by T.A. Barron
She looked at the glowing crystal, and down at Nuic, whose skin was now radiant orange. Then she tried her best to concentrate. What did she know about the crystal? Very little, really. Not even Rhia had understood how it worked. All she could say was, I suspect that it could be just as destructive as élano is creative.
Elli scowled, knowing that the conflict in the cavern would not last much longer. She glanced toward the two foes locked in battle. Whoever emerged the victor would swiftly eliminate both her and Nuic—as well as any hope they might have of destroying the crystal.
Who else had told her anything about the crystal? Only Grikkolo, whose erudite words had been no more helpful than Rhia’s. That crystal, he had said, must be the absolute opposite of élano. It can destroy just as irresistibly as élano can create.
Elli’s mind fairly sizzled. Destroy. Create. Was there some sort of answer buried in there? Yet what answer could lie in opposites? In absolute opposites?
Her eyes opened. That was it! Just as the two combatants fell to the floor together, shrieking and shouting, Elli shot to her feet. Still cradling Nuic in one arm, she dashed over to the pulsing crystal on the pedestal.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, as she reached up to the amulet of leaves on her throat and ripped away the crystal that Rhia had given her. Instantly, that crystal brightened, shooting rays of green, blue, and white light around the cavern. As leaves from the sundered amulet twirled to the floor, flashing in the light, Elli placed the crystal of pure élano right on top of its opposite.
All at once, the vengélano crystal darkened. It started to sizzle, like molten rock, even as the other crystal did the same. Locked together, they trembled, tapping on the stone pedestal. Rays of red shot forth, seeming to wrestle with the greens and blues in mid-air. A strange smell wafted from the spot—more sulfuric than smoky, something like the fumes of a volcano about to erupt.
Elli stood watching, transfixed by the sight, hoping that her gambit might actually succeed in canceling out the corrupted crystal’s power. The sulfuric smell grew steadily stronger, as the sizzling sound intensified.
“Er, Elliryanna.” Nuic spoke with his usual crustiness, but with an unmistakable edge of urgency. “Time to go, don’t you think? Nice as this place is, I wouldn’t want to stay down here forever.”
She shook herself. Then she glanced at the two longtime foes who were rolling on the floor, utterly absorbed in their battle. “Right, Nuic. Let’s go!”
Holding the sprite, she ran out of the cavern. As she turned down the rough-hewn tunnel that dark elves had carved long ago, she almost tripped over the body of a slain gobsken. He had, no doubt, made the mistake of confronting Deth Macoll. Pausing only long enough to grab his sputtering torch, she sprinted down the tunnel.
Her legs pumped, carrying her swiftly. At the landing where the tunnel ended, she found three more dead gobsken, along with another pair slumped on the stone steps. Remembering how stealthily Deth Macoll had entered the dragons’ lair in Waterroot, she guessed that they probably hadn’t even heard him approach.
Up the stone steps she dashed, climbing higher and higher out of the mine. Her thighs and calves ached, and both legs grew wobbly, but she didn’t relent. She ran to the rhythm of her panting breaths, as well as her pounding heart.
Yet she never felt truly fatigued. For she knew that, with all the mistakes she had made along the way, she just might have done one important thing right. Perhaps it was too much to hope that her deed might somehow help Tamwyn. Or Brionna. Or others at the battle of Isenwy. But she hoped so nonetheless.
At last, as she neared the top, cold air wafted down the shaft. It felt so chilly that it practically stung her sweat-drenched skin. That very sting, however, told her that she was, indeed, still alive. And still free.
When finally she emerged from the mine, she was much too far away to hear Kulwych’s cry of victory from the cavern down below, as he weakly raised himself from the motionless form of Deth Macoll. And she was also too far away to hear the sorcerer’s sudden wail of anguish when he noticed the changes that had transformed his precious crystal. But she had no trouble at all hearing the muffled explosion from the depths beneath her feet.
Starting with a faraway rumble, the explosion swelled into a rolling boom—like distant thunder, but deeper. At the same time, tremors shook the ground, growing so strong that Elli could barely keep standing. Finally, the vibrations faded away. Then a small puff of smoke, smelling like sulfur, arose from the mine shaft. The smoke hung in the air briefly before it vanished, taking with it the last remnant of Kulwych’s terrible crystal.
