A Wizard's Wings (11 page)

Rolling a berry between her fingers, she pondered the notion. “Makes sense. Go on.”

I studied her for a long moment. “Rhia, there are some creatures you know better than I—who trust you, as I do.”

She tensed, backing up against a burly root. “You’re not wanting me to . . . No, Merlin. I’d like to help you gather everyone, but I really can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she blurted out, “it can’t be done!”

“We don’t know that.”

“I do!” She turned away, staring into the gloomy forest behind the old oak. “At least it can’t be done by me. I belong in the Drama, you know that. With the trees, my friends.”

I laid my hand on the oak’s deeply rutted bark. “They might listen to you, Rhia. They might even stir from that slumber that’s kept them rooted for so many centuries.”

“Unlikely,” she scoffed. “Even the Drama’s trees, which are more awake than most, can’t lift their roots out of the ground anymore. They’ve slept so long they’ve forgotten how.”

“What about the walkers?” I pressed. “I met one just last year, near the Haunted Marsh.”

“A
nynniaw pennent
? A real one? You never told me!” Her gray-blue eyes widened for an instant. Then, just as quickly, her excitement faded. “You know how rare they are. I’ve heard only five or six are left on this whole island. And besides, they look just like any other tree. Even their name means
always there, never found
.”

My hand moved down the ridges of the trunk, then dropped to her shoulder. “You could find them, Rhia. I know you could! And if you can reach them, they might know how to awaken the other trees.” I bent closer, gazing at her intently. “Think of it! A forest on the move, as you described last night! If Rhita Gawr’s army ever saw such a thing . . .”

My words trailed off, but my gaze never slackened. “Remember?
Like a mountain on the move, like a tide upon the land
.”

Running a hand through her curls, she stared at me, unconvinced. “It’s fine to imagine. But . . .”

“What?”

“Oh, I’m just not good at this kind of thing.”

“Come on now. You confronted Stangmar in his own castle, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and hated every minute of it.”

“And you came with me into the dragon’s lair, didn’t you? It wasn’t our friend Gwynnia we faced there, but her father, three times bigger and a thousand times more wrathful.”

Her face softened enough to show a spare grin. “That was the day you took a bite out of your own boot.”

“
Mmmm
,” I said, pretending to chew on something impossibly tough. “Bring me,”
chomp, chomp,
“some more salt.”

Her grin widened. “Not needed! There’s enough already from your sweaty feet.”

At that, we both laughed, so hard that Scullyrumpus poked out his head, watching us in surprise. Seeing one of Rhia’s oatcakes resting unguarded on a root, he leaped down, snatched the morsel, and plunged back into the pocket before anyone could object.

As we quieted, she looked at me long and hard. “You’re mad, Brother. Utterly mad.”

I nodded.

“And the whole idea is ridiculous. Not to mention dangerous, with both Stangmar and that sword-armed character roaming about.”

I nodded again.

She swallowed. “All right, I’ll do it.” Scowling at me, she added, “How do you ever talk me into these things?”

“The same way you talked me into flying on that vine.”

Her fingers drummed on the tilting trunk of the oak, already lined with dusky shadows. “Tell me what else you’re thinking. While I’m off trying to rouse the trees, what other allies do you hope to win?”

“Well, the canyon eagles, as I said. They’re tricky to find, as you know, but I helped them long ago and I’m hoping they haven’t forgotten.”

“Who else?”

“The giants, as many as possible. Shim’s already taken on that task. But we’ll also need some help from the dwarves, fierce fighters that they are.”

“That won’t be easy.” She popped her remaining berry into her mouth. “Your last encounter with Urnalda was about as tart as this berry.”

My hand ran along the carved handle of my staff, resting beside me on the roots. “I know, believe me. But she’s more than just the dwarves’ leader, right? She’s an enchantress, a powerful one, with her own ability to see the future. It’s possible she already knows the dangers we’re facing. And if she could be persuaded—well, one angry dwarf is worth a dozen of Rhita Gawr’s warrior goblins.”

“Wait, now. You can bet Rhita Gawr will have some help from the goblins, his old allies. But most of his army will be spirits, deathless beings. That’s what Dagda told you. How do you expect to fight them?”

For several seconds, I listened to the slapping of the rivulet, bounding past the rims of ice along its edges. “I don’t know,” I said at last. “I really don’t know. We’ll just have to do our best.”

