The Seven Songs Page 14

  “Ah, misery,” intoned Bumbelwy, his face as shadowed as the meadow. “At last you see the wisdom in what I have been telling you all along.”

  I bristled. “Nothing you have told me remotely resembles wisdom.”

  “Don’t be offended, please. I’m only pointing out that there is only one thing left for you to do. Give up.”

  My cheeks burned. Seizing my staff, I stood up. “That, you poor excuse for a jester, is the one thing I shall not do! I may be certain to fail in this quest, but I will not fail out of cowardice. My mother deserves better than that.” Casting a glance at the moonlit meadow before us, I spoke to Rhia. “Come if you like. The dwarves’ realm cannot be far from here.”

  She drew a long breath. “Yes, but it would be foolish to try to find it now. We need a few hours’ rest. And Merlin, that meadow . . . it’s full of danger. I can feel it. On top of that, the dwarves’ tunnels are surely hidden, by the land if not by magic. They will be hard enough to find even by day.”

  “Just give up,” urged Bumbelwy, reaching for some more astral flowers.

  “Never,” I growled. Pivoting on the walking stick, I turned to go.

  “Don’t, Merlin!” Rhia stretched her arms toward me. “Ignore him! Wait for daylight. You could easily get lost.”

  If I could have breathed fire, I would have. “You wait for daylight! I can take care of myself.”

  I strode into the meadow, the tall grasses swishing against my tunic. Moonlight streaked the land like luminous claw marks, yet most of it lay shadowed. Then, several paces ahead, my second sight detected an unusually dark patch. Since no rock or tree stood near enough to cast a shadow, I realized that it might be a tunnel, or at least a pit. Not so foolish as to walk right into such a thing, I angled to the left.

  Suddenly the earth beneath my feet gave way. I plunged downward. Before I could even cry out, total blackness swallowed me.

  When I awoke, I found myself curled into a tight ball, covered with a heavy blanket that reeked of smoke. Something was carrying me, grunting constantly, though I had no idea what form of beast it was or where it was taking me. Thick ropes bound my arms and legs, while a wad of cloth filled my mouth. But for the muffled grunts beneath me, I heard no sound but the beating of my own heart. Jostled and bounced like a sack of grain, I felt increasingly dazed and bruised. My torture seemed to last for hours.

  Finally, the jostling came to an abrupt halt. I was heaved onto a floor of smooth, hard stone. I lay there, facedown, my head spinning. The blanket was ripped away. With great effort, I rolled over.

  An assembly of dwarves, each one no taller than my waist, stared at me with eyes redder than flame. Most wore tangled beards, while all bore jeweled daggers on their waists. Standing beneath a row of sizzling torches, with feet firmly planted and burly arms crossed on their chests, they looked as immovable as the rock walls surrounding them. One, whose beard showed streaks of gray, straightened his back stiffly, leading me to guess that he had been one of the grunting dwarves who had carried me here.

  “Cut his bonds,” commanded sharp voice.

  Immediately, strong hands rolled me over again and sliced through the ropes. Someone pulled the wad of cloth out of my mouth. Working my stiff arms and parched tongue, I managed to sit up.

  Spying my staff on the floor beside me, I reached for it. A dwarf lifted his heavy boot and stomped on my wrist. I shouted in pain, my cry echoing within the rock walls.

  “Not so fast.”

  It was the same sharp voice. This time, though, I located its source: a thickset dwarf seated on a throne carved of jade, inlaid with rows of gems, which rested on a ledge above the stone floor. She had unruly red hair, pale skin, and earrings of dangling shells that clinked whenever she moved. Her oversized nose looked nearly as big as Shim’s before he became a giant. She wore a black robe embroidered with runes and geometric shapes sewn in glistening gold thread, plus a peaked hat to match. In one hand she held a staff, almost as tall as my own.

  As I started to stand, the dwarf raised her free hand. “Do not try to get up! You shall be low, lower than me. And do not reach again for your staff.”

  She leaned toward me, clinking her white shell earrings. “A staff be dangerous, you know. Even in the hands of an upstart enchanter like you, Merlin.”

