by T.A. Barron
And what a sound it made! She smiled to herself, remembering the first time she’d heard it toll. She had arrived only that morning, and decided to skip formal prayers—something she would come to do often. Hiding by a thick bush of ripe blackberries, she was eating a juicy handful when suddenly, right behind her, the great bell sounded—so loud that Elli had fallen over backward, scattering blackberries everywhere.
Onward they marched, through Stoneroot’s living quilt of pastures, cornfields, and wild meadows. With every step, it seemed, their shared sense of urgency increased. As did their speed, so that Shim often had to run to keep up.
Suddenly, as Elli topped the brim of a hill, she stopped—so abruptly that Nuic barely managed to cling to her shoulder. Brionna halted as well, and like Elli, stood as still as a sapling on a windless night. Until, that is, Shim charged into them both from behind.
“Well, I neverly!” he growled, rubbing the tip of his bulbous nose. “You shouldn’t stop like that, Elli. Nor you neither, Rowanna.”
The elf maiden growled, “Brionna. For the hundredth time, Brionna.”
“What dids you say, Rowanna?” he asked, cupping his ear.
But she didn’t respond. For, like Elli and Nuic, she was staring at the outer wall of the Drumadian compound. Or what should have been the outer wall. For a gargantuan hole had been torn in it, scattering slabs of flatrock and broken timbers in every direction. The wall now resembled a row of broken teeth, with a great gap in its center. From behind it, where the Society’s buildings, temples, gardens, and jeweled caverns had long rested, plumes of smoke curled skyward.
“Great Dagda,” muttered Nuic, changing to scarlet. “What could have happened?”
In answer, Elli and Brionna broke into a run. Shim followed, hobbling a bit from age but just as anxious to reach the compound. They ran past the scattered debris, through the broken wall—and then stopped once again.
There, lying on its side in the dirt, was the Buckle Bell. Its huge, flaring mouth had been crumpled by heavy blows. Several jagged cracks ran up its sides. One great chunk of metal had broken off completely and now lay on the ground. The intricate designwork on its rim had, in many places, been scraped away. And its ancient clapper, said to have been the gift of Elen herself, was nowhere to be seen.
Elli shook herself out of her shock and disbelief. “Coerria!” she shouted, dashing past the ruined bell and deeper into the compound.
Everywhere she turned, she saw devastation. It assaulted her gaze, as well as her heart. What buildings hadn’t been burned to the ground had been torn apart, their windows smashed and their decorated doorways shattered. The Garden of Birds, which held nests of all sizes that belonged to birds from every realm, had been ripped to pieces, as if struck by a hurricane. Elli’s stomach twisted to see the ancient nest of the halomyth seagull, which took three-and-a-half centuries to build, torn to shreds. And she nearly cried when she spied the crushed remains of a fledgling larkon bird, named for the spiral-shaped fruit that its kind loved to eat, whose mangled body lay in the dirt. The tiny bird, no bigger than Elli’s thumb, would never taste again its favorite fruit, nor sing with celebration at the dawn, nor spread its wings to fly.
What caused all this? she asked herself, as she and her companions ran past the smoldering remains of the apprentices’ dormitory—the very spot where she herself had lived not long before.
They ran down long corridors of oak, beech, and rowan, whose massive trunks and arching boughs had been viciously slashed. Rude symbols had been carved on them, as well as on the gleaming pathways of stones that marked the compound’s inner Rings, stones whose white glaze of élano was now streaked with excrement. When they passed the Drumadians’ famed moss garden, which had covered a whole hillside and held more than five thousand varieties of moss, Nuic suddenly turned jet black. For the hillside now bore very little besides smoking heaps of charcoal and the marks of heavy boots.
Even the towering pillars of the Great Temple, carried here from Lost Fincayra in the earliest days of Avalon, hadn’t escaped damage. Some—just as they had seen in the vision atop Hallia’s Peak—had been toppled. Others had been used as targets for hurled mud and rotten fruit. On one stone pillar, someone had scrawled the words Down with Harmony—Up with Humanity.
