A Wizard's Wings Read online

  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.”

  “And, while I’m at it, bring you back a nice big pair?”

  She shrugged carelessly, trying not to grin. “If you like.”

  I shook my head. “You’re obsessed, Rhia! Even if that rumor is true, there’s a small matter you’re forgetting: that thick web of spells that surrounds the whole island, keeping everyone out. Why, no one’s been there since, since . . .”

  “The wings were lost,” she finished. “Think about it, Merlin. Having wings would also help you get around faster.”

  I could only grimace. If only she understood why I needed to travel fast! And if only
I had some idea—any idea—what to do next.

  “It could also solve the ache between our shoulders,” she pressed. “You can’t deny that exists, can you?”

  “No.” I worked my shoulders, then lay down on my side, resting my elbow on the rock. “No one knows for sure, though, whether the ache really comes from lost wings, or something else entirely. Maybe it’s just part of being Fincayran.”

  “Hmfff,” she replied. “Everyone knows it’s true, except maybe young wizards.”

  Scullyrumpus broke into such wild cackles that he nearly fell off her shoulder.

  “The one thing no one knows,” Rhia went on, “is why the wings were lost.”

  “That’s right,” offered Hallia, gracefully sweeping her legs around to move closer to the warm globe. “I’ve heard your friend Cairpré say he’d gladly give half his library to find the answer to that question.”

  I nodded, remembering my old mentor saying something similar to me. “Cairpré’s theory is that Dagda, long ago, gave people wings. Then something happened that made him take them back forever.”

  “Only Dagda himself knows why,” said Rhia, frowning. “The people must have done something really horrible to deserve such a punishment.”

  “Really horrible,” echoed Hallia.

  Rhia reached out and took the last two sweetberries. She plunked one in her mouth, then tossed the other into the air. Scullyrumpus’ tiny jaws snapped closed, and he grinned crookedly before swallowing.

  “Well,” said Rhia, “I think we’ll be going now. I have a little time before heading off to join Mother, and there’s something I need to do first.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Oh, something.”

  “You have that look of a mischievous fawn,” observed Hallia.

  “Do I?” she replied innocently. “Can’t say why.”

  Rhia grasped the magical Orb, which instantly stopped radiating heat. As she tied it to her belt, she nodded to her little companion. He chattered something unintelligible while wrapping his paws around her shoulder. Watching them, I thought of how Trouble used to ride on my own shoulder, clasping me tighdy with his talons. And how I still carried him with me in a way, just as I still carried the name he inspired.

  With a wave to Hallia and me, Rhia leaped down from the rock and quickly strode down the hill. I nearly called after her. But no—I couldn’t do it. I merely watched her make her way through the tall grasses. A few seconds later, she disappeared into the trees, the Orb of Fire bouncing at her side.

  6: ESCAPE

  Hallia took my hand, and her touch somehow warmed me even more than the Orb. “Tell me what it is, young hawk.”

  I sat up, unsure of what to say, or whether to say anything at all. My boots twisted uneasily on the grainy surface of the stargazing stone. The brisk morning air gusted slightly, causing the surrounding forest to creak and clatter. I felt as if the hill where we sat was an island in the middle of a turbulent sea, and that any moment the waves would rise up and overwhelm us.

  “Something is troubling you,” she continued. “Something more than you’ve been saying. Is it . . . about us?”

  “N-no, not us.”

  “Tell me, then. What is it?”

  I forced myself to swallow. “It will upset you.”

  “It will upset me more to watch you suffer inside.” Her brown eyes, ever welcoming, watched me. “If telling me would help, then do it. Please.”

  I drew a breath. “All right then.” I glanced upward at the gray, shadowed sky. “Last night, I saw a vision. A face in the clouds. It was—”

  A sudden pounding, rolling out of the distance, arrested me. I listened as it swelled steadily, like a thunderstorm fast approaching. Unlike the rumbling I had heard last night, the sound that had called me to Dagda, this sound had no subtlety. It simply pounded. Before long the boulder beneath us began to shake, vibrating to the incessant rhythm. Hallia squeezed my whole arm as the trees at the base of the hill started swaying dangerously. An enormous limb tore away from an old, leafless elm and crashed to the ground near the spot where we’d slept just a short while before.

  I grabbed my staff so it wouldn’t slide off the edge of the stone. The pounding continued to rattle the hillside, more so by the second. Hallia’s expression told me she wanted to bolt, to become a deer and bound away into the forest. But I shook my head, urging her to stay. For I had heard this sound before, many times. It was a sound that had stirred the land of Fincayra for ages beyond memory, for seasons beyond count.

  The footsteps of a giant.

  Out of the mist-shrouded forest, a shape gradually appeared. Like a hillside itself, it rose above the trees. In time, I could make out the giant’s wild hair, enormous shoulders, and gangly arms, though I couldn’t yet discern any features of the face. All the while, the pounding, pounding, swelled louder. Now I could see enough to know it was a male, wearing a baggy yellow vest and wide brown leggings, in the custom of the residents of Varigal. He lumbered toward us, wading through the forest much as a man would stride through a field of wheat.

