The Raging Fires

by T.A. Barron

  “Like you.” What was he leading up to? All this I knew.

  “Yes, my boy. Like me.”

  “But why are you telling me this?”

  His brow grew as wrinkled as his tunic. “Because there’s one more thing you should know. Before you play your psaltery. You see, that apprenticeship—the time of mastering the fundamentals of enchantment, before even starting to make a musical instrument—normally takes . . . a long time. Longer than the eight or nine months it has taken you.”

  My mother cocked her head at him. “How long does it usually take?”

  “Well,” he fumbled. “It, ah, varies. Different, you see, from one person to the next.”

  “How long?” she repeated.

  He observed her glumly. Then, under his breath, he answered. “Between five and ten years.”

  Like Elen and Rhia, I started—nearly dropping the psaltery.

  “Even Tuatha, with all his gifts, needed four full years to complete his own apprenticeship. To do it all in less than one year is, well, remarkable. Or you could say . . . unheard of.” He sighed. “I’ve been meaning to tell you this, really, but I wanted to find the proper time and setting. The opportune time, As rare as good rhyme.”

  Elen shook her head. “You have another reason.”

  Sadly, he nodded. “You know me too well.”

  He looked at me imploringly, as he ran his hand over a root of the Cobblers’ Rowan. “You see, Merlin, I haven’t wanted to tell you because I haven’t been sure whether your speed, your swiftness in mastering whatever lessons I gave you, was due to your own gifts—or to my deficiencies as your tutor. Did I forget any steps? Misread any instructions? It’s been nagging at me now for some time. I’ve checked all the ancient texts—oh yes, many times—just to make sure that you’ve done everything right. And I truly believe that you have, or I would not have let you go this far.”

  He straightened. “Even so, you ought to be warned. Because if the psaltery doesn’t work, it may be my fault instead of yours. That’s right. And, as you know, Merlin, a youth gets just one chance at making a magical instrument. Only one. If it should fail to summon high magic, you will never have another.”

  I swallowed. “If my training really moved that fast, it’s possible that the reason is something else altogether. Something unrelated to how good you might be as a mentor—or I might be as a student.”

  His eyebrows lifted.

  “Maybe I had some help. From someplace neither of us suspected. Just where, I’m not sure.” Pensively, I ran my thumb over the handle of my staff. Suddenly it struck me. “My staff, for example. Yes, yes, that’s it! Tuatha’s magic, you know.” I rolled the tapered shaft under my belt. “It’s been with me from the start, and it’s here with me now. Surely, in playing my instrument, it will help again.”

  “No, my boy.” Cairpré held my gaze. “That staff may have helped you in the past, it’s true—but it’s no use to you now. The texts are as clear as autumn air on this. Only the psaltery itself, and whatever skills you may have brought to its making, will determine whether you pass this test.”

  My hand, holding the tiny frame, began to perspire. “What will the psaltery do if I fail?”

  “Nothing. It will make no music. And bring no magic.”

  “And if I succeed?”

  “Your instrument,” he said while stroking his chin, “should start to play on its own. Music both strange and powerful. At least that’s what has happened in the past. So just as you have felt magic flowing between you and your staff, you should feel it with the psaltery. But this should be a different level of magic, like nothing you have ever known before.”

  I worked my tongue to moisten it. “The trouble is . . . the psaltery hasn’t been touched by Tuatha. Only by me.

  Gently, the poet squeezed my shoulder. “When a musician—no wizard, just a wandering bard—plays the harp skillfully, is the music in the strings, or in the hands that pluck them?”

  Confused, I shook my head. “What does that matter? We are talking about magic here.”

  “I don’t pretend to know the answer, my boy. But I could show you tome after tome of treatises, some by mages of enormous wisdom, pondering that very question.”

  “Then someday, if I’m ever a mage myself, I’ll give you my answer. Right now, all I want to do is pluck my own strings.”

  My mother looked from me to Cairpré and back to me again. “Are you sure it’s the time? Are you really ready? My song can certainly wait.”

  “Yes,” agreed Rhia, twisting one of the vines that circled her waist. “I’m not so much in the mood for music now.”

