A Wizard's Wings Page 21

  I reached down and touched the point. As I pricked my finger on its edge, I felt a subtle throb between my own shoulders. Instantly, I understood. These had been wings! Sure enough, when I scraped away the soil by the statue’s side, I found several jagged fragments, carved with graceful feathers. Fitting some together, I knew beyond any doubt that I was holding the remnant of wings.

  Lost wings.

  On an impulse, I grasped the statue’s shoulders and heaved. The figure rolled over, crushing the fragments of wings underneath. Seeing the man’s face, I caught my breath. Not because it scowled at me, with stern brow and dangerous eye, but because it was a face I recognized. This was the face of Stangmar. The face of my father.

  Horrified, I peered at the visage. Was it merely a coincidence, someone who resembled him uncannily? Or was it really one of his ancient forebears?

  My ancient forebears.

  I dropped to my knees. With a quivering hand, I touched the jaw, shaped so much like my own. My fingers moved down the beaklike nose, and across the wide brow that wore the mistletoe. This was, I knew, the face of my ancestor. My father. Myself.

  Even the statue’s stance, its posture, looked so much like Stangmar. Such a man of opposites! He showed no mercy for anyone who dared oppose him, yet gave his own life to save Elen’s. He ruled with such wrath and brutality, yet showed, at the last, such tenderness. He tried to kill me—his own son—yet sought my forgiveness.

  I clenched my teeth. No, I could never give him that. Not after everything he did. To Elen. To all the people of this land. And to me.

  Angrily, I struck my fist against the statue’s shoulder, making the figure rock from side to side. The golden wreath fell off, landing with a puff of dirt on the ground. I scowled down at the man I saw in this statue. A man who gave me nothing in my whole life, except a heaviness in my heart.

  A man who ruled this land ruthlessly.

  A man who became the twisted tool of Rhita Gawr.

  A man who hurt anyone who came too close to him . . . because, perhaps, of his own hurt.

  A man who burned with rage at his father—a feeling I knew all too well.

  A man who, also like me, always felt a gnawing pain between his shoulders.

  A man who, for all his faults, never stopped loving Elen.

  A man who might have loved me, too, if only . . .

  I stared at the statue. A man who fell, facedown in the dirt, and yet still wore a glowing crown.

  Moistening my dry lips, I thought of his dying words to the woman who loved him. I remembered the hopeful look on his face when he turned to me for the very last time. And I recalled the willingness of Lleu, so very young, to see the bully who had tried to hurt him as someone who deserved a second chance. We ‘re all together here, he had said.

  Tenderly, I touched the statue’s brow. Then, so quietly it was more a breath than a whisper, I uttered a simple sentence. “My father . . . I forgive you.”

  Nothing changed. Nothing, at any rate, that could be seen or touched or measured. And yet I felt something new, a strange feeling—of being lighter somehow. It began to fill me, expand within me, flow through my every vein. The feeling seemed delicate, even ethereal, and yet I knew somehow that it would last.

  27: FLOWN AND FALLEN

  I sat atop the ruined mound, hearing the waves slamming against the bases of the surrounding cliffs. Beyond, sea and sky melted into a single swath of blue, stretching on, it seemed, forever.

  All at once, I noticed some movement on the wreath of mistletoe lying on the dirt beside me. Looking closer, I realized that the movement came not from the golden wreath itself, but from the open circle inside it. I gasped—for there, on the bare soil within the circle, an image was starting to form. An image with vibrant reds and purples and yellows, swirling around rapidly, a dazzling whirlpool of colors.

  Amazed, I bent nearer. All of a sudden, the colors stopped whirling and began to coalesce. Now, within the wreath, a detailed scene took shape. I could see creatures, birds of some kind, beating great white wings, flying above a place where sheer cliffs dropped into the sea. Although I could hear nothing of the scene, I could easily imagine the roar and hiss of the pounding surf.

  In some ways, the place I was viewing resembled the shore of this very island. Yet that, of course, couldn’t be: The land grew lush and green, and no mound topped the cliffs. Besides, I could tell that it wasn’t an island on its own, but part of the rugged coast of Fincayra.

