Giving a grunt of satisfaction, the old man pulled out his blade, still dripping with the newborn dragon's silvery blood. He squinted, scanning the shore: There were, in all, nine of these enormous eggs here by the river—the only offspring of Fincayra's last dragon.
"An' now there be only eight," he said with a quiet cackle. "Evil creatures ye be, as evil as yer festerin' father." He spat on a broken bit of shell by his feet. "That's what I say to yer mis'rable face, Wings o' Fire!"
For a moment he glowered at the severed egg, where one lifeless claw protruded from an opening. He knew that this egg, like the others, had rested here by the river, undisturbed for centuries. Many centuries. For though he understood very little about magical creatures, he did know this much: The more magical the being, the longer it took to be born. And nowhere on this island of Fincayra was there any creature more magical than a dragon.
Yet this glimmer of knowledge—that he'd just killed something that had taken so long in its quiet incubation, its preparation for life—didn't trouble him in the least. Quite the opposite.
"No hope for ye now, ye wicked little beast," he growled. "When yer scaly body dies, yer wicked magic also dies! An' soon, this island will be rid o' yer kind forever."
Lifting the blade again, he strode over to the next egg. Even as he neared, a hole opened in the shell. Through it pushed a twisted, gangly arm, covered with iridescent purple scales. Then came a bony shoulder, dripping with lavender-colored ooze, and a crumpled fold of skin that vaguely resembled a wing. Finally, a head poked out, supported by a thin neck flecked with scarlet scales.
The newborn dragon blinked her two triangular eyes, adjusting to the misty brightness. Orange light poured from them, as if they glowed hotter than fire coals. Then, raising one of her claws, she tried to scratch the bright yellow bump on her forehead. But she missed and poked her tender nose instead. Whimpering, she shook her head, making her long blue ears flap against her face. Strangely, when she stopped, her right ear didn't droop down again. Instead, it stuck out sideways—more like a horn than an ear.
Suddenly, sensing danger, she froze. Right beside her stood another creature, whose own eyes flashed menacingly. Above the creature's head, something sharp glinted.
The blade slashed down. Another agonized whimper, almost a screech, echoed along the bank. The river continued to flow, its surface now tinted with thin streams of silver.
Not far away, down by the water's edge, the small green pebble quivered slightly—almost as if it had somehow sensed the baby dragons' agony. From deep beneath its hard surface came a thin, plaintive cry.
For it, too, was a kind of egg.
1:
A
L
IVING
B
RIDGE
Memory can be hot as molten lava, or cold as a frozen glacier. But it's rarely reliable. Even when it comes back to you, clear and true, it can vanish on the next gust of wind.
Sometimes, it's not really even a memory. Just a hint, or a glimpse, or a mirage. Yet strange as it sounds, that sort of memory can be the truest of all.
O
NE YEAR BEFORE THE BIRTH OF
A
VALON
Spring rains drenched Fincayra's western hills. Torrents poured down for weeks without end. The skies rained relentlessly, soaking every field and forest, every cliff and valley, until the very island seemed ready to drown.
Water tumbled down gulleys, streams, and rivulets. Once-green valleys started to resemble muddy lakes. Birds fluttered helplessly in the downpour, searching for safe places to build their soggy nests. What became of smaller, more delicate creatures—the fragile mist faeries, the lavender-winged butterflies, and the mysteriously glowing light flyers—no one could guess.
So powerful was the ongoing storm that the giants' ancient city of Varigal, nestled high in the hills, flooded completely. As the ground shook from the pounding footsteps of displaced giants, herds of wild unicorns galloped away from the rising waters that now filled their cherished glades. Spirited men and women who lived in the Town of the Bards, so recently restored after the brutal reign of King Stangmar, tried to organize a water-themed opera—but even the most passionate performers finally gave up when the whole stage (together with a good part of the town) washed away. Even the immense white spider known as the Grand Elusa was forced to abandon her underground cave that glowed with magical crystals.
