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

red vest, landed on the edge of the pool and began stirring a clay pot that contained the facial mud preparation.
    Beyond all the bustling faeries, of course, Llynia could see Fairlyn, her maryth. With all her dozen arms, Fairlyn was busily directing every aspect of the faeries’ work. She could be seen everywhere around the pool—and smelled everywhere, too. For while Fairlyn was a tree spirit, she was no ordinary one: She was the spirit of a lilac elm from the legendary groves of the Forest Fairlyn in Woodroot, where the fruited groves and fragrant pathways could be smelled from many leagues away. Many a visitor to that forest returned home convinced that it held the richest trove of smells of any forest in any realm . . . and that the most spectacular smells of all belonged to the lilac elms.
    Llynia smiled as Fairlyn reached down a pair of arms and gently swept the pink bubbles over to surround her head and neck. All this , she told herself, is Fairlyn’s way of saying she loves me. And so it was, because the tree spirit had no voice. Instead, Fairlyn spoke through her long, leafless arms studded with purple buds. And through her large brown eyes. And most of all, through her aromas.
    Right now, Fairlyn smelled distinctly of wild alpine roses, a sweet and joyous scent if ever there was one. That was good for the faeries, since that showed the tree spirit approved of their work. For the moment, at least. If they ever caught the smell of burning wood (or worse, crushed faery wings), big trouble was brewing.
    Llynia sighed dreamily, having placed herself completely in Fairlyn’s care. For like every maryth, Fairlyn had certain special skills. And in her case, those skills happened to make for an astonishingly sensuous bath.
    At that moment, Fairlyn dipped one of her thinnest boughs into the pot with the facial mud. The smell of roses intensified. The preparation was almost ready. Just a few more minutes. And then—the facial, what Llynia felt sure would be her favorite part of her experience in the Baths. Not even the clumsy hands of that young wretch could botch a facial! And just to make sure, Fairlyn would be watching.
    Llynia raised herself a bit higher in the pool and laid her head back against the pillow of moss. Her feet sloshed in the warm water, splashing the departing toe-scrub faeries. And she thought back dreamily to yesterday’s Council of Elders, and what had happened there.
    She recalled how impressive the Great Temple had seemed when she entered, striding into the circle of stones. Surely those stones hadn’t looked so magnificent, so regal, since the earliest days of Avalon—when they were first set in place by Elen and her followers after being carried all the way from Lost Fincayra. The entire circle fairly glowed with midday starlight. And the Elders who gathered there, from all Seven Realms, gave an air of profound importance—and expectation—to the meeting.
    Just as Llynia had expected, the session began with many of those Elders, joined by their maryths, describing the worsening drought. Upper Waterroot (called High Brynchilla by most), as well as parts of Stoneroot and Woodroot, had been hardest hit. Frighteningly, those places weren’t just withering, but also graying: Even their colors seemed to be drying up. Could something have caused a change in weather patterns? Or could something have altered the waters of High Brynchilla, believed to flow through deep underground channels into the neighboring realms? No one could say.
    Then, with growing anxiety, Llynia had listened as more voices—and more troubles—seized the Council’s attention. From every realm, Elders told strange and shocking tales. A new breed of flying beast, with transparent body and deadly talons, had been attacking people in even the remotest villages. These creatures traveled through the portals, so it was impossible to say just where they came from—or would next appear. In addition, one clan of eaglefolk in