The Eternal Flame by T. A. Barron Read Free Book Online Page A

into long snouts. And, if he was seeing accurately, each creature stood on just one leg. Then, to his amazement, the creatures clasped hands and started circling the stone, hopping in unison.
    They are dancing, he thought, blinking his eyes in disbelief. Each one of them must have stood twice his height, yet they moved with the fluidity of blowing clouds, hopping and bowing in their strange, silent dance.
    For an instant, he wondered whether he should use his last drop of Dagda’s dew, Gwirion’s parting gift, to study them more closely. But no—better to save that magical drop for later, when it might be more needed.
    Watching the ring of huge, hunchbacked creatures, he reminded himself they could be dangerous. Better stay right here in the bushes until they’re gone. Just in case.
    Then he noticed a stand of tall, gangly trees just beyond the hunchbacked creatures. Drumalings! He shuddered, thinking of those walking trees that had nearly crushed the life out of him back in Merlin’s Knothole. Were it not for Ethaun, the affable blacksmith who stood as broad as a bear, they would have surely killed him.
    Tamwyn shook his head, spraying the bushes with water droplets. No, he did not want to encounter drumalings again. When it came time to climb back up the slope, and to find the best route higher on the Tree, he would take extra care to avoid whatever beasts might live among these parallel ridges.
    All at once, he realized why these ridges, with their steep-sided valleys, had reminded him of something. They looked like rows of bark! More than that, they were rows of bark, running the length of this enormous branch.
    This is a whole new realm, he reflected. And to think that it is only one of many! Every single branch of the Great Tree is an unexplored region. And they could be as different from each other as Fireroot is from Airroot or Waterroot.
    He lowered his gaze. Or Shadowroot, where Elli is heading now.
    Feeling a pang of worry, and maybe something more, he pulled out the slab of harmóna wood. He unsheathed his dagger, grateful that Ethaun had reforged it. But he didn’t take time to examine the ancient, mysterious words engraved on the side of the blade—words that spoke of Merlin’s heir . . . and Rhita Gawr. He just placed the slab on his lap and started to carve.
    As the first curling chip of wood fell to the ground, it hummed ever so subtly. Meanwhile, the magical slab itself made a soft, breathy music, its orange-streaked grain helping to guide Tamwyn’s every slice. Slowly, the sound box grew more clearly defined, and the instrument began to take shape.
    Something about whittling wood always consoled Tamwyn. The gentle sweep of a blade, the warmth of wood in his hands, made him feel more firmly planted in the present moment. And also more confident about the future. Yet today he couldn’t seem to banish his doubts. Why, he didn’t even know where he was going to find the strings for this harp! So how could he possibly hope to do his part to save Avalon?
    He continued to carve. Wood chips piled up on the muddy bank, accumulating with his concerns. I am, after all, just one person—and certainly no great wizard. Then, unexpectedly, he remembered Ethaun’s words, spoken in the blacksmith’s rough whisper:
    Ye know, the legends from Old Fincayra are mighty strange at times. But one o’ the strangest says that a young wizard only came into power when he carved his first musical instrument.
    For a brief moment, Tamwyn believed. Or wanted so much to believe that it felt like conviction itself. Then the knife blade slipped, nicking his thigh. He groaned, cursing his own clumsiness.
    Full of doubts again, he raised his gaze toward the sky. It blazed with stars so bright that he needed to shield his eyes from the most radiant clusters. What am I thinking? I don’t even know how to begin to get up there!
    Then, for the first time, he noticed something odd. Very odd. A vague line of light, so dim that he