  I studied her. “You don’t think I can do it, do you?”

  “No,” she replied calmly. “I’m just not sure.”

  I winced. “Well, the truth is . . . I’m not sure myself. But I do know this. If I wait any longer, I may lose the courage to try.” I faced Cairpré. “Now?”

  The poet nodded. “Good luck, my boy. And remember: The texts say that if high magic does come, so, too, may come other things—surprising things.”

  “And song,” added my mother gently. “I will sing for you, Merlin, whatever happens. Whether or not there is any music in those strings.”

  I lifted the psaltery, even as I lifted my gaze to the boughs of the ancient rowan. Hesitantly, I placed the instrument’s narrow end against the middle of my chest. As I cupped my hand around the outer rim, I could feel my heart thumping through the wood. The breeze slackened; the rustling rowan leaves quieted. Even the gray-backed beetle on the toe of my boot ceased crawling.

  My voice a whisper, I spoke the ancient incantation:

  May the instrument I hold

  Usher forth

  A magic bold.

  May the music that I bring

  Blossom like

  The soul of spring.

  May the melody I play

  Deepen through

  The passing day.

  May the power that I wield

  Plant anew

  The wounded field.

  Expectantly, I turned to Cairpré. He stood motionless but for his roving eyes. Behind him, the lush hills of Druma Wood seemed frozen—as fixed in place as one of the carvings on my staff. No light swept across the branches. No birds fluttered or whistled.

  “Please,” I said aloud, to the psaltery, to the rowan, to the very air. “That’s the only thing I want. To rise as high as I possibly can. To take whatever gifts, whatever powers, you can give me, and use them not for myself, but for others. With wisdom. And, I hope, with love. To plant anew the wounded field.”

  Feeling nothing, my heart began to sink. I waited, hoping. Still nothing. Reluctantly, I started to lower the psaltery.

  Then, ever so slightly, I felt something stir. It was not the leaves above me. Nor the grasses at my feet. Nor even the breeze.

  It was the smallest string.

  As I watched, my heart drumming against the wooden rim, the remotest tip of one end of the string began to twirl. Slowly, slowly, it lifted, like the head of a worm edging out of an apple. Higher it rose, pulling more of the string with it. The other end also awoke, curling about its knob. Soon the other strings started to move as well, their ends coiling and their lengths tightening.

  Tuning itself! The psaltery was tuning itself.

  In time the strings fell still. I looked up to see Cairpré’s growing smile. At his nod, I prepared to pluck the root chord. Wrapping my left hand more firmly around the rim, I curled the fingers of my right. Delicately, I placed them on the strings.

  Instantly, a wave of warmth flowed into my fingertips, up my arm, and through my whole body. A new strength, part magical and part musical, surged through me. The hairs on the back of my hands lifted and swayed in unison, dancing to a rhythm I could not yet hear.

  A wind arose, growing stronger by the second, waving the branches of the Cobblers’ Rowan. From the forested hills surrounding us, leaves started drifting upward—first by the dozens, then by the
hundreds, then by the thousands. Oak and elm, hawthorn and beech, shimmering with the brilliance of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. Spinning slowly, they floated toward us, like a vast flock of butterflies returning home.

  Then came other shapes, swirling around the rowan, dancing along with the leaves. Splinters of light. Fragments of rainbow. Tufts of shadow. Out of the air itself, shreds of mist wove themselves into more shapes—wispy spirals, serpents, knots, and stars. Still more shapes appeared, from where I could not fathom, made not from light or shadow or even clouds, but from something else, something in between.

  All these things encircled the tree, drawn by the music, the magic, to come. What, I wondered, would the power of the psaltery bring next? I smiled, knowing that the time to play my instrument had finally arrived.

  I plucked the strings.

  3: THE DARKEST DAY

  At the instant my fingers plucked the chord, I felt a sudden blast of heat—strong enough to scorch my hand. I shouted, jerking back my arm, even as the psaltery’s strings burst apart with a shattering twang. The instrument flew out of my grasp, erupting into flames.

