The Great Tree of Avalon by T. A. Barron Read Free Book Online Page B

facilities of the Society of the Whole. Sometimes, when the wind blew strong, the bell’s clanging could even be heard beyond the outer walls, in the countryside of Stoneroot.
    Many a bard had sung the story of this bell. Made from the belt buckle of a giant, melted down by the breath of a fire dragon, molded into shape by the hands of dwarves, and exquisitely decorated by faery artisans, it symbolized the Drumadians’ most basic ideal: unity and cooperation among all creatures. Some believed that the Buckle Bell, as it was fondly known, had been the idea of Elen the Founder. That would make it almost as old as the circle of stones that formed the compound’s Great Temple . . . and nearly as old as Avalon itself.
    The elderly priestess who stood beside the bell right now, wearing woolen earmuffs to protect what little hearing she had left, didn’t look much younger. Priestess Hywel’s few remaining strands of white hair bounced with each new clang. They also bounced with every wave of her hand, which was her signal to the team of eight obedient dog faeries—all with walnut brown fur, white wings, and dangling pink tongues—who pulled the bell rope on command.
    Hywel had lived in the compound longer than anyone— including High Priestess Coerria, now almost two hundred years old—and had been an Elder since before some of the other Elders were even born. And yet, though she bent low to the ground, her sharp eyes scanned everything nearby for any signs of disarray. For she took very seriously her title, Dean of Timeliness and Decorum—especially where young apprentices were concerned.
    As the bell’s final note faded away, over two dozen apprentices came running from different directions. For it was time to stop their classes, memorization work, craft projects, or service to their mentors: Formal Prayers were about to begin. And no one ever, ever missed Formal Prayers.
    Hywel watched closely as the apprentices approached the Buckle Bell. Her back straightened ever so slightly, as she felt a surge of pride at seeing the new generation of her beloved Order. Of course, she’d never reveal that pride to any of them . But as she watched, her old eyes glowed like the candle that burned in the holder by her feet—a candle that every senior priestess or priest carried today, the Flame of Faith holy day.
    All the apprentices, young women and men alike, wore the traditional garb of Drumadians: greenish brown robe, leather sandals, and a wooden clasp at the throat, carved in the shape of an oak tree. And all of them were joined by their maryths —distinctive companions whose loyalty would last as long as their lives as Drumadians. Hywel’s own maryth, a rather ancient grass snake wound around her forearm, also watched the approaching crowd.
    And what a crowd it was! Since, by Drumadian law, maryths could be any kind of creature but human, the young priestesses and priests were joined by a complete menagerie of does, stags, birds, beetles, dogs, cats, lizards, sprites, dwarves, faeries, and even a couple of tree spirits. These maryths, like the many who had bonded with Drumadians in the past, were as varied as all the creatures of Avalon. In fact, it was often said that maryths had just one quality in common: absolute devotion.
    The apprentices, in turn, bowed respectfully to the Elder. One teenage boy, who had shoved his friend jokingly a few seconds before, got shoved back just as he bowed. His foot kicked Hywel’s candle, splattering hot beeswax on his shin. He winced—but his pain was less from the burning wax than from the burning look he got from the old priestess.
    Slowly, the crowd dwindled as apprentices and maryths shuffled down the intricately carved wooden steps that led to a small, open-air theater: the Shrine of Elen. Here, they knelt before a statue, carved from the trunk of an oak tree, of Elen binding the leg of a wounded troll child. Just as the last person arrived, the whole group started to chant—the