A Wizard's Wings Page 9

  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.

  For a while Rhia and I stood over him, this boy who seemed so used to spending the night on the cold ground. Meanwhile, the darkness around us deepened. The ridges of the oak’s trunk could no longer be seen; the trees in the forest beyond melted into a single mass of blackness, much like the sky. There wouldn’t be any stars tonight. With a sigh, I wondered whose dreams would prove more frightening, Lleu’s or my own.

  And yet . . . something about the sight of him nudged my anxieties aside. The simple goodness of his heart touched me. Lying there, his face so careworn, he made me think of the young king whose sword I carried, and whose burden I’d promised to share. In a land far away, a land that one day, I’d heard foretold, would be called Merlin’s Isle.

  All that, however, was in anot
her world, another time. It was the world I lived in now, the world of Rhia and Hallia and Shim, that inspired my deepest loyalties. That was the place I loved, and would do everything in my power to protect.

  11: ELLYRIANNA’S HAND

  That night, once again, I dreamed of Trouble’s feather. This time, though, I wasn’t riding on it but watching from afar. The feather, banded with silver and brown, drifted down from the sunlit clouds. Gracefully it spun and skipped, carried by the currents. Each time one gust would fade, another would swell, so that the feather continued to ride aloft, floating freely through the air.

  All at once, the feather started to change. Swiftly it grew larger, swelling in length and breadth, until it was no longer a feather but an entire wing. Another wing appeared beside the first, as much alike as a perfect reflection. The wings looked now very much like my lost friend, Trouble, except that they bore nothing between them—nothing but air.

  Bearing an invisible body, the wings started to beat rhythmically. Higher they flew, far above the land, until finally their ascent peaked. Then downward they plunged, heedless of any obstacles, slicing through the clouds like a spear.

  Slowly, very slowly, a body started to form between the wings. My own body! Now I beat the wings; now I rode the air. The wind blew strongly in my face, making my eyes water. But I didn’t care, for I felt wholly alive. Part feathers and part freedom.

  A gale suddenly blew, slamming into me with the force of a huge hand. Everywhere the wind screamed, racing through the clouds, tearing them asunder. Out of control, I spun helplessly through the air. At last, I struck a sandy shore. Rolling across dunes and over brightly colored shells, I fell into the mist-shrouded sea and vanished under the waves.

  I awoke. Darkness pressed close, and the branches of the old oak rattled in the night breeze. Sitting up, I instinctively reached for my satchel and felt for the feather within. It was there, soft and flexible. And real. I wiped my brow, streaked with perspiration, with the sleeve of my tunic. All the while, a blur of images still crowded my mind: one wing appearing, then another; feathers glinting in the sunlight; my own body sailing through the sky. Then—a wild wind raging, and the sea swallowing me completely.

  What could it mean? Nothing good, that was certain. And why did that sandy shore seem so familiar? Had I seen it before, perhaps in another dream?

  The oak creaked loudly, its limbs twisting. While Lleu remained soundly asleep on the bed of moss, Rhia stirred. She sat up, wide awake, her face darkened by something other than night.

  “Did you have a dream, too?” I extended my hand toward her.

  “No, not a dream,” she answered, wrapping her forefinger around my own. “Just a . . . feeling. Like something horrible, truly horrible, is about to happen.”

  I drew a slow breath of the cold night air. “My dream was about wings, Rhia. Wings without a body, then with one. Wings found, then lost in the sea. I have no idea what it means.”

  She slid closer to me. “Where in the sea? Any particular place?”

  “I couldn’t say, except . . .” I gazed up at the shrouded sky beyond the tracery of branches. “Except that it was a shore, a beach, with—yes! The Shore of the Speaking Shells, the spot where I first landed on my raft. That’s right, I’m sure of it.”

  Pensively, she twisted some of her curls with her fingers. “Why there, I wonder?” Suddenly, she stiffened. “Merlin, do you hear that?”

  A low, droning sound reached us, as haunting as the creaking branches but more mournful. I listened, trying to make out its source, but with no success. All I could tell was that it was coming through the deep blackness of the forest, from some distance away. And that, whatever its source, the sound was full of sorrow.

  “Come,” I said, taking my staff in one hand and Rhia’s arm in the other. “Let’s follow it.”

  “What if Lleu wakes up and finds us gone?”

  I chewed my lip. “We’ll just have to hope that he won’t. Besides, we won’t be gone long.”

  As I stepped toward the thick stand of trees, avoiding the oak’s tangled roots, she hesitated. “It’s even darker in there than it is right here. Shouldn’t I try to make the Orb glow? We could use it as a lantern.”

  “And announce ourselves to whatever is making that sound? No, best to keep invisible. Come now. My second sight can guide us easily.”

