“You’re wrong about him,” I fumed. “And wrong about what’s best for your people! Can’t you understand? I’m trying to warn you about the gravest danger we’ve ever known.”
Urnalda merely glared at me. “You be better off, Merlin, worrying about other dangers. Yes, like your sword-armed friend.” Her eyes gleamed strangely. “He be closer, much closer, than you know.”
Before I could ask what she meant, she clapped her stout palms together. The stones beneath my feet started to quiver, then shake violently. Dust rose out of the cracks. I jumped aside, just as the floor split open in a narrow chasm. To my astonishment, my staff and sword rose out of the depths, passing through the opening, floating upward to meet me. I reached for them instantly, not willing to give the enchantress any chance to change her mind.
As I sheathed my sword, I growled at her. “You may be stubborn, but at least you honor your word.”
“Better than most of your race,” she retorted. “Honor! That will be the subject of my first address to all my people one day, when my great amphitheater be built.” She furrowed her brow. “Whenever that may be.”
Her stubby fingers drummed the wood of her staff. “You be a fool, Merlin, but you, too, be honorable. You answered my question, as I be hoping. Even if you be insulting me, as well! That be my reason for healing your wounds, though you be nearly dead from bleeding. And so weak it took Urnalda many days to coax back your strength.”
I blanched. “Many days?” Bending nearer, I demanded, “How much time is left before the longest night?”
“Seven days, young wizard, come the next sunset. Then we be finding out the truth of your vision.”
17:
S
EEDS
Several hours later, the band of dwarves escorting me through the maze of underground tunnels came to an abrupt halt. Their low, rhythmic chant, which they had kept up from the moment Urnalda sent us off, also stopped. My passionate cursings, though, continued: Why did I have to waste so much time marching? Why couldn’t she have set me free through the closest doorway, as I’d pleaded?
Even now, we faced not a door but a dark slab of stone. The wavering torchlight revealed a complex pattern of runes swirling across its surface—runes that held, I knew, the symbols of enchantment. Without a word, two of the stout, bearded fellows shoved me roughly toward the slab. My staff caught on a rim of rock across the floor, and I stumbled forward. Throwing my arm across my face, I braced myself to smash into the stone.
But I didn’t fall into it. Instead, I fell
through
it, landing on my face on hard-packed ground.
Rolling over, I spit out some stems and frosted bits of leaves. The first sunlight I’d felt in days warmed the back of my neck, though the air still felt wintry. With a mixture of anger and admiration, I gazed at the apparently solid boulder out of which I’d just tumbled. Urnalda’s skills were, indeed, extraordinary. Virtually no one would perceive the doorway buried in that boulder, let alone find some way to open it.
No one but Rhita Gawr. He would, no doubt, make quick work of all her secret entrances and clever defenses. And he’d be just as merciless with her as she planned to be with Shim.
What had she meant, exactly, when she vowed that she’d be ready for the giant if he ever returned? Some sort of trap awaited him—that much was certain. But what kind? An enormous pit? A slew of specially treated spears? I shook my head. If only Urnalda had paid more attention to my warning than to her rage against men and giants, then everyone, including her own people, would be better off.
Casting a glance around, I spotted some low, flat hills, sprinkled with a few twisted trees, on the horizon. Snow streaked the hills, alternating with patches of dark brown, making them look like a row of striped cakes. At once, I knew my location.
Urnalda had released me near the far reaches of the eastern plains—the extreme edge of her realm. That explained the long march! Whether she had done that so I could be nearer to the circle of stones, and the battle to come, I didn’t know. But I suspected she just wanted to get me as far away as possible before setting me free.
The position of the sun confirmed my fears about the time. Late afternoon had already arrived; I’d lost the better part of a day just getting here. The snow-striped hills gleamed in the golden light. Yet I saw no beauty in that scene.
Barely one week remained, and I’d accomplished nothing. Nothing at all! I hadn’t defeated Slayer, nor found any way to stop his attacks. And he could have killed more children during the time I’d been with the dwarves! I could only hope that Rhia was faring better in her task of gathering support for Fincayra’s cause. Where, I wondered, was she now?