Elli stood there, panting heavily, in the darkness of Shadowroot. In one hand she held a flaming torch that smelled of oily rags. She raised it high, grateful for its light, even as she missed the light from another source, a light that she had carried all the way to the end of her quest.
“Well, Elliryanna.” Nuic’s lavender hues flickered along with the torch’s flames. “Where do we go now?”
She gave him a sly smile. “Oh, I think you know already, Nuic. We’re going back to the Lost City of Light. I can run, so long as this torch holds out—so we can make good time. And when we get there, we’ll unbury that portal and use it to transport ourselves to Isenwy. It’s our only chance to get there before the battle is over.”
He scrunched his little face doubtfully. “What if the portal doesn’t work anymore? Or what if it does work, but takes us somewhere else instead?”
“Those are risks,” she agreed with a shrug of her shoulders. She gazed into the surrounding darkness that leaned so heavily against the torchlight. Then she spoke again, her voice barely a whisper. “But the greater risk, I fear, is what we’ll find at the battlefield.”
32 • Magical Fire
When Elli felt those tremors rise from the rocky depths of Shadowroot, she knew that the corrupted crystal had finally been destroyed. What she did not know, however, was just how far those tremors might travel. Or just how deeply they might shape the destinies of the people she loved.
Yet far away, indeed, those tremors were felt. For they reached all the way to the stars on high.
Under the darkened stars of the Wizard’s Staff, Avalon’s greatest mortal dragon charged with all his strength. Basilgarrad beat his powerful wings, focusing every last scale of his gigantic body on the target: Rhita Gawr. In the green dragon’s mind was nothing that could be described as hope, but rather a potent brew of outrage, audacity, and love for his world.
Basilgarrad surged forward, as Tamwyn held tight with both arms to the dragon’s ear. Wind rushed past, throwing the young man’s hair behind his shoulders. Even as black sparks appeared in the one remaining eye of their enemy, something different shone in the eyes of Basilgarrad. He knew well that he could never kill Rhita Gawr, only wound the body that the warlord had assumed. And he also knew that this headlong charge could easily be his last. But he believed, deep in his dragon’s heart, that all the flights he had taken over the centuries of his life were preparation for this very moment.
Rhita Gawr hovered in the sky, stretching his leathery wings to the widest. Even as his foe bore down on him, he didn’t bother to feint or try to dodge this charge in any way. Why should he? For he felt certain that his moment of triumph had finally arrived, just as he felt certain that he could predict every maneuver of this miserable dragon who carried the spawn of Merlin.
On top of that, the green dragon’s allies would soon be eliminated. Thanks to brilliant tactical commands that Rhita Gawr had given his warriors, the flaming creatures who dared to oppose the invasion had lost nearly half their original numbers. They were now almost at the breaking point. With the final instructions he was about to issue to his forces, the fiery creatures would go the way of all mortals—death and dust.
Within his bottomless eye, sparks flared, coalescing into what would surely be the greatest blast of black lightning he had ever produced. He would hurl it straight at the green dragon’s head, as
soon as he saw the perfect moment. And he would save just enough to throw a second blast at whatever remained of the runt wizard himself.
Rhita Gawr watched the oncoming dragon, ready to knock him out of the sky forever. As the lightning swelled within the warlord’s eye, thoughts flashed through his mind—starting with his own entrance into this world just a few weeks ago. He had come into Avalon through the very same star that hung just behind him right now, the central star in the constellation that mortals foolishly called the Wizard’s Staff. It would be more accurate, he told himself, to call it the Warlord’s Spear! For in the brief time that he had spent here, he had managed to turn himself into a deadly dragon, to give similar but smaller forms to his warriors, and to create a weapon of extraordinary power from Kulwych’s crystal. And now, at last, he would destroy his only adversaries—and then drive his immortal spear through the very heart of Avalon.
