Authors: T. A. Barron
Deep wrinkles formed on the wizard’s brow, covering his forehead and disappearing under the wild white hair that protruded from under the rim of his hat. “And instead of the hope and confidence I’d like to feel right now, all I feel is . . . doubt. Deep, painful doubt.”
“Wait!” thundered Basilgarrad. He lifted his enormous head off the sand. “That could be the answer.”
“To what?” asked Merlin and Marnya simultaneously.
“To your question about the source of its power.” The dragon’s eyes glowed so bright they seemed ablaze. “It began as a leech, remember? A disgusting little beast who lived by sucking other creatures’ blood. Then it grew much bigger, stronger—and also darker—by sucking something else. Some other kind of nourishment.”
Puzzled, Merlin tilted his head. “I don’t follow you.”
The dragon brought his face closer, so that his immense lower lip almost touched Merlin. “What if, instead of blood, it found some way to drink pain and sorrow? What if its strength comes from suffering? From any sort of negative energy?”
Merlin’s back straightened. In the green glow of the dragon’s eyes, he nodded. “So all these years of brutal fighting in Avalon—the entire War of Storms—was more than just a distraction. More than just a way to keep you so busy you wouldn’t find its hiding place.”
“Yes! All that horror—the greed, arrogance, hatred, and killing—was also its food. Its source of power.” Basilgarrad’s voice lowered to its deepest level. “That beast has grown stronger in direct proportion to Avalon’s misery.”
Marnya shuddered. “How horrible! So even my father’s death gave it more power.”
As Basilgarrad touched her flipper with his wing tip, a gust of wind blew over them, pelting their bodies with sand. One lone grain struck the green dragon’s lip, bounced between his rows of terrible teeth, and struck the tip of his tongue. He started, swiveling his ears. For the unexpected touch of that tiny object reminded him of Dagda’s command, long ago, that he must swallow a single grain of sand from every realm. While he had finally succeeded, taking a small taste of all Avalon’s realms, he never understood why. No matter how many years had passed, nor how many leagues he had flown, Dagda’s purpose remained as mysterious as ever.
He looked up into the starry sky, wondering where Dagda might be now. And why, through Avalon’s long years of agony, the great spirit had never come in person to stop all the madness, all the misery. Sure, he’d sent down the vision of a great stag who commanded the dragon to swallow those grains of sand. Yet that stag was only a small fragment of the real god Dagda, powerful leader of the spirit realm. Why hadn’t he just
intervened
, in the same way Rhita Gawr had long tried to do? Although, of course, their goals couldn’t be more different: Rhita Gawr wanted to invade and conquer this world, not save it from suffering.
You answered your own question, Basil.
Merlin reached up and touched the dragon’s lower lip with the top of his staff. “Dagda,” he said aloud, “values our free will, our power of choice—something that Rhita Gawr completely disregards. To Dagda, we are mortals with the right to choose our own destiny; to Rhita Gawr, we are merely obstacles in his path.”
“Still,” grumbled the dragon, “we certainly could use his help right now.”
“That we could,” agreed Merlin. Raising his bushy eyebrows, he studied the constellations overhead. His gaze roamed from Pegasus to the Twisted Tree to the spot where the seven stars of the Wizard’s Staff once blazed. Peering at that empty place, he frowned. And then gasped.
“Basil, look!” he cried, pointing his staff at the black gash in the sky.
Basilgarrad and Marnya both stared at the spot. So did little Ganta, perched on his uncle’s snout. Like the wizard, they gasped in horror.
For all of them could see, stretching down from the center of the vanished constellation, a thin, writhing line of utter darkness. Like a monstrous serpent, it reached downward, groping for its goal.
Avalon.
“Quick!” shouted Merlin. “We must go to the Haunted Marsh.”
“But it’s not yet dawn,” objected Marnya. “You said—”
“Forget what I said! If we don’t go now, there may never
be
another dawn.”
“Right,” agreed Basilgarrad. He slammed his huge tail on the sand, heedless of the explosion of grains all around. “It’s time to fly.”
18:
H
IDDEN
G
ATE
All it takes to see a new world is to look more closely at the old one.