As I scanned the distant hills, my thoughts turned to someone else: Hallia. I yearned to see her again, to bound by her side again. Only a few months ago, we’d roamed together on this very terrain, following the ancient trails of her people. As usual, we’d kept entirely to ourselves, but for a brief visit to my friends, the aging gardeners T’eilean and Garlatha.
That was an idea. I’d go there now, to their cottage in the hills. They could give me no help in my quest, that I knew. But they could provide something else, something they had given me many times before—a brief respite from my troubles. A moment of quiet, in the company of friends. And a chance to think about what to do next.
I started trudging toward the hills, blowing frosty breaths, my shadow moving despondently at my side. It knew, as did I, that my problems, and Fincayra’s, worsened by the hour. With each step, my staff’s tip stabbed the hardened ground, impaling dead leaves and crusted dirt.
In time, the land started rising to meet the snowy hills. A falcon soared overhead, screeching in its high, whistling voice, but otherwise the world seemed empty of life. Hollows where, in spring, water splashed down over mossy stones and dew-soaked rushes, lay dry and hard. A young hawthorn that would, in a different season, explode with pink and white blossoms, stood as bare as my own staff.
Just ahead I spied a spur of one of the hills, split by a deep cleft. My pace quickened, for I knew it well. Now, within the cleft, I could see the gray stone hut that seemed to sprout out of the very soil of the hillside, the home of my friends T’eilean and Garlatha.
I approached the hut, dark in the shadow of the embracing hill. Then I glimpsed, beside it, a trace of green. The closer I came, the brighter the green appeared. Surprised, I concentrated my vision to make certain—but no, the color was there. Lavishly there.
Rows of trees, every bit as leafy as Rhia’s gown, stood on both sides of the hut. Their branches hung low, laden with ripening fruits. As I drew nearer, I could make out luscious golden pears, and some purple plums as big as my fist, as well as cherries, apples, and my favorite, the spiral-shaped fruit of the larkon tree. Beneath the fragrant boughs ran hedges of berries, overflowing with blackberries, strawberries, and brambleberries. Even the rare llyrberry, capable of healing torn muscles—and, it was said, broken dreams—grew in abundance. Trailing vines, including two or three heavy with grapes, clung to the walls of the house; a cluster of light blue flowers draped over the doorway.
I chewed my lip, bewildered. It was one thing to see this garden still blooming in autumn, as I had with Hallia. But now, in the midst of winter? Even the great gardening prowess of my friends couldn’t turn back the cycle of the seasons.
All of a sudden, I understood. Just as Rhia had been entrusted with one of the Treasures of Fincayra, so had this couple. They cared for the legendary Flowering Harp, whose magical strings could coax any land to life, any plant to flower.
How fitting, I thought, that so much life remained within their garden wall! For T’eilean and Garlatha themselves, despite their great age, seemed never to lose their vitality. This showed in their passion for gardening, as well as their passion for arguing ferociously, the kind of arguing only possible for people who have lived together many years. I recalled, with fondness, how Garlatha often teased her husband that she could see right through him, but still enjoy the view.
Stepping through the wall’s wooden gate, I felt a rush of warm air, as if I had stepped right into springtime. I undid the buttons of my vest, smelling the sweet fragrances. Dragonflies, honeybees, and green-backed beetles hovered around the blossoms, their wings humming.
Up to the door I strode. Just as I started to knock on it, though, I heard a groaning sound from somewhere behind the hut. Swiftly, I dashed around to the other side. When I rounded the corner, I halted, my shadow stretching behind me as if it were pulling away, trying to evade what confronted us.
There lay T’eilean, his white hair falling loose about his shoulders, leaning against the trunk of an old cherry tree. His right hand clutched his chest, pinching the folds of his heavy brown tunic. But for the dark pupils of his eyes, and the webbing of wrinkles that surrounded them, his face was completely pale. Kneeling by his side, Garlatha stroked his brow, her own face much the same.
In unison, their heads swiveled toward me. Garlatha, her eyes brightening, exclaimed, “Oh, it’s you, Merlin! If ever we needed your healing powers, it’s now.”
Weakly, the old man shook his head. “Not even a wizard . . . can help me now, my duck.”
I stepped forward, kneeling next to Garlatha. “Tell me what happened.”
