A Wizard's Wings (6 page)

Taking an unsteady breath, I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I had hoped to prevail without your help, to halt Rhita Gawr before he ever reached your world. But that hope has failed.”

“And now there is no other.”

“No,” he corrected, “there is still one hope, though it is frail indeed. If enough Fincayran creatures, not just men and women but many more besides, amass at the stone circle in time, they might find some way to turn back his invasion. Many lives may be lost, with much suffering, but that is our only chance.”

“Then we’re doomed,” I lamented. “Even if there were two years, instead of two weeks, to gather everyone in Fincayra, it couldn’t be done! Don’t you know how much bitterness and suspicion there is here? Ever since the days of Stangmar, most races live in fear of each other.” I thumped my chest. “And of my race most of all.”

“This I know well,” answered Dagda ruefully. “And it began long before the days of your father’s rule. Long before, in days now forgotten . . . but that does not concern us now.”

He paused, and I felt that his vaporous eyes were peering right through me. “Only someone who is known to all those races can possibly rally them—someone who has labored with dwarves, walked with marsh ghouls, spoken with talking trees and living stones. Someone who has swum with mer folk, flown with wind sisters, and stood upon the shoulders of giants.”

I stepped backward, right to the edge of the stone. “You can’t mean . . . No, I can’t. No.”

The glowing face, rippled with streaming clouds, watched me impassively.

“It’s not possible!” I knelt on the boulder, clasping my hands. “Even if I could assemble an army, I wouldn’t know how to lead them. I can fight, sure, but I’m still not a warrior. No, no, I’m something else—a seer, maybe, though not with my eyes. Or a healer, or some sort of bard.”

“Or a wizard,” declared Dagda. “And a man who loves peace far better than war. But there are times, I must tell you, when even a peaceful man must stand in the path of harm to the land he loves. And yes, to the people he cherishes.”

I wrung my hands together, lowering my head. After a long moment, I lifted my face again. “Only two weeks? That’s next to nothing.”

“It is all we have,” declared the visage on high. “To prevail on winter’s longest night, you will need to defeat your greatest foe, nothing less.”

“But tell me,” I pleaded, “is there any real chance of winning? Any chance at all?”

Dagda studied me long before answering. “Yes, there is a chance. But all Fincayra’s threads, in all their colors, must bind together in a sturdy rope. And for that to happen, the rarest of seeds must find a home at last.”

Perplexed, I shook my head. “The rarest of seeds?” I tapped my leather satchel. “You mean this one in here?”

“Perhaps, though a seed may take many forms.” All at once, the silver lines of his face brightened, even as his voice grew deeper, so that every word echoed in the night air. “Heed well these words, young wizard: Fincayra’s fate has never been more in doubt. You may find unity in separation, strength in weakness, and rebirth in death, but even that may not be enough to save your world. For in certain turns of time, when all is truly gained, all is truly lost.”

Wind swept past the hillside, howling in the trees below. Gradually, the clouds overhead started to thin and pull apart. As I watched, the face of Dagda faded, until at last it vanished completely. Only his words remained, throbbing like a fever in my head.

Then I heard something else—a strange, ominous creaking. It sounded, vaguely, like a distant doorway starting to open.

5:
R
ADIANT
S
PIRIT

Dawn came at last, so slowly and dimly that it seemed merely an extension of the lingering night. Gray-washed clouds streaked the sky, shrouding the forest lands and the grassy hillside where we had camped. The air, while calmer than last night, felt colder still. No whispers stirred the trees; no songbirds heralded the start of day.

Pulling the collar of my tunic over my face, I shivered. And not just from the chill of morning. Whether I had slept or not after seeing the vision of Dagda, I wasn’t sure. I could only recall stumbling down the hillside, trying not to fall in the darkness. But the vision itself, and the words Dagda had spoken, were carved upon my mind as sharply as the seven symbols of wisdom were carved upon my staff. I vaguely remembered having had some sort of dream before his face appeared, etched on the clouds—something about flying, or falling. But the harsh reality of his words had thrust that memory aside.
Fincayra’s fate has never been more in doubt.

Feeling Hallia’s warm breath on the back of my neck, I rolled over. Her eyes, as deep as the deepest pools, watched me soulfully. I sat up and caressed her lightly on the cheek.

