by T.A. Barron
For quite some time—hours, perhaps—no one spoke. Their dejection swelled, filling the cell like a thick fog. Even the shadows around them seemed to darken.
Finally, Shim raised his voice. He didn’t speak about changelings. Or battles. Or cruel turns of fate.
“I is hungrily,” he moaned. “Very, very hungrily.”
Brionna frowned at him. Out of kindness, though, she dug into her robe and pulled out a small square of elvish waybread. Holding it out to the little fellow, she said, “Here. My last piece.”
Shim peered at her gratefully.
Doing her best to grin, Brionna added, “For my favorite uncle.”
Although he may not have heard her words, the little fellow certainly understood her gesture. His eyes widened at the sight of food, even such a tiny morsel. Apparently forgetting about his sore rump, he nodded eagerly and stretched out his hand.
Just then Brionna snapped back her arm. She held the waybread to her chest.
Grimacing, Shim sputtered, “Now, now, Rowanna. That’s a cruelsy thing to do.”
“He’s right,” grumbled the priest from his place by the wall. “That’s not like you, Brionna.”
“That’s because,” she declared with sudden urgency, “I have an idea.”
Turning over onto her hands and knees, she placed a tiny crumb of waybread at the edge of the ants’ hole. Immediately a large, armored ant with powerful pincers emerged, snatched the crumb, and dropped back into the hole.
As her companions looked on with bewilderment (and, in Shim’s case, disappointment), she crumbled more of the waybread. Rising to her feet, she stepped over to the cell door and placed the crumbs all around the iron bolt, taking care to push them into any cracks, however small. She pushed several into the edges of the holes for the spikes that fastened the bolt to the door. Finally, she moved back toward the ants’ tunnel in the floor, dropping her last few bits of waybread along the route.
At the instant she placed the very last crumb at the rim of the hole, several ants poured out. Dozens more followed, driven to a frenzy by the prospect of so much food. As Shim squealed in fright and backed away, the aggressive ants quickly crossed the floor and scaled the door, pincers digging out whatever crumbs they could find. As they swarmed over the iron bolt, splinters and chips of stone rained down onto the dirt.
When the ants had finished devouring every last particle of food, they marched back to their hole and plunged inside. Watching them go, Brionna grinned ever so slightly. Then she strode over to the door and struck it with a swift kick.
The bolt burst free of its fastenings and clattered to the floor. At the same time, the door swung open, creaking on its hinges. They were free.
Catha shrieked with delight, ruffling her wingfeathers. Lleu and Shim both gazed at Brionna with gratitude, although the shrunken giant’s face also showed a hint of longing for his lost waybread. The elf maiden signaled for everyone to stay quiet, then led them out of the cell.
Gingerly, they stepped over the gory remains of the guard. Then, pausing only long enough for Brionna to retrieve her longbow and arrows, they crept back up the stairs. Because it was now the middle of the night, they saw no one but a sleeping sentry near the building’s entrance. With little difficulty, they slipped past him and out into the village, whose buildings gleamed dully from the light of the stars.
Down the pathways they darted, past the houses with window boxes of flowers, the village trading center, and the cultivated fields. As they neared the gates, a pair of sentries suddenly leaped out of the shadows. Surprised, Lleu stopped abruptly. Shim walked right into him from behind.
Their two companions, though, weren’t caught off guard. Before one of the sentries could whip out his bow and nock an arrow, Brionna’s own arrow plunged right through his chest. The other sentry, seeing this, started to call for help—but his shout ended in a terrified gurgle as Catha’s talon slit his throat.
Lleu stepped over to Brionna and placed his hand upon her shoulder. “That’s twice tonight you have saved our lives.”
She brushed off his hand, then slid her bow over her back. “I can feel no joy killing another creature. Even one of them.”
Lleu studied her grimly in the evening starlight. “Both of us, I fear, will have to do more killing very soon. For now we must travel to Isenwy. To join the rest of your people, and whatever humans are still loyal to the Society of the Whole.”
“And to join,” she added in a whisper, “the battle for Avalon.”