All at once, Elli realized that something else was wrong—something less obvious, but just as frightening, than all the devastation around her. It wasn’t something that she could see, but rather, something that she could not see.
“Nuic,” she panted, as they sped through the smashed remains of the oaken gateway that had marked the entrance to the residence of the High Priestess. “Where is everyone? No priestesses, no priests, no maryths. The whole compound is empty!”
“Lifeless as a tomb,” intoned the sprite on her shoulder.
Up the steps to Coerria’s cottage Elli leaped, followed by Brionna and Shim. Wood from across the Seven Realms had been donated to build this residence: ancient oak from the alpine groves of Stoneroot; sturdy ironwood from Fireroot; liquid boughs of branwenna, found only in the Rainbow Seas of Waterroot, which were so fluid they could be poured into place; always-green cypress from the jungles of Africqua in upper Malóch; harmóna from Woodroot, so rich with musical magic that even the slightest breeze would cause it to hum melodiously; some nearly invisible bark from the eonia-lalo, Airroot’s tree of the clouds; and ravenvine from Shadowroot, which would produce heat but no flames when burned. There was even, above the main door, a silvery strip of wood from Elna Lebram, the most famous tree in El Urien, among whose roots elves had long buried the bodies of their wisest scholars and bards.
All these kinds of wood, and more, lay broken, splintered, and strewn about the floor of the cottage. Just after the group entered, what remained of the ornate oaken door—carved by Thule Ultima, greatest of the faery artisans—crashed to the floor. And then, for Elli, came the worst sight of all.
Coerria lay motionless, eyes closed, on a cot in the main hallway. Her body, and the shimmering gown of spider’s silk that she wore, were covered by a brown woolen shawl peppered with wood chips. The High Priestess’ long white hair, twisted and tangled, fell over the cot’s edge and onto the debris on the floor. A tiny bee with purple wings buzzed around her head, trying frantically to untangle the strands: Uzzzula, the old woman’s devoted companion. Like every maryth, Uzzzula had taken an oath of loyalty to a priestess or priest—an oath that had clearly, in this case, been severely tested.
Beside the cot knelt a lanky figure whose torn Drumadian robe bore smears of blood. Both he and the silver-winged falcon perched on his shoulder turned their somber faces to Elli as she approached.
“Lleu,” she gasped, breathing hard from the run across the compound. “Is she . . .”
“Not dead. Not yet.” His eyes, no less sharp than the falcon’s, studied Elli. “And if you have brought the elixir from the Lady of the Lake, she may yet survive.”
Elli froze. “The elixir?”
Lleu nodded impatiently. “Come now, give it to me.” He cocked his head to the side. “You do have it, don’t you?”
Though Elli tried to speak, her mouth wouldn’t move.
“She has no elixir,” grumbled Nuic. “And no sense, either.”
“But the Lady!” blustered the priest, his brow deeply furrowed. “She came to me in a dream—four nights ago, right after all this happened. Told me you’d come with Coerria’s cure.”
“She hadn’t counted on certain things,” answered Nuic gravely.
“Such as my stubbornness,” declared Elli. “I’m such a fool!”
“No more than I,” replied Lleu. “You see . . .” He started to stand, then clutched his ribs with a groan and slid back to the floor.
“You’re hurt,” said Elli as she rushed to his side. Seeing a swollen gash through a hole in his robe, she unstrapped her water gourd. “Here. This should help.”
She hesitated, recalling how useless her healing water had been for Scree. But t
hat wound had been caused by some sort of dark magic, while this looked more like the stab of a dagger. In any case, she just had to try. And maybe at least do something right! She poured a trickle onto the gash, waited, then poured some more.
Slowly, Lleu’s expression changed from pain to surprise, and finally, to wonder. He clutched his ribs, tearing open the robe.
“It’s gone,” he whispered hoarsely. “The knife wound—so deep. How did you do that?”
Elli shook her head and tapped the gourd. “Not me. Water from Halaad’s Secret Spring.” Suddenly her eyes brightened. “Lleu. Could this help Coerria?”
His frown returned. “No, child, I’m afraid not. What afflicts her is a wound not of the flesh, but of the spirit.”
