The Seven Songs (5 page)

How surprised my old friends T’eilean and Garlatha would be when I brought endless bounty to their meager garden! They would be grateful beyond words. Maybe even Rhia would finally be impressed. On the other side of the wall, in the shade of some leafy boughs, I could make out two white heads. T’eilean and Garlatha. Side by side over a bed of bright yellow flowers, their heads bobbed slowly up and down, keeping time to some music only they could hear.

I smiled, thinking of the wondrous gift I had for them. When I had last seen them, on my way to the Shrouded Castle, I was nothing more than a ragged boy with only the faintest hope of living out the day. They had expected never to see me again. Nor had I expected to return. My pace quickened, as did Rhia’s.

Before we were twenty paces from the crumbling wall, the two heads lifted as one, like hares in a morning meadow. T’eilean was the first to his feet. He offered a large, wrinkled hand to Garlatha, but she waved it away and rose without any help. They watched us approach, T’eilean stroking his unruly whiskers, Garlatha shading her eyes. I stepped over the wall, followed by Rhia. Despite the weight of the Harp on my shoulder, I stood as tall as I possibly could.

The wrinkles of Garlatha’s face creased into a gentle smile. “You have returned.”

“Yes,” I replied, turning so they could see the Harp. “And I have brought you something.”

T’eilean’s brow creased. “You mean you have brought someone.”

Rhia stepped forward. Her gray-blue eyes shone at the sight of the two aging gardeners standing before their simple hut. Without waiting to be introduced, she nodded in greeting.

“I am Rhia.”

“And I am T’eilean. This is my wife of sixty-seven years, Garlatha.”

The white-haired woman frowned and kicked at his shin, barely missing the mark. “Sixty-eight, you old fool.”

“Sorry, my duck. Sixty-eight.” He backed away a step before adding, “She is always right, you see.”

Garlatha snorted. “Be glad you have guests, or I’d come after you with my trowel.”

Her husband glanced at the trowel half buried in the flower bed, waving his arm in the air with the playfulness of a bear cub. “Right again. Without occasional guests to protect me, I doubt I would have survived this long.”

Rhia suppressed a laugh.

Garlatha, her face softening, reached for T’eilean’s hand. They stood together for a quiet moment, as gray as the stones of their hut. Leaves quivered gently all around them, as if in tribute to the devoted hands that had nurtured this garden for so many years.

“You remind me of two trees,” observed Rhia. “Trees that have shared the same soil for so long they have grown together. Roots and all.”

Garlatha, her eyes sparkling, glanced at her mate.

I decided to try again. “Speaking of things growing, I have brought you—”

“Yes!” exclaimed the old man, cutting me off. “You have brought your friend, Rhia.” He turned toward her. “We welcome you, no less than we welcome the sunshine.”

Garlatha tugged on the sleeve of my tunic. “What of your friend who came with you before, the one with the nose as big as a potato?”

“Shim is fine,” I answered brusquely. “And now—”

“Though his nose,” interrupted Rhia, “is even bigger than before.”

Garlatha raised an eyebrow. “He did look full of surprises, that one.”

With a dramatic tone, I cleared my throat. “And now I have a magnificent surprise for both of you.”

Yet before I had even finished my sentence, the old woman was again speaking to Rhia. “Are you from Druma Wood? Your garb is woven in the way of the wood elves.”

“The Druma is my home, and has been all my life.”

Garlatha leaned closer. “Is it true what I have heard? That the rarest of all the trees, whose every branch yields a different kind of fruit, can still be found there?”

Rhia beamed. “What you have heard is true. The shomorra tree is indeed there. You might even say it’s my garden.”

“Such a garden you have, then, my child. Such a garden you have!”

My frustration growing, I pounded my staff on the soil. “I have a gift to bestow upon this very garden.”

Neither of the elders seemed to hear me, as they continued to ask Rhia questions about Druma Wood. They seemed more interested in her than in me. Me, who had brought them something so precious!

Finally, T’eilean’s muscular arm reached for a spiral-shaped fruit dangling from a branch overhead. With a graceful sweep of his hand, he plucked it. The pale purple color of the fruit glowed in his palm. “A larkon,” he intoned. “The loveliest gift of the land to our humble home.” He observed me quietly. “I remember that you enjoy the flavor.”