  At last, I saw his eyes, wide and reddish pink. And a cavernous mouth full of misshapen teeth. Above that hung a nose that bulged like a swollen potato—a nose I couldn’t help but recognize.

  “It’s all right,” I assured Hallia, clasping her shoulder. “It’s my friend Shim.”

  “Young hawk, what about that vision?”

  “I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”

  With a few more enormous strides, Shim reached the base of the hillside. Bending a pine tree aside with his huge hand, he stepped out of the forest. As he released the tree, cones and needles rained down, bouncing through the branches. He took another step closer, planting his massive foot on the slope, and his weight caused the stargazing stone to shift. My staff nearly rolled off again, but I seized it just in time. At last, the giant (as well as the hillside) stood still.

  Gingerly, Hallia and I rose to our feet. We found ourselves facing the tip of his bulbous nose. “Well met, old friend,” I declared, swaying from the force of warm air from his nostrils. “It’s good you found us atop this hill, so we can look you in the face, instead of staring up at your hairy toes.”

  To my surprise, he didn’t laugh at the joke. Nor did he even so much as grin. Rather, his whole face twisted into an uncharacteristic frown. He blinked once, nearly brushing Hallia with lashes as big as oak saplings. Then, in a voice that bellowed hoarsely, he spoke.

  “I is, this oncely time, not happily to see you, Merlin. Or you, missly maiden Hallia.”

  At my feet, my shadow stirred, waving one of its arms.

  Understanding, the giant nodded. “Or you, wizardly shadow.”

  The dark form assumed a dignified pose, holding its chin out with pride.

  Ignoring the shadow, I demanded, “Why? What’s wrong?”

  Shim’s eyebrows, as thick as forested knolls, drew together. “The wickedly king, the one you calls Stangmar, escapes this morning! Nobodily knows where he is gone.”

  My knees suddenly weakened. I stumbled, almost stepping off the edge of the boulder. Hallia caught my arm, then directed her own disbelief at the giant. “Are you sure? Wasn’t he held in one of those caverns in the far north? No one’s ever escaped from there.”

  “I is sure,” Shim answered. “Certainly, definitely, absolutely. With his barely hands, he kills two prison guards, maybily three, gettings out.”

  I slapped myself on the forehead. How could all this be happening? Stangmar—free. What would he try to do? Join forces with Rhita Gawr once again? Or, wait. Was he already part of the wicked spirit’s plans?

  Shim scrunched his nose, clearly finding the whole business distasteful. “I hears more badly news, Merlin. The guard who still survives said Stangmar’s bent on findings somebodily. Yes, and that somebodily now is in gravely danger.”

  My fist clenched. “You mean me.”

  “No,” countered Shim. “I means someone else. Your motherly, Elen.�
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  “Mother!” I cried, my heart pounding. “You’re certain?”

  Shim nodded glumly. “The guard says Stangmar didn’t know she’d returned to Fincayra till yesterdaily. Then, when he finds out she’s here, he gets angrily—very angrily.”

  I groaned. “He thinks she betrayed him. Helped his enemies, including me. He’ll be out for revenge. We must find her!”

  Hallia’s bare foot stamped on the rock. “Wait, young hawk. Rhia knows where she is, remember? If we can just find her, she’ll take us straight to Elen.”

  “Rhia, the woodly woman?” asked Shim. “I sees her while I comings here—not fars away.” His massive lower lip protruded thoughtfully. “She is draggings something heavily, a greatly bird maybe, just over theres.”

  Bewildered, I followed the line of his pointing arm. “A bird? What could she be doing?”

  “I will takes you theres,” offered the giant, his whole frame swaying like a huge tree. “That’s the quickliest way.”

  Hallia tilted her head skeptically. “I’d rather run, thank you.” Before I could protest, she cut me off. “It can’t be far. I’ll follow you.”

  “Then I’ll run with you,” I declared. “Shim! Show us the way.”

  He answered by swinging himself around. His elbow struck the stargazing stone, nearly dislodging it and sending several smaller rocks tumbling down the hillside. The forest below shook as he took his first heavy step. Then another, and another. Somehow, Hallia and I kept our balance. We started to run after him, plunging down the slope, our legs slicing through the stiff grasses.

  As if we weren’t two creatures running over the land, but one connected being that flowed like a wave across a pond, we loped faster and faster. Our bodies leaned forward, our arms reached the ground, our neck muscles lengthened. Hallia’s robe and my tunic melted away, replaced by glistening fur the same color as the grass. Arms became legs, while feet transformed into hooves, moving with the land as much as upon it.

  My head, crowned with a rack of antlers with five points on each side, turned toward my companion. She moved effortlessly, springing through the air with every step. She was still Hallia, to be sure—the wide eyes told me that—but she was, in some irrefutable way, more herself now than she could ever be in her woman’s form. Like the wind she ran, the most graceful creature I had ever known. And despite the lingering dread I felt over Shim’s news as well as last night’s vision, I was deeply glad, once again, to run beside her.