She pushed some stray hair off her brow. “You slept poorly, didn’t you?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I just knew. Your face—it’s strangely clouded.”

I stiffened at her choice of words.

Her eyes lowered briefly. “I, too, slept poorly. Oh, young hawk, I had a terrible dream.”

Gently, I wrapped my arm around her. “Can you tell me what it was?”

“About . . .” She bit her lower lip. “About losing someone I love.”

I pulled her close to my shoulder. How could I tell her that Dagda’s old law was now the least of our troubles? And that the future she ought to fear was not my going to live in the realm of Britannia, but going to die in battle with Rhita Gawr?

I wove my fingers deep into her unbraided hair. Tenderly, I spoke the only words that came to me. “Nothing can separate us, you know. Not distance, not time, not even . . .”

“
Shhh
,” she said softly, placing her forefinger on my lips. “Speak not of such things, nor even of the future. Let us just rejoice in the present, in the days we have together now.”

Though I wished I could have felt comforted by her words, or confident enough to comfort her in turn, I felt nothing of the kind. Turning aside, I merely kept working my hand through her locks, studying the reddish glints that reminded me of a fire’s dying embers.

“Ah, so you’re awake,” called Rhia’s voice from above us. She stood at the crest of the hill, waving vigorously. “Come soon to breakfast if you want any.”

Silently, Hallia and I walked through the bristling stalks of grass, climbing the slope together, pausing now and then to catch our breath. Moments later, we stood on top of the hill, and in a few more seconds, on the flat surface of the stargazing stone. Rhia sat there, cross-legged as before, surrounded by assorted leftovers from last night’s repast. Perched on her shoulder was the furry form of Scullyrumpus, busily chewing on a slice of beetroot.

“Come,” she beckoned, her mouth full of honeycomb. “Before Scully eats it all.”

“Get awayway,” snapped the little beast. “Clumsy man no steal breakyfast!”

Rhia held up two wedges of honeycomb. “Never mind him. He’s just grumpy in the morning.”

“How can you tell?” I asked. Oblivious to the creature’s glare, I set down my staff and sat upon the stone. Hallia joined me, and in short order we were feasting on almonds with cinnamon cream, sweetberries, tangy strips of linden bark, and rose-hip jelly on biscuits, all washed down with the remains of Rhia’s raspberry syrup.

Still feeling chilled, I flapped my arms against my ribs.

“Trying to fly again?” asked Rhia mischievously. “It’s easier with vines.”

“No,” I said flatly, not responding to her jest. “I’m just cold, that’s all.” I glanced at the place on the stone charred by last night’s fire coals. “Too bad the wind scattered all our embers. A fire would be nice.”

“Not necessary.” Rhia reached down and unraveled the vine that held the Orb of Fire to her belt. “I still don’t know how to use this yet, at least in the way it’s supposed to be used. But I have learned something.”

She placed the orange sphere on the stone. Then she held her hand above it, so that her fingers nearly touched its shining surface, and closed her eyes. Seconds passed. With a sudden flash, the sphere erupted with light, glowing like a small sun.

Hallia gasped, while my back straightened in surprise. We looked at each other, and at Rhia, in amazement. Scullyrumpus ignored us, sliding down Rhia’s arm so he could warm his paws.

My sister smiled, coaxing us to move closer. “I know the Orb is really for healing—broken spirits, not broken bones. Until I figure out how to do that, though, it makes a fine little fireplace. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes,” answered Hallia, tugging me nearer to the glowing sphere. “And all aglow like that, it’s as pretty as the spots on a fawn.”

“Moremore useful than a fawn, it is,” squeaked Scullyrumpus.

“Or you, friend furball.” I ignored his chattered protest and stretched my palms toward the Orb. It felt as warm as any hearth. Like Fincayra’s other legendary Treasures—such as the Flowering Harp that could bring the barest hillside to life, or the Caller of Dreams that could make someone’s wish a reality—this object held incalculable power. Right now, though, a little warmth was power enough. Turning to Rhia, I asked, “Have you tried to bake bread on it?”

“Several times.” She tossed her brown curls. “Doesn’t work too well, though. This heat is of a strange kind, better for spirits, somehow, than for bodies—or muffins.”