“We must move fast, making no stops at all until we reach the portal that will take us to Isenwy.” He cast an uncertain glance at Shim.
“I knows that look,” the little fellow declared. “Wherever you is going, I is coming. Certainly, definitely, absolutely.”
“All right then,” Lleu replied, as Catha settled back on his shoulder. He started to stride to the gates. “Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Brionna abruptly spun around and dashed back toward the village.
Only the fear of arousing more archers kept Lleu from shouting after her. What in the name of Merlin was she doing? He watched as she ran over to the fruit trees and swung herself up onto a branch. A few seconds later, she bounded back, holding something in her hand.
The curlew. Although his leg was badly chafed, he seemed otherwise unharmed. He stood in Brionna’s palm, eyeing her gratefully.
As soon as Catha recognized the bird, she piped an appreciative whistle. And Lleu himself nodded with admiration.
“I’ll take him back to the forest and set him free,” the elf explained. She glanced at the fallen sentries, and at the building where they’d been imprisoned. “That way, at least something good will have happened here tonight.”
14 • Loyalty
Scree ruffled his powerful wings. He felt ready, even anxious, to depart for the great battle. For he couldn’t forget the words that Queen had spoken just before she died in his arms: Even now, Kulwych gathers his army on the Plains of Isenwy. An army that will conquer Avalon!
First, though, he paused to look closely at the people of the Bram Kaie clan. They ringed him, a virtual nest of faces old and young, as he stood on the fire-blackened ground outside their fortified village. How many of these people would actually follow him into battle, he wondered, when the only fighting they had done for years was inspired not by high ideals—but by their thirst for plunder? And he could tell that they, too, were uncertain. The villagers watched him warily, their eagle eyes glinting with the red light of Fireroot’s sky.
He raised his wide wings and stroked the air, not enough to carry himself aloft, but enough to announce that he was about to speak. Then he made his first command as the leader of these eaglefolk.
“There is one thing we must do before we fly,” he declared, his voice echoing across the volcanic ridge. “We shall build a traditional burial mound. For your fallen leader, Quenaykha, and also for the woman she ordered killed.”
From the edge of the bubbling lava pit near his feet, he grabbed a bloodied, black-tipped feather. It was all that remained of the clan’s other fallen leader, Maulkee. No one else knew that Maulkee had also been Scree’s own son—a son he never knew, except in their fight to the death. “And,” he added grimly, “we shall bury this feather with them.”
Grumbling swelled around him, as the villagers stared at him in surprise—and in some cases, scorn. Even the scarred warrior, Cuttayka, who had just thrown his support behind Scree’s leadership, looked at him doubtfully.
But Scree’s face remained unmoved. “Why, you ask? Why should we strain our living bodies, hauling stones for these dead ones?” He peered at them, his yellow-rimmed eyes both stern and proud. “Because however wrongly they may have lived, they belonged to our people. And we are, above all else, a people of honor.”
Many in the crowd shifted uncomfortably. For they knew he was making a point that went beyond a single burial mound. He was urging them to remember who they really were, and the traditions they ha
d shunned for so long. He was, in effect, challenging them to become eaglefolk once more.
The wind gusted, blowing flecks of black ash across the ridge. At the same time, Scree retracted his wings. But instead of folding them behind his back, he shifted into human form, so that the wings became brawny arms, feathers turned to skin, and talons shrank into toenails. Then he stooped and wrenched out of the ground a charred hunk of rock. Turning his back to the villagers’ nests, he hurled the rock to an open area. It landed with an explosion of ash, then rolled to a stop next to a sputtering flame vent.
“There,” he announced. “We build it there.”
Cuttayka clenched his angular jaw for a moment, then also transformed into human shape. He grabbed his spear and pounded its end on the ground. “Well?” he demanded of the crowd. “What are you all waiting for? The sooner we start building this mound, the sooner it’s done.”
With a glance at Scree that was loyal, perhaps, but certainly not friendly, he grabbed a stone of his own and carried it over to the spot. One by one, other villagers followed. Soon the arduous labor began.
