Doomraga's Revenge (21 page)

“Leave?” roared the dragon in surprise. “For where?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, deep sadness in her eyes. “I am only sure that it’s time for me to leave this compound, this realm . . . and never come back.”

She twisted one of the vines on her sleeve. “All this warfare, all this killing—Basil, it’s breaking my heart. And, what is almost as painful, the Society is gripped by fear. Priests and priestesses are growing more rigid, more locked into fundamentalist beliefs, every day. This just isn’t the order my mother founded anymore, an order grounded in love and respect for all living creatures.”

“But you are the High Priestess!”

She shook her head. “No more.”

“You won’t reconsider?” he pleaded. “We need you here, Rhia. To fight for Avalon! We can still save it, if we—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I just don’t have the strength, Basil. Nor the will.” She exhaled slowly. “And without those . . . I’m only a burden. That’s why I must leave.”

And so their conversation had come to an end. Would it be their last? Would they possibly meet again someday in the future? No one could know.

Basilgarrad stirred restlessly on the rim of the gorge. Somberly, he lifted his great head to look at the dark gash in the night sky, the place where a bright row of stars once burned with fierce radiance. The Wizard’s Staff. Where had those stars gone? What had caused them to go dark? What role did that vanished constellation play in the elusive puzzle of Avalon’s fate—the puzzle that had tormented him for so long?

All these questions, he knew, only Merlin could answer. Just as he knew that there was only one person left in all of Avalon who might be able to make the journey to find the wizard. The very last person Basilgarrad wanted to ask. The very last person who would agree to help.

The dragon, still gazing at the empty spot in the sky, ground his teeth together. Difficult as it would be, he needed to try. Tomorrow, he would fly to Krystallus.

32:
M
AGICAL
M
APS

There are many ways of being lost. In some cases, no map can help.

Where, wondered Basilgarrad, should he look for Krystallus? The best place to start was the center for exploration he’d founded—the Eopia College of Mapmakers. Located by a powerful portal at the easternmost tip of Brynchilla, the college now boasted the largest collection of maps in Avalon. Its well-traveled residents made regular journeys to the seven root-realms, and also (rumor had it) to the misty shores of Lost Fincayra in the spirit realm.

Many people lived at the college, whether to learn the craft of mapmaking or to record their newest discoveries. Among them was Krystallus. He had traveled much farther than anyone else—including, on a recent journey, a secret route into the very trunk of the Tree, to an interior cavern he named the Great Hall of the Heartwood. Yet that discovery, like all the rest he’d made in his storied career, only increased his appetite for more.

Basilgarrad swooped out of the clouds, catching his first glimpse of the college.
What sort of building is that?
he wondered, peering down at a colorful patchwork of old blankets, faded tunics, and ground cloths beside a sheer cliff. Some pieces of fabric shone with glittering, magical threads; others took most of their color from the dirt of their travels.

Puzzled, he glided lower. As the angular shadow of his wing passed over the college, he suddenly understood.
It’s a tent! A gigantic tent.
Either Krystallus, in building the college, wanted to evoke the itinerant life of an explorer who often slept in a tent or on open ground, or he simply hadn’t found enough time to construct something sturdier.

Basilgarrad landed beside the huge enclosure, skidding on the loose rocks atop the cliff. He ambled closer, dragging his enormous tail behind him, taking care not to disturb an outdoor lecture by some woman in a hair shirt who was describing her adventures in Trolldom. Engrossed by her talk (and by the tame one-eyed troll who stood by her side, trying to catch passing birds on its tongue), her audience gave only fleeting attention to Basilgarrad. He was, after all, a familiar sight around Avalon, whereas a troll was something truly exotic. As the dragon passed by, the audience gasped when the troll shot out its tongue and nabbed an unlucky seagull.

Approaching the tent’s open wall, which had been rolled up to make a wide entryway, Basilgarrad laid his enormous head on the ground outside. People continued to bustle in and out of the tent, walking around his snout with barely a glance at him, as if there was nothing at all strange about finding a dragon on the college grounds. Some of them were deep in conversation about faraway places, such as the two young men in feathered hats who were arguing over the nature of Airroot’s cloudcake. Others were carrying heaps of scrolls, piled so high in their arms that spills happened frequently. Still others chattered or sang in languages that even Basilgarrad, with all his travels, had never heard.