  Then I saw something that made my mouth fall open. The white-winged birds weren’t birds at all—but men and women! They were swooping and diving among the cliffs, clearly enjoying the thrill of flight. Some flew hand in hand; others burst from the clouds and shot straight down, veering upward just before plunging into the glittering sea. All of them flew with playful freedom, thanks to the glorious white wings that sprouted from their backs.

  Watching them soar and glide and swoop, I thought of Rhia. How she would love to see this! No . . . to do this.

  Suddenly the scene melted into another whirlpool, spinning faster and faster, until the spiraling colors re-formed into an entirely new scene. The place was the same, but now a bustling town had appeared above the cliffs. The winged people lived there, but not alone. They lived and worked alongside many others: dwarves, elves, sprites, and more than a few giants. I even glimpsed a group of tiny bright dots that might have been a flock of light flyers. Full of wonder, I stared. Truly, this scene could only have happened long ago!

  Something else struck me. The winged people were busily performing numerous tasks—carrying water, assembling furniture, repairing roofs, planting fruit trees and crops, and more. Yet they seemed to be doing these things not for themselves, but for the other races. Everywhere, they were doing helpful deeds, as if they were guardians of some sort, watching over all the rest. Though they had the bodies of Fincayran men and women, right down to the pointed ears, they reminded me more of angels.

  Another whirlpool of colors, and the scene shifted again. I viewed the same town above the cliffs, but much had changed. The winged people seemed more distant somehow, flying in the azure sky above the others, rather than laboring alongside them. From on high, they were shouting something—commands, I felt sure. And though the races below bent their backs obediently, I could tell they didn’t like it. Several dwarves shouted back; a female giant raised an angry fist.

  In the middle of the town, a huge structure was rising. At first I thought it resembled a castle, a fortress facing out to sea. Then I realized that it required less stone and timber than dirt, in great quantities. This structure was a mound! A single, gigantic mound. I sucked in my breath. Could it be the same?

  As I watched, one winged man, wearing flowing purple robes, flew down to a knot of dwarves. He hovered above them, his face contorted. To my shock, he drew from his side a hefty whip. Snapping it behind him, he brought it down right on—

  Everything swirled as the scene changed. The town had disappeared, pushed aside by the mound, which had swelled to twice its former size. Beneath its gargantuan shadow, a throng of winged people gathered, arranged for some sort of ceremony. A dwarf, his arms bound, stumbled to the fore, falling to his knees before one winged man who stood upon a platform of sarsen stones. The winged man, wearing a silver sash that fell almost to his feet, raised his arms in what seemed to be a ritual invocation. Without warning, two winged people drew bejeweled swords and slew the dwarf. His blood splattered the stones.

  I shuddered at this spectacle. What had brought the dwarf to such a ghastly end? Had he committed some horrendous crime? But no, all my instincts told me otherwise. I had witnessed a blood sacrifice! And not to some gods, but to some people who saw themselves as gods. Yes, as lords divine.

  I could not tear my gaze away from the mistletoe. All at once, the scene darkened. Huge, lumbering clouds gathered overhead, seared by lightning. Then the mound and everything around it started shaking, so violently that crevasses opened in the land, spewin
g dirt into the air. The winged people fled, in panic, to the skies—when an enormous shape started to emerge from the clouds, ready to descend on them. Amidst all the chaos, I couldn’t quite tell what it was, though one flash of lightning revealed a shadow falling over the mound, a shadow that looked like a single enormous hand.

  Suddenly, as I watched, I heard a voice—not with my ears but with my mind. It was a voice I knew well: resonant, wise, and steeped in sorrow. I knew, in a flash, that I was hearing the words of Dagda:

  “Heed my words, thou who hast flown and fallen! Thou hast spurned my trust, ignored my warnings. Yea, thou hast stained thy very wings with blood! And so thy gifts shall be taken, thy precious barrow destroyed, the land beneath it forgotten.”

  The voice paused, its words echoing through my mind as they had echoed in the air on that fateful day. “Now, with this very hand that gave thee wings long ago, I shall tear this land away from all other land, just as thou hast torn thy people away from all other people. So it shall remain, unchanged, like the ache that lies deeper than thy bones. For this land stands cursed and condemned.”