The River Unceasing swelled, rising higher than anyone could remember. Waves roared down the river channel, ripping out trees by their roots, rolling along boulders, carrying the remains of bridges and fisherpeople's huts—along with a few young giants who whooped with delight at their exciting ride. The muddy waters raced seaward, toward the Shore of the Speaking Shells: the spot where, not long before, someone called Merlin had washed ashore.
The little green egg, swept up in the flood, rolled far downriver, By the time the floodwaters finally diminished, it had traveled many leagues from the place where the baby dragons had been slaughtered. At last, it came to a stop in the tangled grasses under a rowan tree whose graceful branches still sagged from all the rains.
Just as the egg ceased rolling, a gray-streaked river otter spied it. Sensing that it was, indeed, an egg, the old otter scampered over, Anticipating a small but tasty meal, his long whiskers quivered with excitement. In these days of theft, murder, and gathering armies—when an invasion by the wicked warlord from the spirit realm, Rhita Gawr, had grown increasingly likely—any morsels of food were highly prized.
Just as he grabbed the egg in his furry paws, a falcon shrieked and plunged from the sky. The otter spun around, losing his balance and dropping the egg. He rolled down the slippery bank, landing in the water. Two seconds later he lifted his face above the surface, just in time to see the falcon rising swiftly skyward, talons clutching the precious egg.
Westward flew the falcon, over the enchanted trees of Druma Wood. She sailed just above the branches of the forest's tallest tree, the ancient oak Arbassa, where the young woman Rhia—famous for her ability to talk with trees, rivers, and even living stones—had long made her home. Without warning, one of those gnarled branches lashed out, clawing at the falcon's wing. She screeched angrily, nearly dropping the egg. But she held on, beating her wings furiously to gain altitude. As she flew off, the oaken branch swiped at the air, crackling in frustration.
Veering south to avoid the forest, the falcon rounded the coast of Fincayra, then flew over the lost homeland of the treelings, strange people who lived now only in legends. Ahead, across the water, she spied the long, rugged peninsula whose cliffs held her nest. She clucked with glee: Nearly home now, she'd soon be feeding this egg to her brood of hungry chicks. Five of them, to be exact—always crowded in her nest upon the ledge, always squawking at each other, and always hungry.
All that remained of her journey was the simple crossing of the channel that divided her peninsula from the main island. She'd done it hundreds of times before with ease. Nothing could interrupt her flight now. Even when ocean currents roiled the waters of the channel, no waves could reach as high as that cursed branch!
Glancing down at the channel, she noticed something odd. An extraordinary boat, looking for all the world like a huge upside-down hat, bobbed on the water. How had it come to float there? If some giant had tossed his enormous hat into the sea, he was nowhere in sight now.
The bird noticed that the great vessel was drifting toward an immense wall of waves that bordered the only island in the channel—a place so remote and hostile that it was called the Forgotten Island. Here, as every seabird knew, no people had walked for centuries. For the island's sheer cliffs held untold dangers and many mysteries—including the truth of why Fincayran men and women had lost their wings long ago.
Battered by the churning wall of waves, the floating hat started breaking apart. Its sides, made from woven boughs, started to collapse; its hull groaned and split apart. The vessel began to sink, dropping lower and lower in the water.
Suddenly the falcon heard a terrible shrieking sound. Fearing attack from another bird of prey, she banked sharply to the side, diving lower to evade her pursuer. At once she realized her mistake. That sound was coming not from above, but from below. And it wasn't the sound of any bird. No, it came from children. Human children!
Above the din of bursting boughs and splintering wood, many children wailed in fear. They climbed out of the rupturing bowl of the hat and onto the rim, trying desperately to cling to wood, rope, each other—anything that might float. Many of them toppled into the sea, shouting in terror as they fought to keep their heads above water.
As a mother herself, the falcon shuddered at this ghastly scene. Yet she couldn't do anything to help. All she could do was continue her flight across the channel, bearing some food for her own children. She beat her wings faster, squeezing the green egg in her talons.
Just then another strange sight caught her eye—this one so astonishing that she almost dropped the egg. With all her concentration, she peered at the water below to make sure this wasn't an illusion. But no. This was real.