At last,
I thought. Even as I extended my hand to grasp the fruit, however, T’eilean swiveled and handed it to Rhia. “So I am sure that your friend will enjoy it just as much.”

As I watched her take the fruit, my cheeks burned. Before I could say anything, though, he plucked another spiral fruit and offered it to me. “We are honored that you have returned.”

“Honored?” I asked, my voice tinged with disbelief. I felt tempted to say more, but restrained myself.

T’eilean traded glances with Garlatha, then brought his gaze back to me. “My boy, to welcome you as a guest in our home is the greatest honor we can bestow. It is what we did for you last time, and it is what we do for you now.”

“But now, T’eilean, I carry the Flowering Harp.”

“Yes, yes, I have seen as much.” The corners of his mouth drooped, and for the first time he seemed to show the weight of his many years. “My dear boy, the Flowering Harp is the most wondrous of all the Treasures, blessed with the magic of the seed itself. Yet in our home, we do not welcome guests for what they carry on their backs. We welcome them for what they carry elsewhere.”

Riddles! From someone I had thought a friend. Scowling, I pushed some straggly hairs off my face.

T’eilean drew a long breath before continuing. “As your hosts, we owe you our hospitality. As well as our candor. If the weight of the Harp lies upon your back, then so does the far greater weight of healing our lands before it is too late. Much depends on you, my boy. Surely, you have precious little time for visits with simple folk like us.”

My jaw clenched.

“Forgive me, but I am only trying to be truthful.”

“Wait, Merlin,” protested Rhia.

I did not hear the rest of her words, for I had already stepped over the stone wall. Alone, I strode off across the plains, the strings of the Harp jangling against my back.

3:
W
ARM
W
IND

With nothing but the stars for my blanket, I spent that night curled up in the hollow of a stream bank. Rushes, moist with dew, lay under my head. With one hand, I could touch the splashing water that cascaded over the steps of stones carpeted with green moss. With the other, I could feel the Flowering Harp and my staff resting among the reeds.

I should have felt glad to be alone. Free of what the world called friends. Yet stroking the magical strings at this spot, bringing this stream to life, had given me no joy. Nor had watching the rushes and mosses spring from the dry soil. Nor had even spotting Pegasus in the midnight sky, though it had long been my favorite constellation, ever since the night my mother had first shown it to me.

This night, sleeping fitfully, I did not ride upon Pegasus’ winged back as I had so many times before in my dreams. Instead, I found myself in a different dream. I sat upon a scarlet stone, watching my mother approach. Somehow, my eyes had healed. I could see again. Really see! Sunlight glinted on her golden hair, and a different kind of light played in her vibrant blue eyes. I could even see the tiny sprig of hemlock that she held in her hand.

Then, to my shock, I discovered that my front teeth were growing longer. Much longer. Bigger and bigger they grew, curling around like the tusks of a wild boar. Those daggerlike points were aiming straight for my eyes! As my teeth continued to lengthen, I flew into a panic. I screamed. My mother came running, but too late to help. I clawed at my face, trying to pull my teeth out bare-handed. I couldn’t remove them. I couldn’t stop them.

Slowly, inexorably, the teeth curled around until the tips reached my eyes. My own eyes! In just a few seconds they would be punctured. With a shriek of pain, I felt them rupture. I was blind again, utterly blind.

I awoke.

There was the stream, splashing beside me. There was Pegasus, sailing overhead. I lifted my head from the rushes. It was only a dream. Why then was my heart still pounding? Gingerly, I touched my cheeks, scarred from the fire that had blinded me in real life. They ached terribly from the new scratches I had just given them. Yet my heart ached even more. All this from a fire of my own making! To have lost my eyes was bad enough. To have done it to myself was still worse. For the first time in months, I wondered whether Dinatius, the other boy trapped in the fire that I had started, had survived. I could still hear his screams of agony, his whimpers of fear.

I put my face into the rushes and wept. As the stream flowed, so did my tears. In time, my jobbing subsided. Yet it seemed that the sound of sobbing continued, somewhere beyond the splashing of the stream. I lifted my head, listening closely.

More sobbing, punctuated by long, heaving moans. Patting my wet and sore cheeks with the sleeve of my tunic, I crept closer to the water’s edge. Despite the darkness, my second sight traced the stream’s path for some distance. Yet I couldn’t find the source of the dismal sound. Maybe it was just my own echoing memory.

