, waving their fruited branches proudly. My chest swelled. Whatever had happened at the darkened meadow was certainly not a problem now.

Suddenly a voice cried out. A bare-chested boy, about my own age, fell out of one of the trees. He landed in an irrigation ditch that ran beneath the branches. Another shout rang out. I ran to the spot.

Out of the ditch clambered the boy, with hair and skin as brown as the soil. Then, to my surprise, another figure emerged, looking like an older, broader version of the boy. He was a man of the soil. He was a man I recognized.

Neither he nor the boy noticed me as I stood in the shadow of the apple tree. The shirtless man straightened his broad back and then clasped the boy by the shoulders. “Are you hurt, son?”

The boy rubbed his bruised ribs. “No.” He smiled shyly. “You made a good pillow.”

The man eyed him with amusement. “You don’t often fall out of branches.”

“The branches don’t often stand up and shake me out! And look, Papa! They’re loaded down with apples.”

The man gasped. Like the boy, he stared, jaw dangling, at the transformed trees. I too began to smile. This was the reaction that I had hoped to get from Rhia and the others—the reaction that I would have surely gotten from my mother. She had always delighted in the beauty and flavor of fresh apples.

“ ‘Tis a miracle, son. ‘Tis a gift from the great god Dagda himself.”

I stepped out of the shadows. “No, Honn. It is a gift from me.”

The man gave a start. He looked from me to the tree spreading above us, then back to me. At last he turned to his son. “It’s him! The lad I told you about.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “The one who crushed the evil king? Who calls himself after a hawk?”

“Merlin,” I declared, cuffing the boy on the shoulder. “Your father helped me once, when I badly needed it.”

Honn ran a hand through his hair, flecked with dirt. “Good gracious, lad. Until I heard the tales of your success, I had given you up for dead thrice over.”

Leaning on my twisted staff, I grinned. “With good reason. If it hadn’t been for that handy blade you gave me, I surely would have been dead thrice over.”

Rubbing his strong chin, Honn examined me for a moment. Below his bare chest he wore nothing but loose brown leggings. His hands, cracked and calloused though they were, looked as powerful as tree roots.

“I am glad the old dagger proved useful, my lad. Where is it now?”

“Somewhere in the ruins of the Shrouded Castle. It failed to slay a ghouliant, one of Stangmar’s deathless soldiers. But it did buy me a few precious seconds.”

“Of that I am glad.” His gaze moved to the magical instrument. “I see that you found the Flowering Harp.” He nudged the boy. “You see, my son, it was indeed a miracle! No mere mortal, not even one so talented as the young hawk here, could have done such a thing. It was the Harp, not the lad, that revived our orchard.”

I cringed, then started to speak. Before I could say anything, however, Honn continued.

“To my mind, son, all the Treasures of Fincayra are the stuff of miracles, wrought by Dagda himself.” In a quiet, almost reverent voice, he added, “There is even a plow, one of the Seven Wise Tools, that knows how to till its own field. Truly! It is said that any field it touches will yield the perfect harvest, neither too much nor too little.”

The boy shook his head in amazement. Waving toward the rickety wooden plow that lay beside the ditch, he laughed. “No chance of mistaking it for that one, Father! My back hurts just to watch whenever you pull it.”

Honn beamed. “Not so much as my own back hurts after you jump on me from a tree.”

The pair laughed together. Honn wrapped a burly arm around his son’s shoulder and turned to me, his face full of pride. “The truth is, I have a treasure of my own. My young friend here. And he’s more precious to me than an ocean full of miracles.”

I swallowed, running a finger over my mother’s leather satchel. I could smell its sweet herbs even over the aroma of ripe apples. “What would you do, Honn, if you ever lost that treasure? That friend?”

His face became as hard as stone. “Why, I’d do everything in my mortal power to get it back.”

“Even if it meant leaving your work unfinished?”

“No work could be more important than that.”

I nodded grimly.
No work could be more important than that.

Stepping over the ditch, I started walking. When I reached the edge of the orchard, I paused to face the Dark Hills, glowing like coals in the setting sun. The long, thin shadow of my staff seemed to point straight at the notched hill where I had turned aside from my task.

Slowly, I swung around to the north. I would return to those hills, and to my task, before long. And then I would revive every last blade of grass I could find. First, however, I needed to do something else. I needed to find my own mother again. And, like Honn, I would do everything in my mortal power to succeed.

5:
T
HE
J
ESTER

Late the following day, as strands of golden light wove gleaming threads through the grasses of the Rusted Plains, I stood on the crest of a rise. Below me sat a cluster of mud brick houses, arranged in a rough circle. Their thatched roofs glowed as bright as the surrounding plains. Long wooden planks stretched between their walls, connecting the houses like the arms of young children standing in a ring. The aroma of grain roasting on a wood fire tickled my nose.

I felt rising anticipation—and an undercurrent of dread. For this was Caer Neithan, the Town of the Bards. I knew that the poet Cairpré had promised to come here following the Great Council, to help repair the damage inflicted by Stangmar. And I also knew that if there was one person in all of Fincayra who could help me find my mother, it was Cairpré himself.

He would not be pleased to see me again, with so much of my work still unfinished. Yet he, too, had known Elen of the Sapphire Eyes, having tutored her years ago. I believed that he, too, longed for her return. Hadn’t he once told me that he had learned more about the art of healing from her than she had ever learned from him? Maybe, just maybe, he might know some way to bring her through the curtain of mist surrounding this island. Then, reunited with her at last, I could finish my work in the Dark Hills with a glad heart.