This place feels more like a circus than a college
, he thought, watching a team of dwarves lead a wide-eared elephaunt into the tent.

His curiosity piqued, he peered inside. Hanging from the top of the tent was a huge blue banner with the emblem he knew well: a star within a circle, the ancient symbol for travel between places and times. Directly beneath it stood something that made him snort in surprise—a scale model of the Great Tree of Avalon, rotating slowly on its stand. Wondrously detailed in its representations of the seven root-realms, the model tree showed forests, lakes, marshes, settlements, and landmarks of all kinds. Descriptive labels dotted its surface. But its branches, as yet unexplored, showed hardly any features at all.

“Excuse me, master dragon.”

Basilgarrad lowered his gaze to see a young elf standing beside his jaw. Though taller than most elves, his head barely reached the dragon’s lower lip. “Yes?” the great voice rumbled.

“Aren’t you Wings of Peace?” asked the elf, his forest green eyes looking up into a much larger eye of similar shade.

“I am,” answered the immensely deep voice. “Although these days, peace is hard to find.”

The elf nodded. Apparently more interested in the past than the present, he asked, “Is it true you hatched from your egg at the very moment of Avalon’s birth?” Wrinkling his brow, he added, “Though you really didn’t take your dragon’s form until later—when you were thirty-seven years old, to be precise.”

The corners of Basilgarrad’s mouth curled in a smile. “Yes, that’s true. And you, I would guess, must be Tressimir—the young historian among the wood elves.”

Blushing, the elf asked, “You have heard of me?”

“Dragons have big ears.” He gave a rumbling chuckle. “Now tell me, Tressimir, do you have any idea where I might find Krystallus?”

The elf brightened. “Why, yes! He was here just this morning, working on that new map idea. You know, the one that can—”

“I don’t know,” interrupted Basilgarrad. “But could you find him for me?”

“Of course.” Tressimir hurried into the tent, joining the throng of people inside.

Watching him, Basilgarrad decided to take a closer look at what was going on in there. Along one wall, he saw several partitions that created smaller spaces.
Classrooms
, he realized. Within each space, someone was lecturing to a group of listeners. To illustrate their points, the lecturers often broke into chants, songs, or wild cries. At other times, they held up drawings, sample pieces of clothing, plaster casts of footprints, or (in one case) an enormous gold-colored claw.

Against the wall at the far side of the tent, behind the model of the Tree, dozens of students sat at individual desks. Each held an eagle quill pen in one hand and a rough sketch map in the other, while drawing on the paper scroll spread upon the desk. Ink bottles, more quills, blotting cloths, and compasses lay strewn everywhere.

A noble craft
, thought the dragon approvingly.
It takes a lot of skill to draw a decent map.

Nudging a bit closer to the entrance, he realized that all around the floor were displays of other kinds of maps—some that he’d heard rumors about, and others that he’d never have dreamed possible. There, beside the rotating Tree, was an upright stand holding a large map that could actually talk! Famous for its deep baritone voice—as well as its propensity to start whistling at any given moment—it had been a gift to the college from Krystallus. But he had never revealed exactly where he’d found it. Bards from every realm came here to stand before that map and ask questions about faraway lands. Right now, a group of woodland faeries were fluttering about it, asking where they might live without any danger of battles, fires, or explosions.

Basilgarrad’s ears stretched forward, as he listened with great interest for the answer. But to his dismay—and the faeries’ outrage—the map remained silent. It would not speak, nor even whistle. The faeries, in a huff, buzzed off angrily, nearly flying into Basilgarrad’s nose as they left the tent.

Just as I suspected
, he thought somberly.
Which is why we need to bring back Merlin.

He scanned the bustling tent again, looking for any sign of Krystallus. Finding none, he turned back to the unusual maps on display. First to catch his eye—or, more accurately, his ear—was the Map of Songs. Donated to the college by a family of museos, it could produce the local music of any place in Avalon. Just now, an elf maiden was pressing her finger against the very tip of Airroot. Instantly, the map burst into the swishing, windy music sung by sylphs who floated among the clouds.