  The scene abruptly ended, swept up in a swirl of colors, darker and redder than before. In time, the colors faded, then vanished completely. All that remained within the wreath of golden leaves was soil, dry and bare.

  I stared at the empty wreath, then gazed around me at the windswept slope, littered with the wreckage of that day. Weapons, jewelry, and enchanted stones lay everywhere. Yet none of those things had been enough to save that people—my people—from their fate. I winced, thinking of the arrogance that allowed them to create a place of worship in their own honor. That allowed them to lose so much, both for themselves and for Fincayra.

  I scooped up a handful of soil, squeezing it through my fingers. No green plants had grown here since that day, nor ever would. Cursed and condemned. This land could never bloom with life again.

  Unless . . .

  Slowly, I reached into my leather satchel, still damp from its plunge into the sea. From it I pulled my seed, whose brown surface still pulsed to its own rhythm. Seeing it gleam in the sunlight, I thought of how long I’d carried it, always wondering where it should be planted. And I knew that, while I couldn’t do anything to change the miserable past of this place, I could still do one small thing to change its future.

  “Hear me now, magical seed,” I proclaimed, my voice fluttering in the wind off the waves. “I offer you to the soil of this desolate land. Give it life! Let it flourish, as it must have flourished long, long ago.”

  With care, I placed the seed on the bare ground in the center of the wreath of mistletoe. The instant I pulled back my hand, the seed suddenly quivered, trembling feverishly. It started wriggling, working its way down into the soil. As it dropped lower, dirt folded over it, as if the land itself were clasping it tightly. A few seconds later, it was gone.

  I waited, hoping something might happen. But no movement stirred the soil; no green shoot emerged inside the golden circle. Still, I felt somehow certain I’d done the right thing.

  Then, to my surprise, I heard Dagda’s resonant voice again. These were, I felt sure, the final words he had spoken on that darkened day:

  “And one thing more I shall say: Only if, in times to come, thy people shall voyage here, and truly learn what thou hast wrought, may this land be freed at last from its curse.” He paused, and my heart swelled, hoping that I had, in fact, truly learned . . . and that the curse of this place had finally ended. Then he concluded: “And yet those voyagers of the future, though they may stand upon this very soil, shall never leave the forgotten isle again.”

  Never leave again!

  My mind reeled. Was I, along with Elen and the children, doomed to stay here forever? Or until we perished from hunger and thirst? No! I had to find some way to leave—both to get supplies for the others, and to travel to the circle of stones.

  I looked upward, checking the position of the sun. Mid-afternoon already! In barely more than two days, the gateway between the worlds would open. And Rhita Gawr’s invasion would begin.

  My jaw set, I turned to the distant coastline across the water. I would find my way back there. And no curse, no barrier, could possibly stop me.

  A movement on the ground halted my thoughts. A shadow! It spread across the fallen statue, and the wreath of mistletoe. I felt a surge of relief. My shadow had finally returned.

  Only then did I notice its odd shape. It seemed both broader and taller than it should for this time of day. That was when I realized that, instead of arms, this shadow bore a pair of deadly blades.

  28: LAND LONG FORGOTTEN

  “No more escapes for you, whelp!”

  I leaped up, my heart slamming against my ribs. Slayer!

  The warrior stood before me, his feet planted amidst the ruins of the mound. He gave a sharp kick to the axle of the upturned wagon, sending one of the wheels careening down the slope and over the edge of a cliff. Then he took a step toward me, laughing coarsely through his skull mask, which dripped water off its whitened cheekbones. More water ran from his breastplate, his boots, and his massive, double-edged blades.

  Speechless, I stared at him. How did he get here? The mere sight of him, standing on the same island as my mother and the children, stunned me. After all I’d done to escape him!

  Behind his mask, he growled. “Haven’t you learned by now, runt wizard? I’m always closer than you know.”

  Closer than you know. The same words Urnalda had used to describe him.

  “I’ve been swimming too much, thanks to you,” he grumbled. “None of your fish-men friends wanted to help me. But I found others in the sea who would, by the sweet breath of death I did.”

