Doomraga's Revenge by T. A. Barron Read Free Book Online Page A

hands upon his hips, he looked out at the beach strewn with blue and gold sea stars and shreds of kelp—and at the enormous expanse of blue sea beyond. Taking a deep breath, he filled his lungs with briny air, so laden with salt it tasted almost like a hearty meal.
    “Brynchilla,” he said, exhaling. Wherever he traveled, he always preferred the local names of places. Brynchilla, the elven term for realm of water , seemed much more poetic than the Common Tongue’s name, Waterroot. Even if it had been coined by his despised competitor, the elf queen Serella, the name suited this place, fitting it as smoothly as a wave fits upon the shore.
    Scanning the horizon, an uninterrupted expanse of blue sea that merged seamlessly with the lighter blue of the sky, he pulled his sketch pad from his tunic pocket, opened its rippled leather cover, and did what he always did upon arriving anywhere in Avalon: He drew a map. In seconds, the lines from his favorite osprey quill pen—which he’d dipped into a vial of octopus ink—filled the page, revealing the island’s contours, the shape of the horizon, as well as the portal’s location, wind and ocean currents, and visible signs of life.
    As he sketched the map, he nodded grimly. He knew where he was, though he’d never discovered this particular portal before: in the remotest waters of Brynchilla. And, more importantly, he knew where he was not . This island was just about as far away as anyone could get from that volcanic fire pit called Rahnawyn. Yet his memories of that place, and the bitter fight with his father, still felt all too near.
    His heart raced angrily. How could his father be considered so wise, yet really be so foolish? How could he have so little faith, so little confidence, in his own son? Both his hands clenched as he thought again about their parting words—most likely the last words they’d ever speak to each other.
    “Fine by me,” he muttered, squeezing his fists. “I don’t care if I never see him, let alone talk to him, again!” He had his own life, his own goals, not least of which was to create a whole college devoted to mapmaking and the exploration of Avalon. And that life had nothing whatsoever to do with his father. He could easily spend all his time exploring the farthest reaches of the world—which had been, since childhood, his greatest passion.
    A briny breeze blew over the sea, tousling his hair. It stroked his face and parted the collar of his simple brown tunic, as if offering an invitation. At once, Krystallus knew what he wanted to do most in this watery realm.
    Swim!
    Quickly, he stowed his sketch pad, untied his belt, threw off his tunic, and kicked his leather boots into the sand dune behind him. Wading into the water, he felt the sudden slap of liquid coolness on his legs. His skin tightened; his toes grasped the slick, algae-coated stones underfoot.
    Into the water he plunged, feeling the cold embrace on his arms, shoulders, and face. He emerged with a splash, spraying water all around, sucking in a lungful of air. Then he floated on his back, his arms and legs gently swaying. Long strands of white hair radiated from his head like slender shafts of sea kelp.
    Peering up into the hazy blue sky, he tried his best to discern the stars. No luck. They lay hidden behind their own daytime radiance, invisible until evening starset. Strange, he thought, how less light makes them more clear, while more light washes them away.
    Waves gathered upon the ocean of his brow. “There is a pathway up there, I know there is! All the way up the trunk and branches of the Great Tree—all the way to the stars.”
    The water buoyed him, bouncing his body gently. But Krystallus didn’t notice. “Someone, someday, will find that path,” he mused. “Someone, someday.”
    A pair of snowy terns dove out of the sky, skidding to a splashy landing not far from his head. Droplets sprayed his face. Breathing deeply, he smelled the sweet dew on their wings,