Foaming saliva rolled down his jaws and scaly neck, for he could already taste the magnitude of his triumph. He had plotted and waited a very long time to reach this moment. First Avalon, then Earth, would belong to him alone. And in time, all the other worlds would follow.
First, though, he needed to eliminate the nuisance of this dragon, this young wizard, and their flaming allies. He started to issue final commands to his warriors—even as he began to release an enormous blast of black lightning.
At just that instant, he felt a sudden stab of pain inside his mind. Like an invisible claw, it ripped away some of his power—tearing a hole in the cosmos, as well as in himself. He reeled, abruptly halting his instructions to his warriors. Meanwhile, the lightning continued to build within his eye, ready to erupt at any second.
But Rhita Gawr was not thinking about that. He felt shocked and confused. And, for the first time in his entire existence, he felt an emotion so strange that its very presence chilled his innermost core.
Fear.
He ground his dragon’s jaws, so hard that scores of teeth cracked and broke apart. Something terrible had happened! That was all he knew. He couldn’t even tell exactly what it was, or who had done it—though he doubted it was Dagda, his eternal enemy who had foolishly forsworn any interference with the mortal worlds. No, this blow must have come from something small, something he’d overlooked. Perhaps even—
Basilgarrad slammed into him, full force. Both dragons roared as bones crunched, flesh tore open, and scales both green and black splintered into countless shards. Just before the impact, Basilgarrad had whipped his ear backward, throwing Tamwyn clear of the crash. A heartbeat later, the green dragon’s massive head plowed straight into Rhita Gawr’s chest. This colossal body blow exploded in the sky, sending thunderous echoes around the realm of the stars.
Just then came another explosion. Inside Rhita Gawr’s eye, all the pent-up black lightning finally erupted. But with no effort to project it anywhere, the energy exploded upon itself. All the force of the blast struck within the eye of the warlord.
Rhita Gawr screamed, tumbling over backward in the air. Now completely blind as well as hobbled by broken bones throughout his chest and back, he couldn’t even fly, let alone guide himself anywhere. His leathery wings fluttered helplessly as he spun downward.
Dazed though he was from the blow, and sore throughout his body, Basilgarrad could still keep himself aloft. And he could also think clearly enough to know what had to happen next. Bending his gargantuan body, he lashed out with his enormous tail. The bony club at its tip crashed into Rhita Gawr’s belly, sending the black dragon hurtling into the cavernous hole of the darkened star behind him—and back into the Otherworld.
Tilting his wings, Basilgarrad swooped downward. As he neared Tamwyn, who was falling rapidly through the air, arms flailing, the great dragon careened and deftly hooked one claw through the young man’s pack strap. With a sudden lurch that made Tamwyn shout in surprise, Basilgarrad tossed his passenger back onto his huge head.
Landing this time with a thud instead of a clatter, Tamwyn realized how many scales had been ripped from the dragon’s head. Green blood congealed in several places; broken scales flapped loosely everywhere. Careful not to step on any open wounds, he regained his feet, straightened the pack as well as his torch, and grabbed hold of Basilgarrad’s ear once again.
“Thanks, my friend,” he said into the ear, his voice only slightly louder than the whoosh of the wind. “What you just did could only have been done by the mighty Basilgarrad.” Then he added with a chuckle, “Or by the clever Batty Lad, so so so famous for his most excellent tricksies.”
The dragon laughed heartily. The sound reverberated all around them, as if the Great Tree itself were sharing in the humor.
Tamwyn leaned forward, still clutching the ear. Over Basilgarrad’s brow, he could see the dark blot of Rhita Gawr’s body, spinning as it fell into the star doorway. A few seconds later, the warlord vanished completely into the black hole.
Just then he noticed something else—other shapes moving toward the darkened doorway. Rhita Gawr’s warriors! And behind them, fire angels!
At once, Tamwyn understood. When the violent explosions had struck their master, and his instructions had suddenly ceased, the smaller dragons became disoriented and confused. Gwirion’s fire angels had immediately sensed the change and taken full advantage of it. Though much fewer in number, they had flown like skillful herdsmen, driving the dragon warriors into the very same hole as Rhita Gawr. And toward the very same destination.
