Free Doomraga's Revenge by T. A. Barron

belly, Nuic drew a small brown leaf. Some sort of disease had gnawed at its edges, making the leaf woefully ragged. Only the thinnest hint of green remained at the base of its stem. Several of its veins had darkened to black, while others had crumbled completely.
    “Recognize this?” he asked Merlin.
    “No,” said the wizard, puzzled. He took the leaf in his hand, examining its frail edges, its blackened veins. “But it’s clearly in trouble. Serious trouble.”
    All at once, he started, crumpling the leaf in his hand. “Why, it’s Rhia’s! From her suit of woven vines.” He bit his lip. “Basil—take us to her now!”

11: T HE B LIGHT
    All good things must end, the saying goes. Why, though? Why must something truly good finally perish? I resent that idea. Yes, and I stand against it, with all my heart.
    Slicing through the clouds, Basilgarrad beat his mighty wings. With every powerful stroke, he brought his passengers, Merlin and Nuic, closer to Stoneroot. For there, at the circle of stones in the heart of the Society of the Whole’s compound, they hoped to find Rhia.
    Wind whistled across the dragon’s scales, seeming to shriek the word fffaaasssssster . No creature in Avalon could fly so swiftly. But would it be swift enough?
    Merlin, holding tight to the dragon’s ear, looked grim. He leaned into the wind, willing his friend to fly even faster. For Rhia—who was, to the rest of the world, the Society’s High Priestess—was, to him, something much more precious: his sister and dear friend. Only Hallia and Basil came as close to his heart.
    He swallowed, thinking about that diseased, crumbling leaf from Rhia’s suit of woven vines. She had never, even after their mother, Elen, had died, liked to wear the elegant gown made from spider’s silk that signified the High Priestess. No, just as she’d done for many years as a young woman in Druma Wood, she greatly preferred the feel of natural greenery as her garb. Especially since those particular vines carried with them the ancient magic of Lost Fincayra’s most wondrous forest. Magic that could survive forever—unless attacked by some poison potent enough to kill the entire forest . . . and maybe Rhia, as well.
    If her gown is suffering , Merlin thought, then so is she.
    We’ll get there soon , answered the dragon telepathically. His great wings beat furiously. Very soon.
    A few minutes later, they spotted the stone circle, whose pillars had been carried all the way from Lost Fincayra in the earliest days of Avalon. Just outside the circle sat the famous Buckle Bell, made from the belt buckle of a giant. Nearby lay several brightly colored gardens, which Rhia and her followers had started to cultivate in honor of Dagda, god of wisdom, and Lorilanda, goddess of birth and renewal. Beyond that stretched many fields of grain as well as dozens of farmhouses, each topped with a weather vane and a bell. The only land around not being cultivated for some purpose was a lumpy, irregular hillside that rose from the edge of the stone circle.
    Basilgarrad’s brow wrinkled. Landing amidst so many obstacles wouldn’t be easy. He much preferred the open plains to the south or wide glaciers to the north. But here was Rhia’s home, so here he would land.
    Arching his wings, he veered sharply to avoid hitting the hillside or any of the farmhouses. With a thunderous slam, he hit the ground. Merlin and Nuic were thrown forward, rolling down the dragon’s snout to land on top of his massive black nose. Several of the largest pillars in the circle of stones wobbled precariously, then fell with a crash onto the hillside.
    At that moment, the hillside woke up. Or, more accurately, stirred in its sleep. For it was, in fact, no ordinary hillside. It was a sleeping giant with bedraggled hair, a vest of knitted pine boughs, and a bulbous nose.
    “Shim!” cried Merlin, recognizing his old friend. With the help of his staff, he regained his feet. “Shim, wake up!”
    But the