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

  She scratched her prominent nose. “No one knows your true name. Not even you, it be clear.”

  “You called me Merlin.”

  “Yes,” she said with a snorting laugh that seemed to make the torches flame brighter in the cavern. “And you may call me Urnalda. But neither be a true name.”

  Furrowing my brow in bewilderment, I tried again. “How did you know to call me Merlin?”

  “Ah.” The white shells clinked as she nodded. “That be a better question.” She raised a stubby finger to touch an earring. “The shells told me. Just as a shell told you a few things, some that you be too headstrong to hear.”

  I shifted my weight on the hard stone floor.

  “Not only that, you be an intruder.” Urnalda waved her arms, sending their shadows racing across the walls. “And I do so despise intruders.”

  At this, several of the dwarves reached for their jeweled daggers. One, whose forehead showed a jagged scar, chortled loudly. The sound hovered in the air of the underground room.

  Stroking her staff, Urnalda considered me for a long moment. “Even so, I might yet choose to help you.”

  “Truly?” I glanced at the dwarves, who groaned in disappointment. Then, recalling my experience with the Trickster of the Lake, I felt suddenly suspicious. “Why might you help me?”

  She snorted. “Because one day, if you be successful, you might wear a hat such as mine.”

  Not comprehending, I examined her peaked hat more closely. Its point slouched to one side. Lower down, dozens of tiny holes pierced its surface, allowing Umalda’s red hairs to poke through. But for the silver embroidery, which might have been more attractive if it showed stars and planets instead of runes, it was quite simply the most ridiculous hat I had ever encountered. Why would I ever want a hat like that?

  The dwarf’s eyes narrowed, as if she could read my thoughts. In a deeper voice than usual, she declared, “This be the hat of an enchanter.”

  I winced. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “That be a lie.”

  “All right, then. I am sorry I insulted you.”

  “That be true.”

  “Please. Will you help me?”

  Urnalda tapped thoughtfully on her staff before finally uttering a one-word answer. “Yes.”

  A black-bearded dwarf, standing beside her throne, grumbled angrily. In a flash, she turned on him and raised her hand as if to strike. He froze, petrified. Slowly, she dropped her hand—even as his beard dropped right off his face. He squealed, covering his naked cheeks with his hands. Meanwhile, other dwarves hooted and guffawed, pointing at the fallen beard on the floor.

  “Silence!” Urnalda shook herself angrily, jostling the shell earrings, as well as the throne on the ledge. “That will teach you to doubt my decisions.”

  She turned back to me. “I will help you because you might yet defy all the odds and survive. Mayhaps even live to become an enchanter yourself.” Slyly, she squinted at me. “And if I help you now, you might one day help me.”

  “I will. I promise I will.”

  The torches sizzled, wavering, making the rock walls themselves appear to vibrate. Urnalda leaned forward, her shadow enlarging on the chiseled surface behind her. “Promises be serious things.”

  “I know.” I gazed at her solemnly. “If you help me find the soul of Protecting, I will not forget.”

  Urnalda snapped her fingers. “Bring me a light flyer. And a carving stone, with hammer and chisel.”

  Still wary of some sort of trick, I asked, “What is a light flyer?”

  “Be still.”

  But for the sizzling of torches,
silence filled the cavern. For several minutes, no one stirred. Then heavy boots clomped into the underground room, as a pair of dwarves approached the throne. One of them hunched under a huge black stone, as rough as the walls themselves, that must have weighed twice as much as he did. At a nod from Urnalda, he lowered his shoulders and dropped the stone with a thud on the floor.

  The second dwarf bore a hammer and chisel in one hand, and some sort of small, glowing object in the other. It seemed to be an upside-down cup made of clear crystal, resting with its rim against his palm. Within the crystal, an unsteady light flickered. At Urnalda’s nod, he set the tools by the stone. Then he carefully placed the cup on the floor, taking care to slide his hand away quickly so that something inside it would not escape.

