Ultimate Magic (21 page)

“And I,” vowed Krystallus, “am going to make some of those discoveries myself.” He lowered his face to his father’s, so that their noses nearly touched. “On my way to the stars.”

“All right, then. I can recognize, in your face, that absolute determination to do something crazy.” The corners of his mouth turned upward. “After all, you inherited it from your father.”

Krystallus, pleased as well as amused, nodded. “I’m glad you understand.”

Gently, the wizard patted the smooth bark of the beech tree, as if he were saying thanks to a friend. Then, grabbing his staff, he stood up. His eyes probed his son’s face. “I do understand you, lad. And applaud you.”

He cleared his throat. “Which reminds me of your second gift. Something that will, I hope, help you in your explorations.”

Merlin turned his gaze to his staff. Squeezing just above its runes, he said quietly, “All right, Ohnyalei.”

The runes, then the whole wooden shaft, started to glow with deep green light. While holding the staff with one hand, Merlin grasped it with his other hand—but this time his fingers sank
inside
the wood itself. The old man’s fingers disappeared, followed by his hand, his wrist, and most of his forearm.

Krystallus watched, thoroughly amazed. He could only gape as his father reached deep into the staff as if it were a magical box.

Finally, the wizard announced, “There you are! Hiding from me, were you? Such a rascal.”

He grunted, hauling back his arm. When his hand, at last, returned from the magical depths of the staff, it held a tall wooden pole with an oily rag around its top. Except for the strange silvery sheen that glittered on the rag, it seemed unremarkable, no different from other objects of its kind.

“A torch?”

“Yes, my son. To light your way.”

Merlin passed the torch to Krystallus. The instant the younger man grasped it, the torch burst into flame. Vigorously it burned, radiating a steady, bright light.

Krystallus gazed at the torch, then turned to his father. A different kind of light seemed to shine from his face, mixing with the glow of the torch. “Thank you.”

Merlin gave him a nod. “It will burn, I promise, for as long as you live.” He swallowed. “As will my love for you.”

The younger man stepped closer. “I think I know what is your third gift.”

“You do?”

“Yes. And I have the same gift for you.” He took another step toward his father, raised his arms, and wrapped them around the old man’s shoulders.

Merlin, too, raised his arms. They encircled his son, sharing the embrace.

29:
N
EW
L
IGHT

Sometimes the longest journey is only a beginning.

Time to fly!” bellowed Basilgarrad, calling to the sky, the root- realms, and the whole expanse of the Great Tree of Avalon.

Just as he’d done so many times over the years, he spoke those words as he began a new journey. This time, though, he said them with extra feeling—and dragonlike volume, loud enough to shatter the stillness for hundreds of leagues around. For his world, Avalon, was finally saved from the terrors of Doomraga and Rhita Gawr; his mate, Marnya, was deeply devoted to their life together; and his friend, Merlin, was firmly perched atop his head at that very moment.

The dragon beat his mighty wings, bearing Merlin higher. Each powerful stroke blew a great rush of air across the dragon’s face, whistling past his radiant green scales and straightening the long whiskers that lined his snout. That same wind blew the wizard’s robe so that it flapped constantly, but not as much as his beard, which twisted and shook so violently that Euclid finally jumped out and buried himself in a deep pocket. Meanwhile, Basilgarrad’s wings continued to pump, carrying them upward, while his claws groped at the sky as if he were climbing an endless stairway.

Which, in truth, he was. This was no ordinary journey from one realm to another, no quick hop to the Rainbow Seas—where Marnya was even now cruising the cliffs to find the perfect spot for their lair. This was a journey far bigger, bolder, and grander. Something no mortal creature other than Merlin had ever done before.

Basilgarrad was flying all the way to the stars.

“Excellent, Basil,” coaxed his passenger. He stopped stroking the hairs that lined the dragon’s ear. “See there, those ridges? That’s the lower reaches of the trunk itself.”

Working his wings, the great green dragon changed the angle of his head so that he could see better what Merlin was describing. Sure enough, through the layered wisps of clouds, he caught glimpses of rough, vertical ridges. Dark brown, they rose upward in parallel rows, climbing into the thick ceiling of mist that swirled far above. Yet despite how high those ridges seemed to reach, he knew they were only the bottommost part of the trunk.