“Tell us who did this.”
“A mob, Elli. They just burst into the compound and flowed over us like an evil wave, destroying everything they touched. Everything! And when Coerria saw what they were doing—to her Order, her buildings, her gardens, her life’s work—she simply collapsed, overwhelmed by the horror of it all. She must have lost all her hope, all her will to live.”
Uzzzula, upon hearing these words, flew past Lleu’s ear, buzzing angrily. Then the little hive spirit went right back to work on the High Priestess’ hair.
Lleu smiled ruefully. “Some of us will never lose hope.”
“That’s right,” declared Elli. She moved closer to Coerria and knelt by the cot. Gently, she stroked the woman’s wrinkled cheek, recalling the radiant blue of those eyes now hidden by closed lids. “Really, Lleu. It’s her life we’re talking about! We can’t give up.”
Shim ambled closer. The old fellow bobbed his head, having caught her meaning if not her words. “Certainly, definitely, absolutely.”
“I agree,” added Brionna. She stepped forward, gracefully avoiding a hole in the floor. “But first, if we’re to know what to do, we must know more of what happened.”
The falcon on Lleu’s shoulder piped a sharp note. At that, the lanky priest cleared his throat. “There isn’t much to tell. They suddenly attacked, a whole raging mob of men and women. Farmers, smiths, traders, vagabonds—all whipped into a frenzy of hatred. They stormed the compound, broke down walls, smashed the bell, destroyed the gardens, and so much else. By the bones of Basilgarrad, if Coerria hadn’t commanded everyone to flee, they would have murdered us all!”
Elli eyed him gratefully. “Someone didn’t flee, though.”
Lleu just snorted. “A lot of good it did. Within seconds of bursting in here, they’d made her collapse. Then they stabbed me, tore the place apart, and left us both for dead.”
“The mob,” asked Nuic, “was strictly humans? No other kinds of creatures?”
The priest nodded grimly. “And so very angry! I can’t explain why. Even though, for months now, we’ve been hearing reports of growing violence out in the realms, everyone had hoped that our troubles would end after the dam at Crystillia was destroyed.”
At the mention of that place, Brionna’s whole body tensed.
“But alas,” the priest went on, “they didn’t end. Far from it!” He gazed around grimly. “If only I’d been paying more attention, I might have seen this coming. Why, in just the past few weeks, I’ve heard some shocking stories of humans attacking other creatures: wolves who were out hunting for their food, elves who happened to be living in desirable trees, or dwarves who were resisting fences being built across their lands. And of course, we also have that movement of Belamir’s—Humanity First, he calls it. Well-intentioned as it may be, it seems to be fueling those fires, by claiming that humans know better, and maybe are better, than anybody else.”
Lleu turned and looked at the still, frail body of Coerria. So feeble were her breaths that her shawl and gown didn’t seem to move at all. Then, to no one in particular, he asked, “Who was behind this attack?”
“Belamir,” said Nuic darkly.
“No, no, that’s not possible. I’m sure, at least, of that. For all his flaws, he’s basically just a gardener who’s gotten carried away with his notions of humanity’s special role in this world. Calls us Nature’s benevolent guardians, I believe.”
Nuic erupted in a spasm of coughing.
“I know, my friend, that’s a sure path to arrogance. But I doubt that Belamir is even aware of how his theories can be twisted and abused by greedier people. At heart, he’s really a good man. A teacher. And also a friend of Coerria’s.”
Elli shook her head of curls. “No, he’s not. He said some things about her that weren’t friendly at all, right to me and Llynia.”
Lleu’s eyebrows arched higher. “Llynia? What ever happened to her?”
Elli shrugged. “Don’t know. But my good sprite here thinks we’ll see her again.”
“Hmmmpff,” growled Nuic. “Just as we’ll see plagues and hurricanes again.”
“Enough,” said Elli as she rose to her feet. “It’s time to go.”
“Where?” asked Brionna with a shake of her braid.
“To the Lady.” Her eyes gleamed with determination as she turned, kicking some wood chips across the floor. Then she bent and whispered to the motionless form on the cot, “And I’ll come back with your cure, I promise.”