Several people, including Scree and Cuttayka, dug a wide pit. As a sulfurous wind blew over the ridge, they placed in the pit both mauled bodies, arms spread wide in the traditional way of eaglefolk. After Scree added Maulkee’s feather, villagers spread a layer of fledgling feathers over the top. Then came hundreds of bucketloads of dirt, pumice, and ash. Finally, the strongest men and women set heavy stones, one after another, upon the mound, arranging them in the shape of an extended wing.
Although no one sang any mournful songs, as the people of Arc-kaya’s village had done when their mound was completed, the villagers stood back to see what they had built together. One woman, holding the hand of a silver-haired toddler, bowed her head solemnly, and said, “May our people soar again.”
Overhearing her, Scree recalled Arc-kaya’s blessing: Soar high, run free. His gaze fell to his ankle, and the band of shining gray hair that he wore there. Then, as a new gust of wind rushed across the ridge, he scanned the eaglefolk who stood around him, their shoulders gleaming with perspiration from their shared labor.
Some of them avoided his gaze. Some continued to scowl. Yet others gave him a grim nod or a knowing look. He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed that there was now something else in the air besides sulfurous fumes.
Something more like pride.
He was about to speak again when he caught sight of Hawkeen, the young eagleboy who had followed him all the way here. The lad sat alone under an obsidian statue of an eagle in flight. Hawkeen’s knees were drawn up to his chest, and the statue’s shadow covered him completely. He was staring blankly at the mound, so much like the one where his mother had recently been buried.
Scree clenched his jaw. He couldn’t help but think how different Hawkeen seemed from the merry young fellow who had, just a few days ago, left Scree breathless in a game of catch-the-hare. And how painful it must feel for Hawkeen to be here, among the very people who had murdered his family.
As Scree placed his hand on the lad’s small shoulder, Hawkeen stiffened. He looked up, his golden eyes softened by mist. Then, seeing it was Scree, he relaxed a bit. Still, he said nothing. He merely turned back to the burial mound.
“I am glad you came, Hawkeen. Very glad. But you can leave now if you wish.”
The eagleboy said nothing.
“Really, I will understand if you decide you must go.”
Still nothing.
Scree knelt down in the ashen soil so that he, too, was under the shadow of the statue. He spoke again, this time right into the eagleboy’s ear. “I’m leading these people into battle, you know. All of us could die. That means you, too.” His voice as soft as a fledgling’s wing, he added, “I don’t want you to die, Hawkeen.”
Still nothing.
Just then heavy footsteps approached. Scree rose, and found himself facing Cuttayka.
The burly warrior jammed the end of his spear into the ground. He stood there, peering straight at Scree’s face, as Scree peered back, their shared gaze almost a solid rod between them. The wind lifted, dusting them with ash, but neither of them moved.
Finally, Scree broke the silence. “Do you still want to be first sentry of this clan?”
“I do,” the warrior answered gruffly. “But only if we’re going to fight to regain our honor, not just make useless piles of rock.”
Scree’s voice took on the angry edge of an eagle’s cry. “You will do as I command, Cuttayka. And if you think about what we just did, you will see that it was about more than a burial mound. It was about honor.” Scree waited a moment, dragging his sharp toenails across the soil. “I will keep you on as my first sentry. But only on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That you will always speak honestly with me about your views, just as you have done now. Even when you disagree with me.”
Cuttayka shrugged his burly shoulders. “That is the only way I can be.”
“Good.” Scree’s eyes narrowed. “Then gather your warriors. I want them all, men and women, ready to leave for Isenwy in one hour.”
“All right.” Cuttayka started to turn away, then halted. “Since you want me to speak my mind, you should know this. I don’t like being led by an outsider. Not at all. Nor do I like you.” His voice lowered so that it rumbled like a distant rock slide. “But I decided to follow you because I think you’re right for this clan. We need someone strong to lead us. Very strong. That is what’s best for the Bram Kaie, and that is my only real loyalty.”
“You have another loyalty, I’ll wager.”
