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only power he could rely on was his ability to understand the languages of non-human creatures. But that wasn’t true magic; it was really just another kind of listening.
    He sliced a hand through the rising steam, as if he were cutting to the unavoidable truth: The vision had come to him. Avalon was in grave danger.
    But what could he possibly do about it?
    Pondering that question, he pulled his dagger from the sheath on his belt. Slowly, he twirled it in the dim light from the stars beyond the overhang, light that constantly wavered in the misty air. The dagger’s blade and hilt were so old and battered that rust covered everything, even the random scratch marks. With a nod, he recalled the day, years before, when he’d plowed it up in a field. The old farmer he’d been helping had given it to him, calling it “a gift from the land.” And for Tamwyn it soon became his favorite tool, useful for everything from slicing fruit to carving wood.
    Carving wood . . .
    Suddenly an idea burst into his mind. Whether or not he could find a way to save Avalon—maybe he could, at least, find a way to save his relationship with Elli. If only he could just explain to her what had really happened there on the Stone, she’d understand about his fears. And also, perhaps, about his feelings.
    Reaching for his pack, he pulled out a triangular slab of wood. He turned it over, watching its dark brown grains, streaked with orange, gleam in the misty light. As always, he was amazed at the lightness of this wood, called harmóna by the elves. It seemed more the stuff of clouds than of trees.
    And lightness wasn’t its only special quality. Tamwyn gently tapped its side and listened to the reverberating echoes that rumbled within, like a clinking chorus of wooden chimes. They took more than a minute to fade away. For harmóna was the fabled wood, found only in the westernmost forests of Woodroot, that elves had used for centuries to carve magical musical instruments: flutes so soft and gentle that their voices could calm a rushing river; drums so soulful that they could make the heart of any listener beat as fast as a hummingbird’s wings; lutes that could play a lilting, sensuous song after only the slightest pluck.
    Tamwyn had earned this slab of harmóna, in the days following Tressimir’s funeral, by working as a woodcarver in Brionna’s home village, while Elli went to visit her old friend High Priestess Coerria. He had stayed there for five days, carving furniture and waterwheel gears during the mornings, exploring deer trails and faerie glens in the afternoons, and joining elven songfests in the evenings. He’d been offered other forms of pay for his work, including a length of elven rope far more sturdy than the twine he wore around his waist, but he’d said no. For he’d needed this wood.
    He stroked its edge, visualizing the contours of the harp that he was going to carve for Elli. It would play wondrously, as only this magical wood could do. And it would replace Elli’s first harp, made by her beloved father—which Tamwyn had managed to crush within seconds of first meeting her. She had, it seemed, almost forgiven him for that, until he’d ruined things all over again last night. Now this new, magical harp was his best—maybe his only—hope.
    He looked at the slab of wood. Yes, by the bark of the Great Tree. This new harp would be both an apology for the past . . . and maybe, as well, an invitation for the future.
    He swallowed. What future could they have, though, if Avalon was conquered by Rhita Gawr? If the warlord from the spirit realm won what he’d called his ultimate triumph ”.
    Even through the rising mist, the lines of Tamwyn’s jaw and brow looked suddenly hard-edged. I must do something. What, I don’t know. But I still have to try. He nodded at the slab, as if he were speaking to it. By morning, I need to have a plan. Or at least the beginning of one.
    Yet morning was just an hour or two away.
    Chewing