Leaning over the coursing water, I groped among the rushes with my hands. My knee kept sliding off the edge of the muddy bank, almost landing in the water. I continued to search, though I found nothing. Nothing at all. Yet the sobbing and moaning seemed to come from somewhere very near, almost in the stream itself.

In the stream itself.
That was it! But how could that be?

I started to plunge my left hand into the water, then caught myself. The old pain throbbed between my shoulder blades. Could this be some sort of trick? One of Fincayra’s hidden perils, like the shifting wraiths who take the form of something pleasant just long enough to lure you to your death? Rhia would know. But Rhia, I reminded myself bitterly, was no longer with me.

The moaning welled up again. Starlight sparkled on the dark surface of the stream, making it look like a river of crystals. Biting my lip, I thrust in my hand. A frigid wave washed over my wrist and forearm. My skin reeled from the shock of cold. Then my fingers touched something. Smooth. Round. Softer than stone. Fumbling to get a grip on the slippery object, I seized it and pulled it free from the water. It was a flask, not much bigger than my fist, made from a heavy bladder. Its leather cap had been sealed tight with a thick coating of wax. Bloated with air, the dripping flask glinted darkly.

I squeezed it. A loud wailing struck my ears. Then came sobs, heavy with heartache. Using the base of my wooden staff, I cut away the ring of wax. It came off only gradually, as if reluctant to loosen its grip. Finally it fell away. I tore open the cap. A rush of air blew across my cheeks. It felt warm and soothing, and smelled vaguely of cinnamon. As the flask collapsed, the gust of air flowed over my face and hair like a living breath.

“Thank you, person, thank you,” came a wispy little voice from behind my head.

I dropped the flask and whirled around. But I saw nothing between me and the distant stars.

“Or should I say,” whispered the voice again, “thank you, Emrys Merlin?’

I caught my breath. “How do you know my names?”

“Oh yes,” the voice went on breezily, “I like the Merlin part much better than dusty old Emrys.”

Reaching up, I groped at the night air. “How do you know so much? Who are you? And where are you?”

A soft, breathy laughter rose out of the air before me. “I am Aylah, a wishlahaylagon.” The laughter came again. “But most people simply call me a wind sister.”

“Aylah,” I repeated. “Wind sister.” Again I reached skyward, and this time my fingertips passed through a warm current of air. “Now tell me how you know so much.”

The smell of cinnamon grew stronger. Warm air swept slowly around me, fluttering my tunic. I felt embraced by a whirling circle of wind.

“I know as much as the air itself, Emrys Merlin. For I travel fast and far, never sleeping, never stopping.”

Aylah’s invisible cloak continued to spin slowly around me. “That is what a wind sister does, Emrys Merlin.” A slight sob made her pause. “Unless she is captured, as I was.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“Someone evil, Emrys Merlin.” The warm air spun away, leaving me with a sudden chill.

“Tell me.”

“Someone evil, ahhh yes,” breathed Aylah from near the bank where I had slept. “Her names are many, but most know her as Domnu.”

I shivered, though not from the night air. “I know Domnu. I know her treachery. Yet I wouldn’t exactly call her evil.”

“She is surely not good, Emrys Merlin.”

“She is neither good nor evil. She simply
is.
A little like fate.”

“Dark Fate, you mean.” Aylah’s breeze blew across the strings of the Harp, tingling them lightly. “She is one of the few who are old and powerful enough to catch the wind. I don’t know why, Emrys Merlin, I only know that she locked me away in that flask and cast me aside.”

“I’m sorry for you.”

A warm breath of air caressed my cheek. “If you hadn’t helped me this night, Emrys Merlin, I believe I would have died.”

My voice too a whisper, I asked, “Can the wind really die?”

“Oh yes, Emrys Merlin, it can.” Once again she brushed my cheek. “The wind, like a person, can die from loneliness.”

“You are not alone now.”

“Nor are you, Emrys Merlin. Nor are you.”

4:
T
REASURES

The thrill of playing the Harp, which I had not felt since leaving the Dark Hills, filled me once again. Indeed, as I walked across the rolling plateaus of the Rusted Plains, the land seemed to erupt with new life even before I paused to pluck the oaken instrument. The driest grasses bent before me, as the most lifeless leaves arose from the ground, twirled, and danced in spirals at my feet. For Aylah moved beside me. Her gentle breeze often brushed against my arms, and her wispy laughter lifted every time I played the magical strings.