  Urnalda gave a snorting laugh, and the torches flamed brighter. “Inside that crystal cage be a light flyer, one of Fincayra’s rarest creatures.” She grinned crookedly at me, a look I did not like. “Your next Song be Protecting, be it not? To learn what you need to know, you must find the best possible way to protect the light flyer from harm.”

  Observing the hammer and chisel, I swallowed hard. “You mean carve a cage . . . from that big stone?”

  She scratched her nose pensively. “If that be the best way to protect the fragile little creature, then that be what you must do.”

  “But that could take days. Or weeks!”

  “It took dwarves many years to carve the tunnels and halls of our realm.”

  “I don’t have that much time.”

  “Silence.” She pointed her staff at a hole in the ceiling, which glowed with a subdued light of its own. “That tunnel, like the one you fell down, provides us with air as well as light. There be hundreds of them, each one carved as smooth as the floor you be seated on, each one concealed on the surface by enchantment. That be why dwarves stay so well protected. That be why you came here to learn the soul of the Song.”

  “Are you sure there is no other way?” I protested.

  The earrings swayed from side to side. “There be no other way to learn the lesson yourself. Your task be to protect the little creature from harm. Now begin.”

  With a final clink of her shells, Urnalda left the room, followed by her entourage. I gazed at the sizzling torches on the walls, watching the shadows cast by her throne grow, then shrink, then grow again. That very throne, like the walls themselves, had been hewn from unforgiving stone. The same stone that the dwarves, over centuries, had molded into an entire realm.

  And now it was my turn to mold stone.

  19: PROTECTING

  The hammer and chisel gleamed coldly in the wavering light of the torches. Grasping the tools, I regained my feet and approached the massive black stone. It came almost to my waist. I raised the hammer and struck my first blow. My hand, my arm, my whole chest shook. Before the ringing of the hammer died away, I struck a second blow. Then a third.

  Time passed as I worked, but without its usual rhythms. For in the subterranean throne room of Urnalda, the only sign of day or night came from the air tunnel in the ceiling above my head. While by night its circular mouth gleamed with the silver light of the moon, by day it glowed bright with the golden light of the sun.

  Yet day or night made no difference to me. The torches on the walls sizzled constantly. I hammered incessantly—on the flat top of the chisel, on the black stone directly, and occasionally on my poor swollen thumb. The hammer rang to the rhythm of my own breathing. Chips flew into the air, and sometimes my face. Yet I continued, stopping only long enough to eat some of the thick, smoky porridge provided by the dwarves, or to nap fitfully on the blanket.

  Three bearded dwarves guarded me at all times. One stood over my staff on the stone floor, his burly arms folded on his chest. In addition to his dagger, a double-sided axe hung from his belt. The other two, holding tall spears fitted with blades of bloodred stone, positioned themselves at either side of the entry tunnel. All wore the same grim expressions, which only deepened whenever Urnalda herself entered the hall.

  She sat upon her throne on the ledge, for hours it seemed, watching me work. She seemed lost in thought, despite the constant banging of the hammer in my blistered hands. Or perhaps she was trying to probe my innermost thoughts. I did not know—and did not care. All I knew was that I would not, as Bumbelwy had suggested, give up. When I thought of his proposal, or of my mother’s condition, sparks flew from the stone. Yet I felt increasingly aware of the limits of my time. And of my ability as a stone carver.

  The glow from the light flyer flickered and wavered, playing on the black stone as I worked. Bit by bit, more pieces of the stone chipped away. In time I had made a shallow groove. If my thumb and aching arms held out, I would widen this into a hollow large enough to invert and cover the light flyer. How much more time that would require I could not tell. Judging from the shifting light in the air tunnel overhead, two days and nights had already passed.

  Throughout my labor, I kept hearing in my mind Urnalda’s final command: Your task be to protect the little creature from harm. Once in a while, as the hammering continued, I wondered whether there was a clue buried in those words. Could there be some other way to keep the light flyer safe? Some way I was missing?