  All of us watched, dumbfounded, as the psaltery hung suspended in the air above us, fire licking its rim and soundboard. The oaken bridge, like the strings themselves, writhed and twisted as if in agony. At the same time, the shapes swirling around the rowan vanished in a flash—except for the multitude of leaves, which rained down on our heads.

  Then, in the very center of the flaming psaltery, a shadowy image started to form. With the others, I gasped. For soon the image hardened into a haggard, scowling face. It was a face of wrath, a face of vengeance.

  It was a face that I knew well.

  There were the thick jowls, the unruly hair, and the piercing eyes I could not forget. The bulbous nose. The earrings made of dangling shells.

  “Urnalda.” The name itself seemed to crackle with fire as I spoke it aloud.

  “Who?” asked my mother, gaping at the flaming visage.

  “Tell us,” insisted Cairpré. “Who is it?”

  My voice as dry as the fallen leaves at our feet, I repeated the name. “Urnalda. Enchantress—and ruler—of the dwarves.” I fingered the gnarled top of my staff, remembering how she had helped me once long ago. I remembered the pain of it. And how she had extracted from me a promise, a promise that I suspected would cause me greater pain by far. “She is an ally, maybe even a friend—but one to be feared.”

  At that, the blazing rim of my psaltery exploded in sparks, writhing even more. Shards of wood broke loose and sailed into the air, sizzling and sputtering. One ignited a cluster of dry berries on the overhanging branch, which burst into flames before shriveling into a fist of charcoal. Another flaming shard spun toward Rhia, barely missing her leaf-draped shoulder.

  Urnalda, her face ringed with fire, scowled down on us. “Merlin,” she rasped at last. “It be time.”

  “Time?” I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. “Time for what?”

  Tongues of flame shot toward me. “Time for you to honor your promise! Your debt be great to my people, greater than you know. For we helped you even though it be against our laws.” She shook her wide head, clinking her earrings of fan-shaped shells. “Now it be our time of need. Evil strikes the land of Urnalda, the land of the dwarves! You must come now.” Her voice lowered to a rumble. “And you must come alone.”

  My mother clasped my arm. “He can’t. He won’t.”

  “Silence, woman!” The psaltery twisted so violently that it snapped in two, releasing a fountain of sparks. Yet both halves remained in the air, hovering just above our heads. “The boy knows that I would not call on him unless it be his time. He be the only one who can save my people.”

  I shook free of my mother’s grasp. “The only one? Why?”

  Urnalda’s scowl deepened. “That I will tell you when you be here at my side. But hurry! Time be short, very short.” The enchantress paused, weighing her words. “This much, though, I will tell you. My people be attacked, this very day, as never before.”

  “By who?”

  “By one long forgotten—until now.” More flames leaped from the rim. The burning wood cracked and sizzled, almost burying her words. “The dragon Valdearg sleeps no more! His fire be kindled, as well as his wrath. Truly I speak, oh yes! Fincayra’s darkest day be upon us.”

  Even as I shuddered, the flames suddenly vanished. The charred remains of my instrument twirled in the air for another instant, then fell to the grass and leaves in twisted trails of smoke. All of us stepped backward to avoid the shower of coals.

  I turned to Cairpré. His face had hardened, like a craggy cliff, yet it showed the shadowed lines of his fear. His wild brows lifted as he repeated Urnalda’s final words. “Fincayra’s darkest day be upon us.”

  “My son,” whispered Elen hoarsely. “You mustn’t heed her demand. Stay here, with us, in Druma Wood, where it’s safe.”

  Cairpré’s eyes narrowed. “If Valdearg has truly awakened, then none of us is safe.” Grimly, he added, “And our troubles are worse than even Urnalda knows.”

  I stamped my boot on a glowing coal. “What do you mean by that?”

  “The poem The Dragon’s Eye. Haven’t I shown you my transcription? Took me more than a decade to tie together the pieces and fill in the gaps—most of them, at least. Rags and ratholes! I planned to show you, but not so soon. Not like this!”

  My gaze fell to the remains of my psaltery, nothing more than broken bits of charcoal and blackened strings amidst the leaves strewn over the grass. Near one of the rowan’s roots, I spied a fragment of the oaken bridge. It was still connected to part of a string—the smallest one of all.