Rhia chewed silently—not on any food, but on her lip. “We’ll need to contact the wind sisters somehow. I wish I knew how to reach our old friend Aylah.”

“You never find the wind,” I corrected. “It finds you. Now, someone I
might
be able to reach is the Grand Elusa. She’ll surely fight for Fincayra! With her size and power—not to mention that appetite of hers, fitting for a giant spider—she’s the most dangerous creature ever to walk on this island.” I paused. “Except for a dragon.”

My throat constricted as I thought of Hallia, traveling northward in search of Gwynnia’s lair. Would she find it in time? Would the dragon be there . . . and willing to help?

“We’ll need men and women,” Rhia said decisively. “Every person we can find. And my friends the wood elves might agree to join us, though they’re as elusive as shadows.”

My own shadow, barely visible on the darkening ground, shook its head vigorously.

“All right, all right,” I said. “None of her elves are as elusive as you.”

The shaking ceased.

I swung my head back to Rhia. “The marsh ghouls, too.”

She frowned. “Not them. They’re savage fighters, all right, but they can’t be trusted.”

“You weren’t there when I met them—and helped them. Maybe they’ll remember, and want to repay their debt.”

Her frown only deepened. “They’re at the bottom of our list. Only the living stones would be worse prospects. Ha! You won’t even get a living stone to talk with you, let alone join with you.”

“But I did, Rhia! Don’t you remember? That night when the living stone tried to swallow me? We did speak, and I remember it still—that deep, rumbling voice. There’s life in those ancient boulders, and great wisdom, too. I can reach them, I’m sure I can.”

“Myself, I’d rather try to wake the trees. If it’s really possible.”

“Let’s find out,” I suggested, nodding toward the oak.

She eyed me uncertainly for a moment, then laid her hand, fingers splayed wide, upon the rutted bark of the trunk. Closing her eyes, she started to whisper in the deep, breathy tones of the oak’s language.
Hooo washhhaaa washhhaaa lowww, hooo washhhaaa lowww wayanooo.
Again she repeated the chant, and again.

In the root running under my thigh, I felt a very slight twitch—almost a movement, though not quite. Had I just imagined it? I stretched out my own hand, touching the trunk alongside Rhia. Slowly, I began to feel a faint, distant warmth under my palm, radiating out from the heartwood.
Hooo washhhaaa washhhaaa lowww, hooo naaayalaaa washhhaaa lowww.

Another root stirred, quivering ever so slightly. It tensed, like an arm about to move. At the same time, a branch above our heads started swaying, slapping against the trunk. A dead leaf shook loose and floated downward, landing in Rhia’s abundant curls. Her eyes opened, full of wonder, as the heartwood’s warmth swelled a little stronger.

“It’s working,” she whispered excitedly. “Can you feel it?”

“See if you can get it to lift its roots out of the ground!”

At the instant I spoke, though, the tree fell still again. Beneath my palm, the warmth seemed to recede, as swiftly as it had appeared. Rhia and I chanted, louder this time, over and over and over again. The warmth, though, continued to diminish, draining out of the fibers of wood like water from a broken flask. A few seconds later, all I could feel was rugged, lined bark under my hand.

Not willing to give up, we tried chanting again. We kept pressing our palms against the tree, so hard that the veins bulged on the backs of our hands. Nothing stirred, however. No movement. No warmth. No life.

At length, we drew back. Rhia cast me a solemn glance. Shaking her head, she dislodged the frayed leaf, which drifted down to the ground, settling by her feet. “It won’t be easy,” she said dismally.

“Right,” I replied. “Yet . . . you truly started something there. Who can tell? Maybe you’ll find another way—a new word or tone that could make all the difference.”

The edges of her mouth curled slightly. “You really think so?”

“It’s possible, you know.”

She leaned her head back, gazing up into the arching branches of the oak. “Maybe, maybe not.”

At that instant, a tiny speck of light, no bigger than an apple seed, flickered in one of the grooves of the trunk. It flew outward, glittering brightly, humming in the air. A light flyer! I had seen only one of these delicate creatures before, and had never forgotten its beauty.

The glowing speck circled once around our heads, then fluttered toward me. I caught my breath as it landed, as lightly as a mote of dust, upon the tip of my nose. There it stayed, wings whirring softly, for a few seconds. I couldn’t shake the feeling that, even as I watched it, the luminous little fellow was watching me even more closely. Then, with a new flash of light, it lifted off, caught a current of air, and disappeared into the trees.