  No, I told myself, that couldn’t be. Urnalda herself had credited tunnels of stone with keeping the dwarves safe. While even stone will not last forever, it is stronger than anything else. The message was clear. I must build a cage of stone, just as the dwarves built this underground realm. I have no choice.

  Still, as I hammered and pried, trying to split the stone along its cracks, I wished there were some easier way. Like the way I had wielded the great sword Deepercut, in the battle of the Shrouded Castle! I had used not my hands, but some hidden powers of my mind, to make the sword fly through the air. Somehow in that moment, without knowing how, I had tapped into the magic of Leaping. Just as the Grand Elusa had done, sending us to the abandoned land of the treelings. Could I possibly tap into that same power again? Could I make the hammer and chisel do my work now, thereby sparing my stiff back, sore arms, and blistered thumb?

  “Be not a fool, Merlin.”

  I looked up from the stone to face Urnalda, watching me from her jade throne. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean be not a fool! If, indeed, you made Deepercut fly to you, it be less because of you than because of something else. That sword be a Treasure of Fincayra. It be possessed of its own powers.” She leaned forward on her jade throne, clinking her earrings. “You did not wield the sword as much as it wielded you.”

  I dropped the hammer, which clanged on the stone floor. “How can you say that? I did it! I used the sword! With my own power. Just as I—”

  Urnalda smirked. “Finish your sentence.”

  My voice fell to a whisper. “Just as I used the Flowering Harp.”

  “Exactly.” The torches wavered as she examined me, scratching her bulbous nose. “You be a slow learner, but there may yet be hope for you.”

  “I have a feeling you’re talking about more than my skill with stone.”

  She snorted, straightening her hat. “Of course. I be talking about your skill at Seeing. No wonder that, of all the Seven Songs, you fear that one the most.”

  I blanched.

  Before I could say anything, she declared, “You be a slow learner with stone, too. You would never succeed as a dwarf in the tunnels! Which be why I doubt the prophecy can turn out to be true.”

  “What prophecy?”

  “That you will one day rebuild a great stone circle, as great as Estonahenj.”

  I sputtered like one of the torches. “Me? Rebuild something of that size? That’s likely! Just as likely as I will pick up Estonahenj, stone by stone, and move it across the ocean to Gwynedd.”

  Her red eyes gleamed strangely. “Oh, it be prophesied that you will do that, too. Not to Gwynedd, but to a neighboring land called Logres, or Gramarye by some. But that prophecy be even less likely than the other one.”

&n
bsp; “Enough,” I declared. I blew on my blistered palm, then reached again for the hammer. “Now I’ve got to get back to my real work. Carving a stone cage, as you commanded me to do.”

  “That be a lie.”

  My hammer raised, I froze. “A lie? Why?”

  Shadows skipped around the room, as her earrings clattered softly. “I commanded you, Merlin, yet that be not my command.”

  “You gave me this stone.”

  “That be true.”

  “You told me to protect the light flyer from harm.”

  “That be true.”

  “And that means carving something stronger than that crystal cup over there.”

  “That be your decision. Not mine.”

  Slowly, hesitantly, I lowered the hammer. I set it down, along with the chisel, and moved closer to the crystal. The creature within it trembled like a tiny flame.

  “May I ask you a question, Urnalda? About the light flyer?”

  “Ask.”

  I watched the wavering light of the crystal. “You said it’s one of the rarest creatures in Fincayra. How does it . . . survive? How does it stay safe?”

  Urnalda’s face, lit by the torches, showed the hint of a crooked grin. “It be safe by roaming in the bright sunlight where it cannot be seen. Or, at night, by dancing in the places where moonbeams meet water.”

  “In other words . . . by being free.”

  The shell earrings clinked gently, but she said nothing.

  I reached to touch the crystal cup. Spreading my fingers over its glowing surface, I felt the warmth of the creature caught inside. With a sudden flick of my wrist, I turned the cup over.

  A shimmering spot of light, no bigger than an apple seed, floated into the air of the cavernous hall. I heard only a faint hum as it rose past my head. The light flyer lifted swiftly to the ceiling, slipped into the mouth of the air tunnel, and was gone.