Higher they flew, and higher, plunging into the misty ceiling. For several wingbeats, moist vapors surrounded them, swirling so close that huge droplets formed on Basilgarrad’s nose and eyelashes. The wind from his beating wings constantly blew those droplets backward, sending them splashing into his eyes or rolling down the full length of his enormous jaw. So wet was the air of those clouds that he thought,
I could be swimming, not flying.

Keep swimming, old friend
, counseled the wizard in reply.

Starlight burst over them, flooding them with light even as the bath of vapors abruptly ended. Slamming his wings against the shredding mist, Basilgarrad climbed upward, leaving behind the thick layer of clouds.

“Well done, old chap.” Merlin tapped the back of the dragon’s ear. “Now look there!”

Basilgarrad gasped at the sight. Blinking away the last of the mist, he peered at the new vista.

Just above them, rimmed with starlight, lay a maze of twisted brown appendages. Like immense fingers that stretched across the sky, the appendages seemed to be reaching for the stars. And in fact they were—for these were the branches of the Great Tree.

“So many of them,” said the dragon, panting as he climbed.

“And each one is so big,” added Merlin. “As big as an entire realm.”

“The branch realms of Avalon,” said Basilgarrad, his voice tinged with wonder. “All of them unexplored.”

“Except, of course, by the creatures who live there. Creatures whom Krystallus will meet someday.”

The wizard lifted the seam of a pocket in his robe to check on one particular creature who had decided to ride there. Immediately, he jerked back his hand, nearly losing a finger to an angry snap from Euclid’s beak.

“Checking on the owl?” asked Basilgarrad, having heard the sound.

“Yes, and I’m glad to see that he hasn’t lost his normal happy demeanor. Chipper as ever.”

From inside the pocket came a vigorous burst of clacks and squawks.

Ever higher they flew, past branches after branches. When they passed close to the surface of one, Basilgarrad spied pinnacles dusted with snow, a canyon deeper than any he’d seen in the realms below, and several pits of bubbling fluid—resin, judging from the sharp, tangy smell.

“Good place, that, to gaze at the stars,” said Merlin as they climbed past a flattened twig that faced the sky.

Through the twisting boughs they flew, over rumpled ridges, dense forests of unfamiliar trees, and starlit streams beyond count. Sometimes, Basilgarrad spotted constellations he recognized, glittering through the mesh of branches: He saw Pegasus, the winged steed; the twin circles of stars called the Mysteries; and the great arching line of stars that bards had named the Tail of Basilgarrad. More often, though, he saw new patterns of stars, arranged in shapes that bore no names at all—at least none that he’d ever heard in the lower realms.

One constellation, in particular, often caught his attention. Not because of its striking presence, but because of its even more striking absence. The Wizard’s Staff, once so brilliant it had guided generations of travelers, lay completely dark. No sign of its seven stars remained, only a black gash in the otherwise radiant sky.

That, however, was soon to change. If Merlin had his way. For the wizard’s goal in this journey—his last before going to the distant world called Earth—was to relight those very stars. With a little help, of course, from his favorite dragon.

With every beat of his wide wings, Basilgarrad lifted them higher. Though the air grew thinner, making each beat more difficult, he persisted, ignoring the aching muscles in his shoulders and back. Glancing below, he glimpsed a shimmering rainbow through the shredded clouds. Was that, perhaps, the watery realm where he and Marnya would make their home? Where a child, part blue water dragon and part green élanodragon, might someday be born?

The only root-realm he clearly recognized from above was Stoneroot, which often showed between the gaps in the branches.
Aha!
he thought.
Now I know why it’s the brightest of all the realms, a question I asked Aylah so many years ago.

“Because it catches the most light through the branches,” commented Merlin matter-of-factly. “Just as Shadowroot gets the least.”

“Since you know everything,” grumbled the dragon, “how much higher do we need to go?”

“Not much, old chap. We’re almost there now.”

Basilgarrad’s shoulders tensed as he flapped his wings again and again. Starlight glinted on his scales, making them glow like living constellations. Stars flamed nearer than ever, shining with a light that was both physical and spiritual, as much the essence of fire as the wellspring of dreams. A rippling line of light shimmered above them, cutting across the center of the sky: the River of Time. It divided, he remembered Merlin telling him, not just the stars but the two halves of time, past and future.