With her starkly veined hand, she pointed at the russet sack made of homespun cloth that lay open among the cherry tree’s roots. “T’eilean was out here, gathering seeds from the fallen fruit, as we always do, to plant them come spring—when he suddenly collapsed.” She ran her hand through her husband’s white mane. “It was all I could do to get him over here where he could sit up.”
“My chest,” said T’eilean with a groan. “Hurting . . . badly. Squeezing me. Can hardly—
oooh,
good Dagda! Hardly breathe.”
I lay my hand below his, flat against the ribs. Focusing my mind, I tried to sense each of his organs in turn. Liver, then stomach; left lung, then right; intestines, and heart. A twisting bolt of pain shot through my hand and up my arm, making me jerk backward. Wincing, I gazed at him.
“It’s your heart,” I said, my voice shaking. “T’eilean, it feels, well, very deep. I don’t know if it’s something I can heal.”
He swallowed, working his tongue. “It’s not. I can . . . feel it.”
“Don’t be so sure now,” reproached Garlatha. “When you’re most sure, you’re most wrong.”
Her mate smiled weakly. “Have you only just learned that . . . my duck? After sixty-nine years of marriage?”
“Seventy,” his spouse corrected.
“Whatever it’s been,” I declared, “I’m not giving up on you yet. Let me try to find a way.” Replacing my hand on his ribs, I started to probe more deeply.
“You never did give up . . . easily,” T’eilean said crustily. “I remember when . . . you first came through here, on the way to . . . take on Stangmar and all his soldiers at once. Why, you hardly . . . stayed long enough to taste . . . a larkon fruit.”
Sensing the layers of torn tissues within his heart, I felt a wave of nausea. Still, I did my best to keep my composure, to sound relaxed and confident. “I remember that fruit. Like a bite of sunshine, it was, purple sunshine. Best fruit I’ve ever tasted.”
“Or ever will,” said Garlatha flatly. “That fruit holds so much more inside its skin than you’d ever guess.”
“Like those seeds over there,” I observed, still trying to work my way down through the tissues. “The same is true for them.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Or like children. I’m always amazed by all they hold inside.”
Even as I probed deeper in the old man’s heart, her words made me shudder.
T’eilean groaned, loud and long. At the same time, another wave of nausea washed through me, this time so powerfully that I needed to lean back against the knotted trunk of the tree to steady myself. Trembling, I lifted my hand from his chest.
“It’s just too deep.” Glancing down at my shadow, I saw it nodding its head somberly. “Something is broken, or ripped, in there. But I just don’t know how to heal it.”
The old man’s eyes flicked toward the hut. “Same as . . . the harp,” he muttered.
“The Flowering Harp?” I turned to Garlatha, who was clutching her husband’s hand. “Is it broken?”
“It is,” she whispered, never taking her eyes off her mate. “This morning, without any warning, it fell off its peg, where it’s rested safely for so long. Such a clatter and clang it made! When we went to fetch it, all the strings but one had snapped. And when T’eilean reached down to lift the instrument, that last string broke. It curled itself up to the soundbox, making a cry like a tortured, wailing babe.”
A tear slid slowly over the folds of Garlatha’s wrinkled cheek. At first I thought she was thinking of the harp, and perhaps of her garden, that would no longer feel its magic. Then, seeing her quivering hand stroking T’eilean’s, I knew better.
“It’s not so much,” he said to her, “that I don’t . . . want to die.” His face contorted as another spasm of pain coursed through him. “I just don’t . . . want to leave you . . . alone.” The dark eyes shone as he added, “Who will be left . . . to quarrel with you?”
She nodded solemnly. “Our life together is like a precious bulb, holding whatever we need to last the seasons.”
“No, no, not really,” he countered. “More like a windblown seed . . . that can land . . . anywhere, and survive.”
I thought of Hallia, now so far away, who wore around her wrist the string of another broken instrument. “It seems to me,” I offered, “that your life together is more like something else.”
Surprised, Garlatha glanced over at me. “What’s that?”
“A pair of trees, grown so closely together that their branches have intertwined. They are still independent trees, you see, standing on their own roots. But now they are more than that, as well—a new being altogether. For they support each other, shelter each other, and hold each other every day.”
For a long interval, both of the elders stared at me. Finally, Garlatha broke the silence. With a breaking voice, she asked, “But how does one tree go on living without the other?”