Mer folk! From far beneath the waves, their sleek, glistening forms broke the surface. The falcon circled overhead, amazed to see them—creatures so rare and secretive that even the sharpest-eyed hawk might only see, in a lifetime, one fleeting glimpse of an iridescent tail fin or shoulder. And the mer folk's numbers continued to swell. Several of them appeared, then dozens more, rising out of the deepest sea. Here, a scarlet-scaled torso twirled, flashing bright. There, a graceful fishtail slapped the waves, creating a luminous veil of spray. And there, a pair of muscular bodies leaped high, breaching, before falling back into the sea with a double splash.
The mer folk swam toward a single spot, where a new, enormous wave was steadily lifting out of the sea. Higher it rose, water streaming off its colorful crest. Watching from above, the falcon clacked her beak in surprise when she realized that this wasn't a wave at all—but a bridge. A luminous, living bridge.
The mer folk had entwined themselves together! Interlocking tails and fins and arms, they were forming a great, radiant archway. Swiftly it rose higher, gleaming with watery hues. Part solid, part liquid, it vaulted out of the depths.
Before long, the living bridge reached from the sinking vessel, over the crashing wall of waves, all the way to the shore of the Forgotten Island. Like a rainbow of the ocean, glowing with the colors of sea rather than sky, the archway gleamed. Small seabirds started to gather—terns and skimmers, kittiwakes and murres—piping and cooing and whistling as they soared around the magnificent bridge.
As the falcon watched in awe, her thoughts returned to the children struggling in the water. Would they find the bridge in time? Would it lead them into some greater danger on that forbidden island? Curious, she veered toward the island's coast, just for a brief look.
As she sailed across the jagged line of sheer cliffs at the island's edge, a fierce gust of wind suddenly struck. Slamming into her body with the force of a gigantic, invisible wing, the gust hurled her backward. Screeching with fright, she dropped the egg, which fell toward the rocky cliffs below.
Before she could regain her bearings, another gust struck so hard that it flipped her completely upside down, tearing two feathers out of her tail. Crying out in panic, she spun helplessly through the air. Finally she managed to flap her wings so vigorously that she righted herself. When, at last, she could fly again, she fled from the evil island at top speed.
As she flew toward her nest on the peninsula, her talons empty, she never even considered going back to that accursed place. She had no desire whatsoever to search for her lost egg, to see if it had been smashed on the cliffs. Just as she had no desire whatsoever to find out why those terrible gusts of wind had carried the vaguest scent of cinnamon.
2:
M
IRACLES
An egg. A seed. A newborn child. They all hold secrets. And they all hold magic.
At the moment an egg cracks, its magic, at last, is released into the world. Or is it the other way around? Is the world, at last, allowed inside the egg?
T
HE YEAR OF
A
VALON’S BIRTH
Downward the green egg fell, plummeting toward the rocky cliffs. Its green surface gleamed darkly, a last hint of its potential for life—before being utterly smashed.
Below, the Forgotten Island lifted out of the sea like a ghastly, broken crown. Sheer cliffs ringed the island's coast, broken by only a few meager wedges of sand. Into the shallow waters by one of those beaches, the miraculous bridge of mer people reached. Already, several children had clambered across and flopped down in exhaustion on the sand; a few others scampered playfully in the shallows, no longer thinking about their near escape from drowning. One young man, wearing a tattered brown tunic, carried two smaller children in his arms. As young as he was, he moved with the sureness of a wizard . . . and the grimness of someone who needed more than one miracle to save his world.
Above the cliffs lay the wreckage of an enormous burial mound. Broken timbers, blocks of granite, iron cauldrons, and huge sarsen stones lay scattered over the grassless slope. Strewn among them were treasures of all sorts—jeweled swords, broken-stringed harps, sounding horns, silver chalices, decorated masks, heavy shields, upturned wagons, and more. Bones, too, lay everywhere. Cracked skulls, ribs, leg bones, and a few intact skeletons were all that remained of whatever people had once lived here. Who they had been, and what had happened to them, no one knew—just as no one knew the truth about this mound. Originally, it must have been gigantic: the burial place not of a person or a family, but an entire city. But now, thoroughly destroyed, it looked like nothing more than a huge, violated grave.