Shadows on the Stars (29 page)

He glanced at the door. “They should be returning very soon, by the way, with the supplies that we need.”

“Good. I look forward to meeting them when I’m not fighting for my life.”

Tamwyn’s gaze moved slowly around the blackened walls of the room, coming to rest on the picture of Ogallad aflame. For some time he examined the Golden Wreath that Ogallad wore upon his head. At last, he said, “Mistletoe. It looks like mistletoe.”

Seeing Gwirion’s puzzled expression, he explained, “A plant that grows in my homeland. I’ve seen it often in the wilderness. People sometimes call it
the golden bough.
And our bards will tell you that, back in the days of Avalon’s birth, those golden leaves were believed to hold some sort of special power. Though what that power might have been has long been forgotten.”

His friend smiled sadly. “It is always a kind of death when a story is forgotten. But I am glad to know that those leaves still grow somewhere.”

Tamwyn tapped the warm skin of the man’s forearm. “So tell me, Gwirion. What kind of work do you do? Are you, too, an explorer?”

“No, human son. I am an artist—a storypainter, as we say. Mostly I do not paint new murals, but just restore the old ones. They are everywhere in the Middle Realm, in tunnels carved by water, gnawed by termites, or opened by the flows of élano.”

“I saw one,” Tamwyn recalled, his voice full of wonder. “In a tunnel lower down, near the cascades. It was so full of life, and colors.”

“And stories.” Gwirion waved at his shelf of paint pots and brushes. “I was out looking for some leaves of the
fomorra
plant, which I need for all my blues and purples, when those giant termites attacked me.” He turned back to Tamwyn. “And if you hadn’t appeared, that would have been the end of my story.”

“Gwirion, do your people have any stories about the stars? About what they really are? Why they burn . . . or sometimes go dark?”

“No,” he said solemnly. “Though I have often wished we did. I think those tales—those times—are just too far away. They have passed out of our minds, I fear, because we can no longer understand them. And how can we tell stories if we have not the words? How can we paint them if we have forgotten the colors?”

Gwirion’s gaze moved to the charred picture on the wall. “Stories are a people’s memories, you see. They can be disturbing, encouraging, and sometimes . . . inspiring. They hold all our losses, gains, sufferings, glories, and longings. But before we can have the story, we must have the meaning.”

“I understand,” agreed Tamwyn. “Stories are like a mirror we hold up to ourselves.”

“That’s right. But they are more than just the mirror, and the image we see in it. They are also whatever invisible truth lies behind.”

Tamwyn squeezed Gwirion’s arm. “I am glad we met, you and I.”

The bark-skinned man grinned. “In gladder times, I would have considered it a sign of forgiveness from Dagda.” Then, as quick as a torch blown out by the wind, the grin disappeared. “But the sign we really need is a Golden Wreath.”

He looked glumly at his companion. “There is one more part of Mananaun’s prophecy, something I didn’t tell you before. She said that we will know our time of rebirth has truly arrived when a Golden Wreath suddenly appears.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes. It will appear, she said, not in the lands around our village, as in days of old—but magically, on the door of one person’s home. And that person will be the new leader of our fallen people, the one to lead us back into the firelight. In other words—the next Ogallad.”

Tamwyn glanced up at the picture. “It could happen, I suppose.”

“No, my friend. As much as I wish that were so, my people have fallen too far.”

“But it’s possible.”

“No, it is not.” Gwirion’s wide mouth turned down. “By the Thousand Flames, it is not.”

27
•
Gwirion’s Gift

Over the next several days, Gwirion did whatever he could to help Tamwyn heal. For time was disappearing faster than a candle’s dying flame.

Aided by his wife, Tulchinne, and his sister, Fraitha, the bark-skinned man worked hard to bind wounds and stem infections. All this was made more difficult by how deeply the termite’s pincers had penetrated Tamwyn’s hip, and how badly the muscles and skin had been torn. But after plenty of bandages, repeated cleansings, and many hearty meals of
lauva
—a creamy, charred grain spiced with something like nutmeg that Tulchinne served in an ironwood bowl—Tamwyn’s strength began to return.

“I do love this stuff,” he mumbled, his mouth full of lauva, from his resting place on the floor. This was the third bowl he had downed that morning. “It’s the best porridge I’ve ever tasted.”