Ever so lightly, she touched the old woman’s brow. In a whisper, she spoke, as if Coerria could really hear. “There’s a song that my father taught me a long time ago:
“Avalon lives! The last place to keep
All the songs of Creation alive.
Sing every note—sing high and deep:
Voices uplifted shall thrive;
Singers themselves shall survive.”
She drew a long, slow breath. “Please survive, Coerria. Please.”
Lleu stood up. He brushed some wood chips off his shoulder, then gazed warmly at Elli. “You know,” he said, touching her arm, “that look on your face just now reminded me of someone.”
Puzzled, she blinked up at him.
“Your father.”
She blushed. “Really?”
He nodded. “He was my best friend, you know. Saved my skin many a time during our days as young priests.” Then, his voice soft, he added, “Maybe that’s why I’m going to come with you.”
She started. “But what about Coerria?”
“There’s nothing more I can do for her now. Uzzzula here has been pouring fresh water on her tongue, and mopping her brow with eucalyptus leaves, several times a day. Beyond that, whatever might help her only the Lady can provide.”
“Then,” declared Elli as she clenched her fists, “let’s go get it.”
7 • Arc-kaya
When Scree awoke, his memory was as hazy as his vision. Where the frill-feathers was he? And how did he get here?
He blinked his large, yellow-rimmed eyes, but everything still looked blurry. Then, drawing a fitful breath, he caught some familiar smells. Eagles’ feathers. Broken shells. Droppings. Timbers scraped raw by talons.
He knew those smells, from the nests of other eaglefolk. And from his own childhood, those days when he’d felt the touch of his true mother—days that had ended all too quickly. For she’d been felled by the arrows of some murderous men. Since then, practically all his life, he hadn’t lived in nests like the rest of his kind, but in caves of fire-scorched rock, out of reach from anyone or anything.
Except his longings. In the years that he had lived all alone, trying to protect Merlin’s staff, he’d often yearned for some clear idea of his purpose in life. And even more, he’d yearned for some companionship—especially from his brother Tamwyn and from the eaglemother he’d known so briefly. She often visited him in his dreams, soaring overhead with her wide, powerful wings, or calling to him with her rich, screeching voice, part human and part eagle.
A face appeared before him now, fuzzy at the edges but distinctly that of an eaglewoman. Like Scree, she was in human form, and she peered down at him, her fierce yellow eyes showing a hint of softness. Long gray hair, as fluffy as a fledgling’s feathers, fel
l over her shoulders.
“M-mother?” he croaked in disbelief.
She smiled, wrinkles curving like talons around her eyes. “No, no, I am not your mother.” She frowned and added in a whisper, “Though I was once someone else’s.” She cleared her throat. “My name is Arc-kaya.”
Gently she placed the palm of her hand on his forehead. “Good. The fever’s a bit less.”
“Fever?”
“You were badly wounded when you came here to the village Iye Kalakya—carried by a human and a hoolah, of all creatures. They said you’d lost a lot of blood, in addition to ripping most of the muscles in your thigh. And you’ve been delirious with fever ever since you arrived.”
She moved away and started to unwrap the layers of bandages on his leg. “Your name is Scree, isn’t it?”
Suddenly everything came back, in an avalanche of images. The night on Hallia’s Peak, and that vision in the starless sky. The unicorn. The evil flower. And the bloodred shard, turning to smoke in Tam’s hand.
Scree’s eyesight cleared. He was in a nest, huge and deep in the manner of all eaglefolk. Feathers of every size, some as long as his own arms, lay everywhere on the logs and branches that intertwined around him, as well as the table, chairs, and chests made of sinew-lashed wood. But instead of the usual gnawed bones and bits of shell common to eaglefolk’s nests, this place looked exceptionally clean. And against one wall stood three large cabinets, their shelves packed full of vials, bowls, strainers, splints, bandages of all sizes, and numerous tools for mixing and measuring potions.
A healer, he thought. So that’s who she is.
“Arc-kaya,” he demanded, “just how long have I been here?”
She continued to unravel the bandages. “Well, let’s see now. It’s been three days.”