The stars grew more radiant with every wingbeat. Soon they flamed so strongly that Basilgarrad was forced to squint to dim the brilliance. He kept flapping, climbing higher and still higher. The dragon’s wings felt heavier than ever, almost too much to lift.

“All right, Basil!” The mage’s cry echoed within his ears.

“Just hold us here, will you? All I need is a moment.”

As the dragon pumped his wings, groaning from the strain, he glanced up at the dark gash in the sky. For the first time, he saw some variation in that place, seven thin circles that gleamed subtly in the blackness. Could those be the extinguished stars? And could they be more than what they seemed? Some sort of passageways, perhaps?

Merlin drew his staff from the loop in his belt. He grasped it with both hands, planted his feet firmly on the scales of the dragon’s head, and raised the staff as high as he could. Pointing it toward the dark gash, he said one simple phrase.

“Bring back the light.”

The staff released a brilliant flash of light. Its radiance filled the sky so intensely that many people all the way down in the root-realms witnessed the event. To the stargazing bard Inglo, it was a luminous eruption that seemed like an exploding star. To the dark elves of Shadowroot, the sudden flash illuminated their entire realm for a brief instant, causing their oversized eyes to sting for many days afterward. And to Marnya, the flash revealed the silhouette of a powerful dragon against the glowing sky.

When the flash faded, Merlin lowered his staff. Above his head, seven stars blazed bright once more. Satisfied, he tapped Basilgarrad’s ear.

“Thanks, old friend. Our work is done.” Then, so quietly that the dragon almost couldn’t hear, he said, “Except for one final task.”

30:
A
S
MALL
R
EQUEST

Sometimes people will ask a friend to do what they would never ask an enemy.

What task is that?” asked Basilgarrad, his voice booming across the heavens.

Without waiting for Merlin to answer, he tilted his wings, making them shimmer in the light of the rekindled stars. Slowly, he started to glide downward. His glistening green body floated like an enormous kite through the interwoven branches of the Great Tree—only in this case, the kite’s tail was the mighty, undulating tail of a dragon.

“It’s not so much a task, Basil, as a request.” The wizard’s beard fluttered in the wind, glowing as if it were really a silvery flame that had sprouted from his chin. “A small request.”

“Hmmm,” said Basilgarrad. His enormous eyes opened to their widest. “Now I’m nervous.”

“No need,” answered Merlin, a bit too quickly. “After all, you are the greatest dragon of all time!” He raised his voice, expounding on the theme. “Wings of Peace, you are justly called. The unrivalled victor at the Battle of the Withered Spring. The hero of the Battle of Fires Unending. And the only person, aside from Dagda and myself, who has ever defeated the immortal warlord Rhita Gawr.”

The dragon’s brow furrowed, lifting the scales under the wizard’s feet. “Now, after all that praise, I’m
very
nervous. You want something difficult, that’s certain.”

Ignoring the comment, Merlin continued to expound. “Not only that, Basil, you are the true embodiment of our world. The magic and history of Avalon, all rolled into one.” He nodded. “And also,” he added more softly, “the best friend any wizard could have.”

Basilgarrad lifted a jagged wing, sending them coasting between two branches covered with greenery. Smells wafted up to him, tickling his sensitive nostrils. Some of them reminded him of aromas he recognized—walnut shells, ripe lemons, and the musty scent of fresh deer prints. Many, though, he’d never encountered before—a mixture of woodland mushrooms and rising bread, a type of feathers that might have been coated with olive oil, a pungent root that mingled turnip and something more like an ogre’s breath.

As they glided downward, the dragon grumbled, “Whatever it is, I can tell it’s going to hurt.”

“Really?” Merlin wrapped his arm around the huge ear by his side. “What makes you think that?”

“Because,” replied Basilgarrad, “I know you well.”

The old mage gave a sigh. “Too well. You’re right, my friend.”

Shifting his wings, the dragon glided over a branch whose surface held hundreds and hundreds of luminous lakes. So clear and still were these pools that they reflected the light perfectly, as if they had swallowed the stars themselves.