  So that was how he got here! I had called to the sea for help in crossing over, and so had he. Just as he’d done with every other power I tried to use against him, he’d hurled this one back in my face! Even as my temples throbbed with rage, I felt again there was something familiar about him. But I just couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  He glowered at me, his sword blades flashing in the sun. I clasped my staff in one hand and drew my sword with the other. As always, the great blade rang in the air for a moment, calling like a distant chime. I had barely enough time to heft it before Slayer charged, slashing the air with his arms.

  I leaped aside, swiping my staff as he dived at the spot where I’d been standing. The knotted top slammed into his back, throwing him into a huge capstone. The chunk of granite wobbled, fell on its side, and slid into the deep pit with a spray of soil. He spun sideways from the impact, but somehow kept his balance, his legs churning in the loose dirt. With a wrathful roar, he threw himself at me again.

  To parry his assault, I swung both my sword and staff upward. They collided with his blades in midair, clanging and showering us with sparks. He pulled back and slashed with one blade, while I countered with my own. He whirled on one foot and stabbed at me; I knocked him aside with the staff. Across the wreckage and scattered treasures we fought, trading blows.

  At one point he pressed me so hard that I was retreating swiftly, trying my best to block his thrusts. Suddenly I stumbled on a gold-rimmed cauldron, sprawling backward onto a pile of shattered plates, bowls, and drinking vessels. Slayer advanced, moving too fast for me. No time to regain my feet! As his twin blades sliced downward, I caught the lip of a bowl with the toe of my boot and kicked as hard as I could. The pottery flew straight into his face, smashing into bits on his mask. I rolled aside, as his swords went askew.

  Upright again, I returned the attack. I swung my sword wildly, driving him back up the slope until he reached the top of the mound. The deep pit loomed just behind him. As he dodged one of my blows, he stepped back too far, dangling his leg over the cavernous hole. For an instant, he hovered there, about to tumble over the edge. Dirt and bits of rock broke off from the wall of the pit, clattering down into the depths.

  I rushed at him. To my dismay, he plunged both of his blades into the gro
und by his boot, gaining new leverage. Even as I reached the spot where he stood, he hunched over and threw his shoulder into me. We collided, rolling through the dirt together until we struck a statue of three winged women, which burst into shards.

  Over and over we rolled, locked together for a terrible moment. One of his blades sliced into the flesh of my shoulder before we separated. I struggled to stand again, crushing the thigh of a skeleton under my boot. Opposite me, Slayer rose to his feet, panting as hard as I.

  “First blood,” he taunted. “More to come!”

  Unwilling to let go of my weapons, even for an instant, I couldn’t reach my hand to touch my wounded shoulder. But I could feel it throbbing. Blood oozed down my left arm, soaking my tunic to the elbow. My staff felt heavier by the second.

  A glimmer of light to one side caught my attention. It was an arc of silver lifting over the horizon. The rising moon! Glancing at the sky, I realized that we had fought through the afternoon and past sunset. Already dusk was spreading its cloak of shadows over the ruins of the island. Drenched with perspiration, I shivered from the cold night air.

  Suddenly I thought of Elen—down there somewhere, under one of the cliffs that ringed us. She’d be frantic with worry by now, unable to reach me up here, unaware of what had happened. That was probably for the best: She’d fling herself bodily at Slayer if she saw him. Better for now that she and the children remained away from all this.

  Flailing his murderous arms, my foe charged again. I blocked one swipe, parried another, and ducked to avoid yet another. Sparks jumped into the air, illuminating the darkened mound. Slayer tried to work me back toward the edge of the pit, but I slid behind a carved amethyst table that had been turned on its side. Using the table for cover, I dashed away from the edge, gaining more space to maneuver.

  My relief, though, was short-lived. My shoulder ached terribly. And with each blow to my staff, my whole arm felt increasingly weak. Before long I wouldn’t be able to lift the staff at all, and in a little more time, I wouldn’t even be able to grasp it. Slayer knew he was wearing me down, and aimed his most savage thrusts at my weakened side.