A Wizard's Wings Page 13

  I started to speak, when she raised her stout hand. “I be uninterested in your tales of woe, Merlin. I only be interested in my people.”

  “But—”

  “Hush!” she commanded. “And be not so foolish as to try any of your enchantments on me.” Her voice lowered a notch. “You be faring poorly enough against your sword-armed adversary. And you be faring far worse against Urnalda. Besides,” she added with a throaty chuckle, “I still be holding my staff.”

  I started. “You know about Slayer?”

  “Hush!”

  “He could be part of the plot against—”

  “Hush, young wizard!” She leaned forward, her earrings vibrating as she stared up at me. “Here be my terms. Answer my question, and I return your possessions. Fail, and . . . well, that be my decision.”

  “You must listen,” I protested.

  She jammed the base of her staff onto the stone underfoot, sending up a spray of dust and pebbles. “No! You be mistaken. I shall speak, and you shall listen.”

  With effort, I held my tongue.

  “Good, then. Here be my question.” She drew in her breath to say whatever it was, then suddenly caught herself. Turning to the guard, she waved her hand at him. “Stand outside the door. And be not eavesdropping, or I be changing your beard hairs into slithery worms!”

  The dwarf anxiously touched his beard. He bustled out the doorway and into the tunnel, marching at least a dozen paces before coming to a halt. Apparently satisfied, the enchantress faced me once more. She cleared her throat, then began speaking in a raspy whisper.

  “My question be this: For several weeks now, my visions of the future be strangely clouded. That never be happening before, not to Urnalda, so brave, so wise.” She paused, choosing her words. “I be unable to see anything—anything at all—past the night we call Dundealgal’s Eve, the longest night of the year.”

  Her pale brow contorted. “Except . . . snakes. Ghostly snakes, who be hissing and spitting at each other. They be coming often in my visions.” Disdainfully, she spat on her hands and rubbed them together briskly. “But Urnalda cares not about the snakes. Urnalda cares about seeing nothing else!” She grimaced, trembling with rage. “This be unacceptable. An enchantress without visions!”

  I nodded grimly. “And your question is why it’s happened?”

  She ground her staff into the stone floor. “That be my question.”

  “And if I answer it, you will return my staff and sword?”

  “Those be my terms.”

  “The answer,” I said flatly, “has nothing to do with you or your powers. You are still as strong as ever. It has to do, instead, with the future.”

  Unmistakably, a look of relief washed over her face. Then her expression darkened. She asked, her voice no longer a whisper, “What be this future?”

  “I only know what I learned from a vision, several nights ago. Dagda came to me, spoke to me.”

  Urnalda’s back straightened. “The greatest of the spirits spoke to you? A wizard so young he is yet to grow a beard?”

  “Yes. About the future.”

  She scrutinized me, and I could tell she was trying to judge the truth of what I’d said. After a few seconds, she gave a nod. “Go on.”

  “He said that, on winter’s longest night, the Otherworld of the spirits and the world of Fincayra will come perilously close. A passageway of some sort will open between them, at the stone circle, the Dance of the Giants.” I drew a ragged breath. “And through that passageway, Rhita Gawr and all his forces will come pouring out, bent on crushing every mortal life in their path—unless you and I and the rest of Fincayra are there to stop them.”

  For a long period, she gazed at one of the torches, hissing and sputtering in its clasp on the wall. “Did he say anything more?”

  “Some things I didn’t understand, yes, about lost wings and other notions. But the point of it all was a warning, not just to me or the race of men and women, but to all the people of this land.” Hopefully, I reached out my hands to her. “Won’t you join me, Urnalda? Help save the world we share?”

  Swinging her staff, she slapped away my hands. “Join you and the race of men? Fight alongside the very same warriors who be trying not long ago to destroy my people?” Her voice grew shrill. “Have you no memory of what your ruler Stangmar, whose blood be running through your own veins, did to the dwarves?”

  “It’s our only hope,” I pleaded.

  “Your only hope! The people of Urnalda be surviving now very well indeed.”