“But of course, Tamwyn,” answered Fraitha. She was seated at the table, repairing a hole in her shawl with some sturdy red threads of a vine called
hurlyen.
“It was made by my sister-in-law, famous for her cooking throughout the Middle Realm.”

Tulchinne looked up from where she was kneeling, near Gwirion’s shelf of paint pots, grinding grain with her mortar and pestle. “Don’t be absurd! If I’m famous for my cooking, it’s just in this little hut. And only then because you hate to cook, and Gwirion doesn’t know a jar of spice from a den of mice.”

Gwirion, who was whistling softly as he mixed some dark green paint at the table, didn’t respond.

Fraitha, however, burst out laughing. The sound reminded Tamwyn of resins popping in a fire. Then she turned her head—which was, like those of all her people, completely hairless—toward their human guest. “You do seem stronger, Tamwyn.”

“Hungrier, anyway,” he replied as he shoveled some more lauva into his mouth.

“That’s a start,” commented Tulchinne. She paused in her work long enough to draw her own shawl higher on her shoulders. As the traditional garb of Ayanowyn women, the heavy shawls helped to retain their body heat. This one covered Tulchinne’s back as well as her crumpled wings.

Gwirion abruptly stopped whistling. “You’ll need to do better than that, Tamwyn.” His voice, like his expression, was grim. In that moment he looked almost as stern as the tile picture of Ogallad on the wall behind him. “We’re running out of time.”

Tamwyn set down his food. His own face turned grim, for he knew that he was also losing valuable time on his quest.
My ultimate triumph,
the vision of Rhita Gawr had boasted,
is but a few weeks away.
However many more days he’d need before he was well enough to walk again, it was too many!

“I’ll try standing on my own today,” he announced to them all. “Really, I think I’m strong enough.”

“Good,” replied Gwirion. “Then tomorrow, if you’re able, you can begin walking around.”

“Outside?” asked Tamwyn, motioning toward the door of the hut.

“No, my friend.” Gwirion’s scowl deepened. “Why risk enraging Ciann and his followers any more than they already are?”

Reluctantly, Tamwyn nodded. Even now, he could hear the sounds of people chanting and drums pounding beyond the door. As the high holy day approached, the village was growing increasingly restless.

“I must try again to talk with Ciann,” declared Gwirion with resolve. “To convince him that his whole way of thinking is wrong. And that you are not just some beast to be sacrificed, but a friend to be helped on your way.”

“Good luck trying,” said Tulchinne skeptically. “That fellow has about as much brains as an empty bowl! And you, my good husband, haven’t much more if you really think your plan will work.”

Gwirion squinted at her and said testily, “So, my good wife, do you have a better one?”

“No,” she snapped. “But at least I know enough to understand we need one.”

At the table, Gwirion’s expression softened. “You’re right, you know.” With a teasing edge, he added, “As always.”

Tulchinne grinned, even as she continued to grind some more grain. “You hear that, Tamwyn? That simple truth is why we’ve been able to stay married as long as we have.”

“And how long is that?” asked Tamwyn.

“Thirty-eight years,” she replied. Then, with a glance at her husband, she added, “Though at times it feels more like fifty.”

“Or five hundred,” grumbled Gwirion. Then, to Tamwyn’s surprise, he beamed at Tulchinne. And even more surprisingly, she smiled back.

Seeing the two of them spar so good-naturedly made Tamwyn think about his own relationship with Elli. Could they, someday, learn to get along that well?

“Gwirion,” he asked impulsively, “how do you two really make it work? Thirty-eight years is a long time.”

The winged man replied, but in a voice that could have been serious—or then again, could have been joking. “It’s easy, really. I like to whistle, and she likes to cook. So we each provide some form of enjoyment for the other.”

Tamwyn nodded, thinking that this could indeed be a valuable notion.

Then Tulchinne shook her head. “It’s not that simple, though. What he didn’t tell you is that I have always loved the music of whistling, but whenever I try to do it . . .” She winced. “Small birds drop dead at our doorstep.”

Gwirion laughed. “And for my part, I dearly love to smell things cooking, and certainly like to fill myself with food. But hard as I try, I just can’t cook.”

Tamwyn chuckled at the irony of this. “So you fill each other’s gaps, like two pieces of dovetailed woodwork.” Then, with a bemused look, he asked, “Why can’t you cook?”

“Too stupid,” teased Tulchinne before her husband could answer.