But for how long? How much time would Rhita Gawr need to extract his spirit from his enfeebled body—so he could return to Avalon, more wrathful than ever?
Not much, Tamwyn guessed. He knew what he needed to do, even though he still didn’t know how. This is it, he told himself. My chance. My moment. I must relight the stars! And to do that, I must make magical fire.
He reached over his shoulder, grasped the wooden pole of the torch, and tugged it free. As he held the torch in his hand, studying the charred, oily rag wrapped around its top, he thought how truly unremarkable it looked. Yet his own staff, which he had carried so far before dropping it into the Heart of Pegasus, had seemed equally unremarkable. And as he knew well, that staff had possessed powers untold, the powers of Merlin’s Ohnyalei.
Basilgarrad, perhaps sensing Tamwyn’s goal, banked a turn, bringing them closer to the constellation’s central star. Meanwhile, the young man continued to ponder the torch. While the wind rushed over his face, he hefted the weathered pole. He could almost feel, upon its surface, the imprint of his own father’s hand. Just as he could almost feel, deep within, the call of some elusive magic.
The magic of fire. Of heat and light. Of something far greater than the flames he’d kindled so often as a wilderness guide.
How to bring that fire to life, though? Right now, while there was still a chance to save his world and so many others. Tamwyn’s brow creased with anxiety, for he knew that this sort of fire was markedly different from any he’d ever made.
Somewhere from his distant past came a half-remembered voice, asking a question that had haunted him all his life. So his name means Dark Flame ? I wonder, then, which will it be. Will he bring to Avalon the light of flame . . . or the dark of night?
“Which will it be?” he demanded aloud. “Come on, Tamwyn! Which will it be?”
Fires burned within his brain, scorching his every thought. But those were fires of doubt and uncertainty, not at all what he needed. What did he even know, really, about the fire he had so often coaxed into life when he camped? That it was hot enough to cook by. Bright enough to read by. And also full of opposites: fragile yet strong, useful yet dangerous.
He squeezed the pole, concentrating, so hard his fingers went white. How was magical fire different from a campfire? Magical fire, Gwirion had once told him, must be kindled within.
But where could he find the power to do that? Where could he find the spark, the flames, that he needed?
Then he recalled something else that the fire angel had said.
You have your own inner flames, Tamwyn, though they cannot be seen. For they reside in the soul.
“In the soul,” Tamwyn repeated. He spoke to himself, to the torch, to the seven darkened stars of the Wizard’s Staff.
In the soul.
All at once, he understood. He turned his thoughts inward, drawing strength from his innermost fires—kindled from passion, hope, and love. For the Great Tree of Avalon, his world of many wonders. For the Thousand Groves connected to its branches. For all the people he loved, who had helped him in countless ways. Gwirion. Basilgarrad. Brave Ahearna—and yes, even Henni. Scree, wherever he might be now. Rhia, who had urged him to create his own destiny. Palimyst, the wise craftsman. Ethaun, who had repaired his broken dagger. Crusty old Nuic.
And, of course, Elli.
He opened himself to those passions, those loves, feeling the warmth of their fires. Stronger they grew, and stronger still.
“Now, my torch,” he commanded. “Burn! Burn for Avalon, and for us all.”
With a brilliant flash, the torch burst into flames. Tamwyn held it before his face, feeling its heat, watching its glow. At every stroke of the great dragon’s wings, a whoosh of air blew across the torch. Yet its fire never wavered.
Turning toward the central star, Tamwyn gazed at its enormous rim—a pale, glowing ring that swept across the sky. It encircled a gigantic well of darkness, a doorway to the world of the spirits. The only darkness deeper than that well was the eye of the warlord who had just fallen into it.
The young wizard drew a deep breath, concentrating on his fires deep within. Then he blew very gently, as if he were coaxing a small, shimmering coal into flame.
A single spark lifted off the torch. As small as it was compared to the star, it glowed with remarkable radiance. Directed by Tamwyn’s guiding breath, it floated away from Basilgarrad, dancing over the dragon’s outstretched wing. It continued to fly, this tiny dot of light, all the way to the darkened star. At last, it disappeared within the shadowed center.