The afternoon before Basilgarrad and his companions landed at the sand dune, someone else arrived at the same desert. Just five leagues to the east, a lone figure stepped out of a flaming portal at the desert’s edge. Green fire crackled all around him, grasping at his tunic, leggings, and boots. But he strode out of the flames without even a sideways glance, for he’d passed through many portals before.
Krystallus’s boots crunched on the sand. That gritty sound alone would have been enough to assure him that he had arrived at his intended destination. And the vista before him was even more convincing. Nearly all he could see, as his explorer’s eyes scanned the horizon, was desert—dunes of sand, vales of sand, and swirling storms of sand. But for the slight variations in color from golden brown to rusty red, it all looked the same.
He spotted only two exceptions. Pivoting slightly, he gazed at the first, a majestic spire of rust-colored rock that seemed to glow in the late afternoon light. Carved over the centuries by windblown sand, the spire rose upward like a solid column—until, more than fifty man-heights above the desert, it opened into an enormous circle. This great, roughhewn circle seemed to be a passageway to some distant world, or a different kind of portal that led to the clouds and sky beyond. Legends told of a band of elves from the forest of Africqua who had left their homes and families to try to climb through the opening—and never came back.
“No wonder,” Krystallus said aloud as he peered in wonder at the tower, “you are called the Hidden Gate.”
At that moment, a long-necked cormorant flew steadily toward the spire. As the bird drew nearer, it seemed to be aiming straight at the circle. With every beat of its black wings, it came closer, until Krystallus felt certain the bird was going to try to fly through the opening. He stood rigid, watching carefully, his boots so fixed to the sand that he resembled a spire himself.
As the bird approached, it stretched its neck out to full length. This bird, thought Krystallus, just can’t wait to pass through the hole! He grinned.
A fellow explorer.
He noticed, just then, how the afternoon light played across the rocky surface.
That’s strange
, he told himself. The shifting light made the stone appear to move. The circle’s edges actually seemed to flow inward, rippling like a rust-colored stream.
A split second before the cormorant reached the glowing circle, it screeched in surprise. But it didn’t turn away. With another wingbeat, it plunged into the circle and—
Disappeared. Krystallus caught his breath.
It’s gone. Totally gone!
He shook his head in disbelief, making his white mane dance across his shoulders. Never taking his eyes off the mysterious spire, he reached into his tunic pocket and pulled out his sketchbook. With practiced motions, he also retrieved his vial of octopus ink, removed the cork, and dipped his feather pen into the black liquid.
Looking away for the first time, he opened the sketchbook to a blank page. Scrawling the words
Hidden Gate, Malóch,
on the bottom of the page, he hastily drew the spire—complete with the black cormorant about to enter the circle. Using his lightest touch, he penned some rippling lines around the stone’s edges, lines meant to evoke light or magic . . . or both.
He held the book before his face, glancing back and forth at the tower to check for accuracy. Carefully, he added a few more lines and shadows for texture. Satisfied at last, he closed the sketchbook with a
snap
. Then he replaced it, along with the feather and ink vial, in his pocket.
“Someday,” he said to the spire, “I will come back here. And explore your mysteries.” He gave a firm nod. “That’s a promise.”
He peered at the strange opening for a few more seconds. “Right now, though, I have another place to go.”
Slowly, he turned to the north, to face the only other thing he could see that was not sand. It was impossible to miss. On the horizon, rising into the sky, billowed a group of thick, black clouds. Yet, unlike any storm clouds he’d ever seen, these seemed so dark they were not made of vapors—nor any physical substance. No, these clouds seemed to be made from the
absence
of anything else. Including light.
Krystallus chewed his lip thoughtfully.
The Haunted Marsh. Whatever is happening there, it can’t be good.
He swallowed, knowing that whatever it was, he would soon find out.
Squinting, he estimated the distances.
Four leagues, maybe five. I should be there before starset.
He reached into another breast pocket. This time he pulled out a glass globe bound with a leather strap, the remarkable compass Serella had given him. Tilting the globe in his hands, he watched its twin silver arrows, suspended by hair-thin wires, spin around in a magical dance. One of those arrows, he knew, always pointed starward—to the uttermost heights of the Great Tree. But today he kept his attention on the other arrow, which guided him in travels across the root-realms of Avalon.