Rhia, watching the light flyer depart, imitated the hum of its wings. “It reminds me of a shooting star, but so much smaller.” She grinned. “And it surely seemed to like that pointed nose of yours.”

Gently, I touched the spot where the creature had settled so briefly. “Perhaps . . . we’ve just won over our first ally.”

She almost grinned. “It’s possible, you know.”

Suddenly Ionn snorted. The stallion, who had been grazing on some willow shoots by the rivulet, lifted his head and turned toward the blackened plains. Following his gaze, I spied an upright figure emerging from the shadows.

I leaped to my feet, staring hard. It couldn’t be! Yet, as the figure came closer, padding quickly across the ground, I knew that it was, indeed, the person it appeared to be. The person I least expected to meet on this night, in this place.

“Lleu,” I said in amazement, as the young boy trotted up to us. He came to a stop, breathing heavily, by the edge of the rivulet. Kneeling, he plunged his whole face into the water, took several swallows, then stood again. He wiped his dripping chin and cheeks on his sleeve, careful not to touch the stub of his missing ear.

Awestruck, I asked, “You . . . ran here? Followed us?”

He gave a nod, spraying some droplets on the woolen scarf I’d given him the night before, which now encircled his neck. “Sure, I follows ye,” he said matter-of-factly, as if a day-long run weren’t anything unusual.

I glanced over at Rhia, whose expression showed her own disbelief. Slowly, I knelt, so that Lleu’s face and mine nearly touched. “Tell me, lad,” I whispered. “Why?”

He tugged on the scarf. “This be yers. An’ ye left this morn afore I could give it back to ye.”

I couldn’t keep myself from smiling. “No, Lleu. I left it because I gave it to you, just as my friend gave it to me.” Somehow I felt sure that, while he had told himself he should try to return the scarf, his real motivations lay deeper. Why was he so drawn to me? Could he tell, in some instinctive way, that my childhood and his weren’t so different?

Gently, I patted his shoulder. “How is that ear feeling?”

He winced at the mention of his wound. Then, squaring his shoulders, he answered, “Not too bad, master. It be throbbin’ still, an’ I can’t touch it, but me hearin’s jest fine.” His brow creased fearfully. “The worser part be the dream I had las’ night.” He shuddered, and looked away briefly. “But ye helped me git over that.”

“Actually, as I remember, it was you who helped me. And you may call me Merlin.”

His eyes shone, even in the dim light. Then his small mouth pinched. “I seed some others runnin’, master Merlin. Child’ n, jest like me. They was runnin’ fast—away from somebody or somethin’, I’m sure. Don’t know what, an’ I didn’t wait to find out.” He gulped. “But I was wonderin’ if it’s . . . maybe the . . .”

“Same attacker?” Feeling his fear, I bit my lip. “No, no, it couldn’t be.”

He stared up at me, unconvinced. “He’s still around, though. An’ if he’s still around, he could be huntin’ down others.”

I wrapped my hand around his. “Not you, though. You’re safe now. I promise.”

Uncertainly, he nodded.

“Here,” I said, picking up my own uneaten oatcakes and handing them to him. “Not much supper after your long day, but we’ll do better in the morning.”

“Thank ye, master Merlin.” He stuffed the oatcakes into his mouth and started chewing.

I watched him until he finished. “You can stay with us tonight, Lleu, and nothing bad is going to happen to you. That’s certain. But tomorrow, I’m afraid, we’ll have to part ways again.” Seeing his face fall, I explained, “Rhia goes her way, and I go . . . mine. Traveling with either of us would be far too dangerous, for you or anyone else.”

He looked at me bravely, though his jaw quivered.

“Don’t worry, now. We won’t leave you on your own, though I can tell you know how to take care of yourself. Before we part, we’ll get you to a village, or a friendly farm.”

Placing my arm around his shoulder, I walked him over to a flat, mossy spot behind the oak. “Here’s where we’ll be sleeping.” As he reached into his pocket, I added, “No need for any kindling tonight, lad. We’re ready for sleep, and I’m sure you are, too.” I didn’t tell him my real reason for not having a fire: It might attract unwanted visitors.

With a lengthy yawn, he nodded. Then he removed the scarf, wadded it up, and lay it on the moss as a pillow. A few moments later, he was curled into a ball, slumbering.