  Bending low, I picked up the string. So stiff, so lifeless. Not at all like the willowy ribbon I had held only moments before. No doubt if I tried to bend it now, it would shatter in my hands.

  I raised my head. “Cairpré?”

  “Yes, my boy?”

  “Tell me about that poem.”

  He let out a long, whistling breath. “It’s full of holes and ambiguities, I’m afraid. But it’s all we have. I’m not even sure I can remember more than the last few lines. And you will need to know more, much more, if you are, in fact, going to confront the dragon.”

  At the edge of my vision, I saw my mother stiffen. “Go on,” I insisted.

  Doing his best not to look at her, Cairpré cleared his throat. Then, with a jab of his hand, he pointed to the distant, mist-laden hills. “Far, far to the north, beyond even the realm of the dwarves, lie the most remote lands of this island—the Lost Lands. Now they are scorched and reeking of death, but once they blossomed as richly as this very wood. Fruited vines, verdant meadows, ancient trees . . . until Valdearg, last emperor of the dragons, descended. Because the people of the Lost Lands had rashly killed his mate—and, by most accounts, their only offspring—he set upon those people with the wrath of a thousand tempests. He tortured, plundered, and destroyed, leaving no trace of anything alive. He became, for all time, Wings of Fire.”

  Cairpré paused, looking up into the branches of the towering rowan. “Finally, Valdearg carried his rage southward, to the rest of Fincayra. It was then that your grandfather, Tuatha, engaged him in battle—driving him back into the wastelands. Although the Battle of Bright Flames lit up the skies for three years and a day, Tuatha finally prevailed, lulling the dragon into enchanted sleep.”

  I peered at the fragment of the psaltery in my hand. “Sleep that has now ended.”

  “Yes, which is why I spoke of The Dragon’s Eye. That poem, you see, tells the story of their battle. And describes how Tuatha relied on a weapon of magic, great magic, to triumph in the end.”

  “What was it?” asked Rhia.

  He hesitated.

  “Tell us,” she insisted.

  The poet spoke softly, yet his words thundered in my ears. “The Galator.”

  Instinctively, my hand moved to my chest, where the jeweled pendant, possessing powers as myste
rious as its strange green radiance, had rested so long ago. Rhia’s eyes, I could tell, caught my movement. And I knew that she, too, was recalling the Galator—and its loss to the hag Domnu, that thief of the marshlands.

  “The poem,” continued Cairpré, “ends with a prophecy.” Grimly, he studied my face. “A prophecy whose meaning is far from clear.”

  He seated himself on a bulging root, his gaze focused on something far distant. After a long moment, he began to recite:

  When Valdearg’s eye opens,

  Too many shall close:

  The darkest of days brings

  The deepest of woes.

  Together with terror

  That swells into pain,

  Disaster shall follow

  His waking again.

  By anger unending

  And power unmatched,

  The dragon avenges

  His dreams yet unhatched.

  For when he awakens

  To find those dreams lost,

  Revenge shall he covet

  Regardless the cost.

  Lo! Nothing can stop him

  Except for one foe

  Descended from enemies

  Fought long ago.

  In terrible battle

  They fight to the last,

  Reliving the furor

  And rage of the past.

  Yet neither opponent

  Shall truly prevail.

  The enemies’ efforts

  All finally fail.

  Though striving to vanquish,

  They perish instead:

  The dragon’s eye closes,

  His enemy dead.

  Then air becomes water

  And water is fire;

  Both enemies fall to

  A power still higher.

  Thus only when elements

  Suddenly merge

  Shall end the dragon,

  Shall end the scourge.

  But for the rustling of rowan leaves, there was no sound on the knoll. No one stirred, no one spoke. We stood as still as the charred scraps of my musical instrument. And as silent. Finally, Rhia stepped toward me and wrapped her forefinger around my own.

  “Merlin,” she whispered, “I don’t understand what all that means, but I don’t like its sound. Its feeling. Are you sure you want to go? Maybe Urnalda will find some way to stop the dragon without you.”