  Her face relaxed for a moment, and took on a look of deep longing. “One day, our people will be truly free from harm, enough to stop building more tunnels and defenses. Then we be constructing a great stone amphitheater, open to the air and sky. The amphitheater of Urnalda’s people! I be wanting this for more years than you be living, Merlin! A place where I be able to view all my people at once, a place for my weekly addresses, and dramatic plays in my honor.”

  Suddenly she snapped out of her reverie. She stamped angrily on the floor, sending a rumble through the stones of the chamber. It seemed to shake the very bedrock, vibrating for several seconds before fading away. “Go talk to the giants, those hairy-footed dunces, about fighting alongside you! They be dangerous, and almost as terrible to the dwarves as men. But they be stupid, very stupid, so mayhaps you be more successful.”

  Scowling, I struck the flat of my hand against the stone wall. “It’s you, Urnalda, who are stupid! And stubborn—as immovable as these very stones. Do you really think you can evade Rhita Gawr after he’s taken the lands above? Why, your underground realm will be as easily broken as a butterfly’s wing in his hand.”

  The eyes of the enchantress blazed as bright as the torches. “I never be joining forces with the race of men. Never.”

  Holding back my wrath, I decided to try one last time. “Please. I know you care deeply about your people’s wellbeing. I’ve heard many stories about how much you have done for them in your rule. For their sake, you must reconsider.”

  “You flatter me, wizard,” she spat back. “You be knowing nothing about my rule. My dwarves be forbidden to speak of such things to your race.”

  “No, I speak honestly. My friend Shim, a true giant who lived for a time among your people, has told me many stories. And he—”

  “Is a traitor and a spy!” She squeezed her staff so hard that thin trails of smoke started rising from the runes on the shaft. “Of all the giants, he be the worst. Masquerading as one of Urnalda’s people! If he ever sets foot again in my realm, he will be killed immediately.” She grimaced at me. “We be ready for him, oh yes, if he be so foolish to return.”

  “You’re wrong about him,” I fumed. “And wrong about what’s best for your people! Can’t you understand? I’m trying to warn you about the gravest danger we’ve ever known.”

  Urnalda merely glared at me. “You be better off, Merlin, worrying about other dangers. Yes, like your sword-armed friend.” Her eyes gleamed strangely. “He be closer, much closer, than you know.”

  Before I could ask what she meant, she clapped her stout palms together. The stones beneath my feet started to quiver, then shake violently. Dust rose out of the cracks. I jumped aside, just as the floor split open in a narrow chasm. To my astonishment, my staff and sword rose out of the depths, passing through the opening, floating upward to meet me. I reached for them instantly, not willing to give the enchantress any chance to change her mind.

  As I sheathed my sword, I growled at her. “You may be stubborn, but at least you honor your word.”

  “Better than most of your race,” she retorted. “Honor! That will be the subject of my first address to all my people one day, when my great amphitheater be built.” She furrowed her brow. “Whenever that may be.”

  Her stubby fingers drummed the wood of her staff. “You be a fool, Merlin, but you, too, be honorable. You answered my question, as I be hoping. Even if you be insulting me, as well! That be my reason for healing
your wounds, though you be nearly dead from bleeding. And so weak it took Urnalda many days to coax back your strength.”

  I blanched. “Many days?” Bending nearer, I demanded, “How much time is left before the longest night?”

  “Seven days, young wizard, come the next sunset. Then we be finding out the truth of your vision.”

  17: SEEDS

  Several hours later, the band of dwarves escorting me through the maze of underground tunnels came to an abrupt halt. Their low, rhythmic chant, which they had kept up from the moment Urnalda sent us off, also stopped. My passionate cursings, though, continued: Why did I have to waste so much time marching? Why couldn’t she have set me free through the closest doorway, as I’d pleaded?

  Even now, we faced not a door but a dark slab of stone. The wavering torchlight revealed a complex pattern of runes swirling across its surface—runes that held, I knew, the symbols of enchantment. Without a word, two of the stout, bearded fellows shoved me roughly toward the slab. My staff caught on a rim of rock across the floor, and I stumbled forward. Throwing my arm across my face, I braced myself to smash into the stone.