Gazing around the tent, Basilgarrad spotted another map, one that could do the work of a telescope. With the proper incantation, it could give people a close-up view of anywhere on the landscape. Thirty or forty people were standing in line, awaiting a turn—including a bent old woman with gnarled hair, arms like knotted branches, and feet the shape of tree roots.

A treeling
, the dragon realized.
I thought there were none of them left.

Intrigued though he was, his attention turned to another map, this one in the form of a dimly lit sphere. Made from some kind of crystal, it swirled with shadowy gases, as if it contained a small but magical storm. Basilgarrad frowned, wrinkling his massive brow, for it reminded him of the magical sphere of Bendegeit—and the dark apparition he’d seen within it.

Just then a woman, wearing a heavy shawl over her hunched shoulders, approached the sphere. “Tell me,” she demanded in a raspy voice, “what will my home look like in two hundred years?”

A map that shows the future!
Basilgarrad slid forward a bit more, eager to hear what place the woman had in mind. And how it would look after two more centuries. He shuddered, suddenly wondering if
any
of Avalon would be left after that much time, given all the destruction of the war.

“My home,” the woman rasped, “is found on the westernmost point of Lastrael—in a new settlement my people are building. It will take longer to finish than I have years left to live, but I want to know what it will look like.”

Lastrael? That’s Shadowroot. Always dark, always dangerous. Why would anyone settle there?
Basilgarrad scrunched his nose in sympathy.
Poor old woman, she won’t see anything but darkness.

Within the sphere, shadows swirled. The scene grew steadily darker, until there was nothing but inky blackness. It was a scene befitting the realm of endless night.

Abruptly—the whole globe radiated light. Fires blazed everywhere in a coastal city—a city made of light more than anything solid. The woman, her face aglow from the sphere, nodded in approval.

Basilgarrad caught his breath.
A city of light?
He peered more closely at the old woman.
Who is she?

While he didn’t recognize her, he did detect a smoky, smoldering smell as she came nearer. Then he noticed something new about her heavy shawl—a pair of bumps that didn’t seem like shoulders. Could they, perhaps, be the upper edges of wings?

He was about to ask her who she really was and where she came from, when someone tapped the base of his jaw. “Well, well,” said a deep voice. “What in Dagda’s name brings you here?”

Reluctantly, Basilgarrad pulled his gaze from the old woman, who was now leaving the tent—and trained it on the man who had spoken. “Hello, Krystallus.”

33:
W
HILE
T
HIS
W
ORLD
S
TILL
L
ASTS

I like secrets, and always have. But only when I know them.

The rugged-looking man, whose long white hair brushed his sturdy shoulders, nodded in greeting. “Nice to see you, Basil. Did you come to view one of our magical maps?” Before the dragon could respond, he lifted a purple vial into the air. “This new one, perhaps? It’s only just been bottled after eighteen days of magical distilling—a little trick I picked up on my travels.”

“Well . . .” began Basilgarrad. He hesitated, wanting to be sure Krystallus was in a good mood before raising the delicate subject of his father. “What exactly is in that vial?”

“Ah!” replied the explorer jubilantly. “Just what I hoped you would ask.” He glanced over his shoulder at the young elf Tressimir, who had come back to see more of Basilgarrad. “Could you fetch a tray or a bowl, my good lad? I need something that can hold liquid.”

Tressimir reached into the weathered leather satchel that hung from his shoulder. Pulling out a rough wooden bowl, he asked, “Will this do?”

“Perfectly.” Krystallus stepped closer to the dragon, so that he wasn’t in the path of all the people entering and leaving the tent. At the same time, Tressimir joined him and handed him the bowl.

“I don’t understand,” said the dragon, “what that vial has to do with a map.”

“Just watch.” In one swift motion, Krystallus uncorked the vial and poured its contents into the bowl. As the purple stream gurgled out of the container, he commanded, “Rainbow Seas.”