“Fifty-seven degrees,” he observed, checking the bearing for the Haunted Marsh. Although his destination was easily visible, he knew from experience that he couldn’t be sure this visibility would last. His view of the Marsh could be obscured by a sandstorm or altered by some sort of mirage. If something like that happened, he could now set a bearing and find his way.
Giving silent thanks to Serella, he returned the compass to his tunic. He took a deep breath of desert air, then pulled a leather flask from his belt and took a few swallows of water. Finally, he started walking toward the looming mass of darkness.
“I’m not looking forward to this,” he muttered as he took his first steps across the expanse of sand. The Haunted Marsh, and whatever deadly secrets it held, was of course foremost on his mind. But there was something else about this journey that troubled him almost as much, something he wished he could avoid.
The desert. Of all the varied places he’d encountered in a life of exploration—oceans, forests, deep caves, islands, airscapes, high peaks, swamps, firelands, and more—he liked deserts the least. The few he’d seen were hot, dry, and devoid of life. While he’d never spent much time in deserts (today would be his longest trek through one), he felt no desire to change that fact.
He strode along, his boots grinding the sand with every step. Casually, he noted an undulating line of sand, no higher than his toe, that ran across his direction of travel. Like a miniature wall, it snaked across the desert. For no particular reason, he stopped walking and kicked a gap in the wall. Then, to see what might happen, he placed one foot into the gap. Within seconds, the gentle wind started to blow grains of sand across the toe of his boot, reconnecting the line that he had divided.
That little wall
, he realized,
is rebuilding
.
Intrigued, he bent down on one knee to watch. Slowly, grain by grain, the wind piled sand on top of his boot, until the severed line was fully reconnected. Then, as if its work was done, the wind ceased raising the wall and merely blew along its length, moving sand horizontally instead of vertically. As long as the wall stood unbroken, the wind seemed perfectly content to flow along beside it, like a river beside its bank.
For the first time, he looked more closely at the desert floor. All around him, he suddenly saw, were more miniature walls. And all of them ran parallel to the one he had broken. Most of them stretched farther than he could see. Worked constantly by the wind, these parallel lines covered the entire surface.
Like waves! These little walls are like ocean waves.
He cocked his head, surprised to find anything similar to the vast ocean in this equally vast desert. Maybe, he wondered, this is another kind of ocean—one made of sand.
Lifting his face to the horizon, he saw a long line of dunes that formed another, much taller kind of undulating wall. One dune in particular caught his attention, for it rose much higher than the rest. Could those dunes, he puzzled, also have been formed by the desert wind? Were they really giant waves?
He stood again. Brushing the sand off his knee, he noticed something else. A crusty bit of vegetation, as rusty red as the sand, had stuck to his legging. Some sort of leaf! He pulled it free and squeezed it between his thumb and finger, listening to its delicate crinkling sound. Then, looking down, he saw the rest of the small, leafy plant that his knee had crushed. A sturdy, flat-growing vine whose color matched the sand, it blended perfectly with its surroundings.
Impressed that anything could be so hardy as to grow here, Krystallus nodded in approval.
You are one tough little plant
, he thought. Curious, he lifted the red leaf to his tongue, just to see how it would taste.
“Bleccchhh!” He spat it out.
That’s even worse than the deer lichen my mother fed me as a child.
He spat out the bitter residue, then wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. Maybe, he realized, that vine’s foul taste had helped it survive. And while he’d never be tempted to eat another bite, he had to admit the plant had earned his respect.
He was just about to start walking again when he happened to glance down at the place where he had spat. To his astonishment, the sand seemed to be moving, boiling with activity. Looking closer, he saw the source of all the commotion.
Monkeys! Tiny golden monkeys, each one smaller than his thumbnail, hopped around the moistened sand. They climbed over each other’s backs, tugged on tails, and rolled across the ground as they drank and splashed in the remaining drops of liquid. To them, a lake had suddenly appeared in the desert—ample cause for celebration.