  But I didn’t fall into it. Instead, I fell through it, landing on my face on hard-packed ground.

  Rolling over, I spit out some stems and frosted bits of leaves. The first sunlight I’d felt in days warmed the back of my neck, though the air still felt wintry. With a mixture of anger and admiration, I gazed at the apparently solid boulder out of which I’d just tumbled. Urnalda’s skills were, indeed, extraordinary. Virtually no one would perceive the doorway buried in that boulder, let alone find some way to open it.

  No one but Rhita Gawr. He would, no doubt, make quick work of all her secret entrances and clever defenses. And he’d be just as merciless with her as she planned to be with Shim.

  What had she meant, exactly, when she vowed that she’d be ready for the giant if he ever returned? Some sort of trap awaited him—that much was certain. But what kind? An enormous pit? A slew of specially treated spears? I shook my head. If only Urnalda had paid more attention to my warning than to her rage against men and giants, then everyone, including her own people, would be better off.

  Casting a glance around, I spotted some low, flat hills, sprinkled with a few twisted trees, on the horizon. Snow streaked the hills, alternating with patches of dark brown, making them look like a row of striped cakes. At once, I knew my location.

  Urnalda had released me near the far reaches of the eastern plains—the extreme edge of her realm. That explained the long march! Whether she had done that so I could be nearer to the circle of stones, and the battle to come, I didn’t know. But I suspected she just wanted to get me as far away as possible before setting me free.

  The position of the sun confirmed my fears about the time. Late afternoon had already arrived; I’d lost the better part of a day just getting here. The snow-striped hills gleamed in the golden light. Yet I saw no beauty in that scene.

  Barely one week remained, and I’d accomplished nothing. Nothing at all! I hadn’t defeated Slayer, nor found any way to stop his attacks. And he could have killed more children during the time I’d been with the dwarves! I could only hope that Rhia was faring better in her task of gathering support for Fincayra’s cause. Where, I wondered, was she now?

  As I scanned the distant hills, my thoughts turned to someone else: Hallia. I yearned to see her again, to bound by her side again. Only a few months ago, we’d roamed together on this very terrain, following the ancient trails of her people. As usual, we’d kept entirely to ourselves, but for a brief visit to my friends, the aging gardeners T’eilean and Garlatha.

  That was an idea. I’d go there now, to their cottage in the hills. They could give me no help in my quest, that I knew. But they could provide something else, something they had given me many times before—a brief respite from my troubles. A moment of quiet, in the company of friends. And a chance to think about what to do next.

  I started trudging toward the hills, blowing frosty breaths, my shadow moving despondently at my side. It knew, as did I, that my problems, and Fincayra’s, worsened by the hour. With each step, my staff’s tip stabbed the hardened ground, impaling dead leaves and crusted dirt.

  In time, the land started rising to meet the snowy hills. A falcon soared overhead, screeching in its high, whistling voice, but otherwise the world seemed empty of life. Hollows where, in spring, water splashed down over mossy stones and dew-soaked rushes, lay dry and hard. A young hawthorn that would, in a different season, explode with pink and white blossoms, stood as bare as my own staff.

  Just ahead I spied a spur of one of the hills, split by a deep cleft. My pace quickened, for I knew it well. Now, within the cleft, I could see the gray stone hut that seemed to sprout out of the very soil of the hillside, the home of my friends T’eilean and Garlatha.

  I approached the hut, dark in the shadow of the embracing hill. Then I glimpsed, beside it, a trace of green. The closer I came, the brighter the green appeared. Surprised, I concentrated my vision to make certain—but no, the color was there. Lavishly there.

  Rows of trees, every bit as leafy as Rhia’s gown, stood on both sides of the hut. Their branches hung low, laden with ripening fruits. As I drew nearer, I could make out luscious golden pears, and some purple plums as big as my fist, as well as cherries, apples, and my favorite, the spiral-shaped fruit of the larkon tree. Beneath the fragrant boughs ran hedges of berries, overflowing with blackberries, strawberries, and brambleberries. Even the rare llyrberry, capable of healing torn muscles—and, it was said, broken dreams—grew in abundance. Trailing vines, including two or three heavy with grapes, clung to the walls of the house; a cluster of light blue flowers draped over the doorway.