“It feels good, in any case,” I replied. “You’re right, though, about this heat. I feel it more, well,
under
my skin than on it.”

She nodded. “Remember how you first described it to me? Less like a radiant torch than a radiant spirit.”

“That’s right. And the spirit I was referring to, I also recall, was you.”

Rhia’s face glowed a bit brighter, though it might have been just the reflection from the Orb. “And Dagda’s description of it, remember that? If used wisely, its flame can rekindle hope, or even the will to live.” She pursed her lips. “Someday I’d like to do that.”

I didn’t respond. The mention of Dagda’s name chilled me again. All at once, I felt as distracted as before. Hallia, sensing my change of heart, looked at me with concern. I felt strongly tempted to tell her about Dagda’s warning, but couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. Not yet anyway. Just thinking about it was hard enough; speaking about it would be harder still.

Nor was I ready to tell Rhia, though that, too, was tempting. Glumly, I watched her finishing her last crumbs of honeycomb. She cared about Fincayra, too. But if I told her, she’d only feel as powerless as I. And for good reason! Even if I could somehow convince the giants, the dwarves, the canyon eagles, and all the others to join forces with one another—and, more difficult, with the race of men and women—how could I possibly cover enough territory to reach all of them in so little time?

Rhia reached over and tugged my legging. “Merlin, what is it? You’re not thinking about the Orb anymore, are you?”

My throat tightened. “I’m just thinking about . . . well, Leaping. How useful it would be, say, for travel. Why, I could get around this whole island in an instant! But no . . . that’s impossible—for me, anyway. That sort of Leaping takes at least a hundred years to learn.”

Scullyrumpus snorted. “A thousand years for youyou.”

Hallia shook her head. “Why should it take so long, young hawk? Since you can already move objects—your staff or your satchel—why can’t you move yourself?”

For a moment I gazed into the glowing sphere. “Because Leaping one’s own self requires all the levels of magic working together, as a complete whole. And to do that, the wizard must also be . . . well, a complete whole.”

“Notnot a complete fool,” piped Scullyrumpus. “Heka, heka, hee-hee-ho.”

Ignoring him, Hallia cocked her head in doubt. “You mean having mind, body, and spirit—with no gaps? That’s a lot to ask.”

“Definitely,” I replied. “And if any gaps exist, the magic goes awry. With terrible results.”

Rhia waved her hand dismissively. “Forget the whole idea, Merlin. That’s not the way to travel, even if you could manage it.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“Wings! That’s right, real wings. The kind Fincayran men and women had long ago before they were lost.”

“If that old story is true,” I began, “then—”

“It’s true,” she declared.

“Well, whether it’s true or not, Leaping’s far superior. Much faster, and more direct.”

A serene, contented look passed over her face. “Oh, flying is much more than speed. So much more.” She closed her eyes, and spoke as if dreaming. “Imagine . . . feeling your wings moving, and the air supporting your weight. Having all your senses come fully alive. Taking time to rise above the lands below, your spirit along with your body.”

For an instant, as she spoke, I felt myself remembering something. A dream of my own, perhaps, though I couldn’t be sure.

Her eyes opened. “If you could fly, Merlin,
really
fly, you’d see the difference. Right away. And you’d never go back to Leaping. You just don’t know!”

“Really?” I picked up a walnut shell and tossed it at her. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have flown already—twice, in fact. To Stangmar’s castle, and with Aylah, the wind sister.”

“But that wasn’t really flying on your own power. Trouble carried you to the castle, and Aylah, on the wind.”

I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What’s the difference?”

Rhia sighed. “You’re going to have to figure that out for yourself.”

All I could do was scowl, to the delight of Scullyrumpus. Seated once more on Rhia’s shoulder, he half cackled, half chirped, wiggling his long ears in mirth.

Finally, Rhia raised her hand to silence him. “Just think of the possibilities, Merlin. If you could fly, you could go anywhere you choose—even, say, across the western waters, all the way to the Forgotten Island.” Her eyes took on a sly gleam. “You did promise me once you’d go there. Remember?”

“I remember. And I catch your hint, as well! Don’t deny it. You’re thinking about that old rumor that the Forgotten Island has something to do with the lost wings.”

“I don’t deny it. I just thought you might go there and find out what happened.”