“That,” agreed Gwirion, “plus something else. Something I did as a child. You see,” he confessed, “I tried to eat some burning coals, to make my soulfire burn brighter. What a thing to do! I permanently scarred my tongue and throat. And while the experience left me wiser, I suppose, it also ruined my sense of taste.”

His deep brown eyes studied Tamwyn. “So in the end, there is really not much I can tell you about relationships. Except that staying together, grand as it can be, isn’t always easy.”

With a scowl, the young man replied, “That much I already know.”

For the rest of that day, Tamwyn practiced standing without support, pushing himself as hard as he could. Finally, he succeeded. Though he managed to stand only a few minutes, it was, as Tulchinne had said, a start. And after that, he improved swiftly. By the end of the following day, he was limping clumsily around the charred floor of the hut.

“Just wait until Gwirion sees you walking,” said Tulchinne, sounding both anxious and relieved. She added a sprinkle of crushed ginger to the salad she was preparing at the table. “He’ll be back soon from that folly of trying to make Ciann understand. And ready at last to make some other plans.”

Tamwyn leaned against the wall, resting. “I’m ready, too.”

“None too soon,” said Fraitha, putting down the amber flute she had been playing. “The high holy day is tomorrow.”

Just then, Gwirion strode in. He shut the door behind him with a resounding slam. “Curse them,” he grumbled. Then, turning to Tulchinne, he lamented, “You were right, yet again. The rituals begin at dawn.”

“Including,” Tamwyn asked gravely, “the sacrifice?”

“Yes. And Ciann even told me, in that sneering way of his, that he’d stop by here tomorrow before dawn.
To fetch something valuable
, as he put it.”

“That moron!” exclaimed Fraitha.

“Soon to be a murderer,” added Tulchinne, “if we don’t find some way to stop him.”

Gwirion rubbed the shaggy skin of his brow. “Here we are, on the very night before Wynerria, living in fear of our own people! Why can’t they understand that sacrifices just confirm our unworthiness in the eyes of Dagda? Instead of new stories to tell, we offer only anger and ignorance.”

“Gwirion,” said Tamwyn, “I can walk on my own now! Right after you left, I started.” To prove his point, he stepped awkwardly over to the other side of the hut.

The rich brown eyes widened. “Then you must leave tonight! Just before dawn, when the élanolight out there is dimmest.”

“No,” Tamwyn objected. With a grimace, he bent his stiff left leg. “They will be expecting that. Instead, I will leave now—while most of them are eating supper. Catch them unprepared, maybe.”

Gwirion scrutinized him. “It just might work. But are you sure you can walk well enough?”

“No. But it’s worth a try.”

“Then I’m coming with you. To show you the way to escape from the cavern that holds our village. And, if necessary, to fight off Ciann.”

“All right,” Tamwyn agreed. “But I wish you—”

“Wait,” commanded Tulchinne, rising from her seat at the ironwood table. “This is foolish! There are probably guards outside, even now. You’ll both be caught.”

“There’s no other way,” answered Gwirion.

“But there is!” she insisted. Stepping over to a hook on the wall, she grabbed the shawl, one of her spares, that was hanging there. Woven of heavy vine threads, it rustled as it moved. She carried the shawl over to Tamwyn and threw it over his shoulders.

“Here,” she declared. “Wear this. Now, hunch down a bit, so you’re not so tall. And when you go outside, pull it up over your head so that none of your hair will show. In the dark out there, those ruffians will think you are Fraitha or myself! Avalon knows, they’ve seen us going in and out of here often enough.”

“It won’t work,” objected Gwirion.

“But it will!” Tulchinne faced him squarely. “At least it might. And that is better than your plan, which is as sure to fail as a bard without a tongue.”

Gwirion ruffled his wings and looked over at Tamwyn. “It is up to you, my friend.”

He nodded. “I’ll go with Tulchinne’s plan.” Turning back to her, he raised an eyebrow. “You know, maybe you really
are
always right.”

She didn’t smile. “We shall see, if you actually manage to escape.”

“Indeed.” Gwirion walked over to join them. He put his hand on Tamwyn’s shoulder. “Are you sure? At least, if I come with you, I could hold them off while you get away.”

Tamwyn’s long black hair brushed against his shoulders as he shook his head. “No, this way is better. With my leg like this, I couldn’t outrun anybody who chased me. My best hope for escape is to be disguised. And alone.”