“What?”
“Avalon.”
The warrior merely grunted. He pointed to one of the jagged scars on his chest. “I didn’t get this for Avalon,” he declared, then strode off.
Scree watched him go, wondering if anyone from this village would really follow him through all the trials to come. That was when the eagleboy beside him finally spoke, in a voice clear and firm.
“Wherever you go, Scree, I am going to be there.”
He looked into the lad’s face, and knew that it was true.
15 • The Lovely Dark
In the light from Elli’s crystal, the old elf seemed to grow larger, filling the dusty black tunic that billowed around his body. Grikkolo waved at the ruins of Dianarra’s ancient library—collapsed shelves, broken tiles, smashed statues, and uncounted leather volumes that lay in heaps all around them.
“Courage is not my nature,” he declared in his grinding voice. “But in the book of my life, this is a page that I truly must write.”
“So,” Elli asked, “you will take us to Kulwych’s mine?”
“Borvo Lugna.” He straightened his bent back as much as he could. “I will take you there, yes.”
Nuic, shifting his weight in Elli’s arm, darkened from blue to black. “There is something you’re not telling us.” His liquid purple eyes scrutinized the elderly librarian. “Something important.”
Grikkolo nodded, making his white mane bounce on his head. “Your eyes are sharper than a feather-quill pen, master sprite, though you are even older than I.”
“Hmmmpff. Don’t try to flatter me. Now, what is it you haven’t told us?”
The elf glanced at the doorway to the library. “Once we step outside this building . . .” His voice fell to a harsh whisper. “We must walk in total darkness.”
Elli’s hand moved to her amulet of oak, ash, and hawthorn—and the radiant crystal it held. “You mean I must dim this light?”
“No. I mean you must extinguish it.”
She grimaced. Her hand left the amulet and anxiously twisted some of her hair. “Why?”
“Gobsken lurk everywhere near the mines. Especially, I suspect, the mine where you wish to go.” He took a slow, ragged breath. “Some of my own people may also be out there. And if we meet any dark elves outside this library, survivors of the war, they will most likely detest your light—and try to k
ill you.”
Grikkolo frowned, spreading wrinkles across his face like writing on a manuscript page. “The only creatures out there who will run from your light are the death dreamers. And sometimes even light will not be enough to frighten them off. I will watch for them even’ step of the way, for they possess a terrible power.”
“Terrible,” whispered Elli, her mind drifting back to her dream of the gentle, soothing waves that very nearly washed away her life.
“No,” announced Grikkolo, “if we are to travel there with any hope of surviving, you must trust entirely in my old eyes.”
The tiny hand of Nuic reached out and patted Elli’s forearm. “Your choice, Priestess.”
She shut her eyes, trying to imagine how dark it would be without her glowing crystal. What insanity! Walk around this realm of eternal night, with no light at all? And yet, if I am ever going to help Avalon—and maybe Tamwyn, too—that’s what I must do.
Opening her eyes, she glanced around the vast domed chamber. Just beyond the edge of what she could see—all those broken shelves and piles of books—were shadows, darker than any she’d ever found before coming to Lastrael. The shadows seemed to thicken, gathering, just waiting for the moment she extinguished her light.
She turned her thoughts to the crystal of élano. Go dark, my companion. And just hope that I’m not making a terrible mistake.
All at once, the crystal darkened. Every ray of its light, every glint of its facets, disappeared. It happened with jarring abruptness, as if the world itself had just ended. And perhaps, Elli thought, it soon would.
Darkness. Total, absolute darkness. That was all that she could perceive, other than the continuous canter of her own heartbeat.
“Here,” said the old elf, pressing something into her hand. “The belt of my tunic. Hold on to this as we walk. And listen for any changes in my steps, so you will know when I am taking a turn, going uphill, or—”
“Running for your life,” interrupted Nuic.
“Or that,” Grikkolo replied, his voice suddenly somber. Feeling a new pull on his cloth belt, Elli guessed that he was turning around. “Good-bye, my friends,” he said with deep tenderness.