  I chewed my lip, bewildered. It was one thing to see this garden still blooming in autumn, as I had with Hallia. But now, in the midst of winter? Even the great gardening prowess of my friends couldn’t turn back the cycle of the seasons.

  All of a sudden, I understood. Just as Rhia had been entrusted with one of the Treasures of Fincayra, so had this couple. They cared for the legendary Flowering Harp, whose magical strings could coax any land to life, any plant to flower.

  How fitting, I thought, that so much life remained within their garden wall! For T’eilean and Garlatha themselves, despite their great age, seemed never to lose their vitality. This showed in their passion for gardening, as well as their passion for arguing ferociously, the kind of arguing only possible for people who have lived together many years. I recalled, with fondness, how Garlatha often teased her husband that she could see right through him, but still enjoy the view.

  Stepping through the wall’s wooden gate, I felt a rush of warm air, as if I had stepped right into springtime. I undid the buttons of my vest, smelling the sweet fragrances. Dragonflies, honeybees, and green-backed beetles hovered around the blossoms, their wings humming.

  Up to the door I strode. Just as I started to knock on it, though, I heard a groaning sound from somewhere behind the hut. Swiftly, I dashed around to the other side. When I rounded the corner, I halted, my shadow stretching behind me as if it were pulling away, trying to evade what confronted us.

  There lay T’eilean, his white hair falling loose about his shoulders, leaning against the trunk of an old cherry tree. His right hand clutched his chest, pinching the folds of his heavy brown tunic. But for the dark pupils of his eyes, and the webbing of wrinkles that surrounded them, his face was completely pale. Kneeling by his side, Garlatha stroked his brow, her own face much the same.

  In unison, their heads swiveled toward me. Garlatha, her eyes brightening, exclaimed, “Oh, it’s you, Merlin! If ever we needed your healing powers, it’s now.”

  Weakly, the old man shook his head. “Not even a wizard . . . can help me now, my duck.”

  I stepped forward, kneeling next to Garlatha. “Tell me what happened.”

  With her starkly veined hand, she pointed at the russet sack made of homespun cloth that
lay open among the cherry tree’s roots. “T’eilean was out here, gathering seeds from the fallen fruit, as we always do, to plant them come spring—when he suddenly collapsed.” She ran her hand through her husband’s white mane. “It was all I could do to get him over here where he could sit up.”

  “My chest,” said T’eilean with a groan. “Hurting . . . badly. Squeezing me. Can hardly—oooh, good Dagda! Hardly breathe.”

  I lay my hand below his, flat against the ribs. Focusing my mind, I tried to sense each of his organs in turn. Liver, then stomach; left lung, then right; intestines, and heart. A twisting bolt of pain shot through my hand and up my arm, making me jerk backward. Wincing, I gazed at him.

  “It’s your heart,” I said, my voice shaking. “T’eilean, it feels, well, very deep. I don’t know if it’s something I can heal.”

  He swallowed, working his tongue. “It’s not. I can . . . feel it.”

  “Don’t be so sure now,” reproached Garlatha. “When you’re most sure, you’re most wrong.”

  Her mate smiled weakly. “Have you only just learned that . . . my duck? After sixty-nine years of marriage?”

  “Seventy,” his spouse corrected.

  “Whatever it’s been,” I declared, “I’m not giving up on you yet. Let me try to find a way.” Replacing my hand on his ribs, I started to probe more deeply.

  “You never did give up . . . easily,” T’eilean said crustily. “I remember when . . . you first came through here, on the way to . . . take on Stangmar and all his soldiers at once. Why, you hardly . . . stayed long enough to taste . . . a larkon fruit.”

  Sensing the layers of torn tissues within his heart, I felt a wave of nausea. Still, I did my best to keep my composure, to sound relaxed and confident. “I remember that fruit. Like a bite of sunshine, it was, purple sunshine. Best fruit I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Or ever will,” said Garlatha flatly. “That fruit holds so much more inside its skin than you’d ever guess.”