Free The Raging Fires by T. A. Barron Page B

thud, I landed on my back on the ground at the base of the living stone. Although Rhia’s sudden shriek would normally have chilled my blood, I was glad to hear it. I was glad to hear anything at all.
    “Merlin!” She threw her arms around me and squeezed.
    “Not so hard, will you?” I wriggled free, patting my sore chest. It ached, as did my arms, legs, and back. Even my ears. In fact, I felt as if one gigantic bruise covered my whole body. Then, seeing Rhia’s tear-stained face, so relieved, so thankful, I beckoned her to embrace me again.
    She gladly accepted the invitation—more gently this time. “How?” she blurted. “How did you do it? I’ve never heard of a living stone releasing anyone it’s caught.”
    Despite my sore cheeks, I grinned. “Most people don’t taste as bad as I do.”
    She released me, her laughter echoing across the swamp. Then, for a long moment, she observed me. “There must be something in you that even a living stone couldn’t crush.”
    “My thick head, perhaps.”
    “More likely, your magic.”
    Although my ribs throbbed, I drew a deep breath. “As little as there is, I suppose you could say it’s my core. Essential—and undigestable.”
    With her leafy forearm, she brushed some chips of stone off my shoulder. “Well now, look at you! Your tunic is ripped, and there’s so much dust in your hair that it’s more gray than black.” She smiled. “But you’re alive.”
    “How long was I in there?”
    “Two or three hours, I’d guess. The sun came up just before you returned.”
    Warily, I gazed up at the enormous boulder that had ejected me. I stepped slowly toward it, my heart pounding. Rhia tried to hold me back, but I waved her away. Placing a tentative hand on a flat, mossy spot, I whispered, “Thank you, great stone. One day, when I am stronger, I should like to hear more of your stories.”
    Though I could not be sure, I felt the rock beneath my fingers shiver ever so slightly. Removing my hand, I bent to retrieve my staff, still lying on the ground. The shadow of the living stone did not diminish the wood’s lustrous sheen. I grasped the gnarled top—which, as always, fit my hand perfectly. For a few seconds, the scent of hemlock pushed aside the reeking smells of the swamp.
    Rhia gasped. “Your sword! It’s gone.”
    I started. Indeed, my sword, scabbard, and belt had vanished. They must have remained inside the living stone!
    Whirling around, I pleaded, “My sword, great stone! I need it! For Valdearg.”
    The stone did not stir.
    “Please . . . oh, please, hear me! That sword is part of me now. And it has magic of its own. Yes! I’ve been entrusted to bear it—until the day, far in the future, when I shall give It to a boy. A boy born to be king. A boy of great power. So great that he will pull that very sword from a scabbard of stone.”
    The boulder remained motionless.
    “It’s true! The sword will be held—not by you, not by a living stone, but by a stone that will guard it, awaiting that very moment.”
    No response.
    My nostrils flared. “Give it back.”
    Still, no response.
    “Give it back!” I demanded. Grasping the shaft of my staff, I raised it to strike the living stone. Then, noticing my thumb on top of the carved image of a sword—symbol of the power of Naming—I halted. The name! The sword’s name! Which, like all true names, held a magic of its own. Perhaps, just perhaps . . . I leaned toward the stone.
    Abruptly, I caught myself. I had not used any magic since—since plucking my psaltery. If I called on my powers again, would another kreelix attack? And succeed where the other one had not? I cringed, remembering the gaping red mouth, the jagged wings, the ruinous fangs. Yet . . . if I let the elemental fear of another attack rule my actions, then what was I? A coward. Or worse. Whether or not another kreelix appeared, it would have already robbed me of my powers.
    I gritted my teeth and bent closer to the stone. Mist, rank