  “Can guide you, that is. I’ll be knocking into trunks and stubbing my toes on roots while you prance along.”

  I grinned wickedly. “Now you’ll see what it’s like for me when you go running ahead, the way you did on our way to Caer Aranon.”

  “Running?” She pretended to be insulted. “That was just strolling.”

  “Then stroll with me now.”

  Taking her hand, I plunged into the ferns bordering the trees. We stepped over a pair of fallen ash trees, and entered the new layer of darkness within the tangle of limbs. My second sight did indeed work well in the gloom, and I could see even my own frosted breath. More important, I could see the path of the rivulet, which coursed along despite the patches of ice. Its bank, largely open, made the easiest route through the woods, though overhanging branches still jabbed our shoulders or clutched our hair. I felt grateful that, despite his bumpy ride, Scullyrumpus stayed quietly snuggled in his pouch on Rhia’s sleeve.

  The sound grew steadily louder. In time, I realized it was not one voice, but several. And they were the voices of men and women. They were chanting something, a deeply rueful song. Yet I still couldn’t make out any of the words.

  As we followed the rivulet, it merged into a larger stream. Water slapped against the bank, often coating the ground with a thin layer of ice. In such places my foot often slipped sideways, splashing into water almost as cold as ice itself. Several times I had to stop and empty my boot before my toes went numb. To my dismay, Rhia never seemed to have such accidents. I tried not to notice her gloating expression. At least, I told myself, Scullyrumpus wasn’t watching.

  At last, the trees grew sparser. The banks of the stream widened, stretching into a meadow of frosted grass on both sides. A moment later, as we worked our way around a jagged boulder, I suddenly saw the source of the chanting. I halted, grasping Rhia’s hand.

  Not far ahead, huddled together by the stream, stood seven or eight people. They wore dark robes, and delicately woven shawls of mourning, signifying the loss of someone they loved. An array of candles flickered by their feet. Behind them rose a little mound of freshly turned soil—the grave of someone small.

  As we stood in silence, the words of their song swept over us like a river of tears:

  A candle lit, a candle doused,

  a sunset in the morning:

  How brief the life, the love it housed,

  that dies while still aborning.

  Upon the waters of the world,

  the everlasting river,

  A candle floats on leaf unfurled,

  its fragile flame aquiver.

  O candlelight! Burn on and on

  until your wick is through.

  Restore the spark so early gone,

  the flame we hardly knew.

  From where appears such potent light,

  illumes the lives of men?

  And where departs the flame so bright

  that never glows again?

  A life is gone, its future lost,

  now faded like the moon.

  No greater pain, no higher cost:

  the candle doused too soon.

  O candlelight! Burn on and on

  until your wick is through.

  Restore the spark so early gone,

  the flame we hardly knew.

  The chant concluded, though its mournful tones seemed to hover among the leafless branches, echoing through the trees. One by one, each of the people bent down and lifted a quivering candle from the ground. Gently, they placed the glowing candles upon the wide, rounded leaves of the dowthwater plant that grows year-round among the roots of hawthorn trees. They se
t, with great care, the candles upon the stream, allowing the water to bear them away like a procession of torchlit funeral barges.

  Again their voices lifted, chanting once more these words:

  A candle lit, a candle doused,

  a sunset in the morning:

  How brief the life, the love it housed,

  that dies while still aborning.

  The last words died, disappearing like the flames of the guttering candles soon to be submerged in icy water. Somberly, the people began to depart. One elder man, his head rimmed with a circle of white hair, lingered after the rest had gone. Quietly, he gazed at the candles floating down the stream.

  I approached, Rhia at my side. When we were a few paces away, the old man started, and stepped back in fear. His face, tinged with candlelight, studied us anxiously.

  “We bring no harm,” I declared, raising my staff. “We’re merely travelers passing through.”

  The elder shook his head slowly. “Aye well, this day has seen enough harm already.”

  Rhia moved a small step closer. Motioning toward the little mound, she asked, “Who has died?”

  “A girl,” he said distantly. “So young and all ablossom with life. Her name was Ellyrianna.”

  “Ellyrianna,” she echoed. “Such a beautiful name.”

  “Aye, but her laugh rang out more beautiful still.”

  “Was she your child?”

  The man watched the floating candles for a moment. “Aye, and nay. She belonged to everyone in our village. She slept and ate and labored and laughed with us, though parents she had none.”

  My throat tightened. “She was an orphan?”

  “Aye.” He paused, seeing one of the candles sputter and sink into the stream. “And why she was murdered in this way, no one can tell.”

  “Murdered?” I asked. “Who did it? Do you know?”

  The old man turned to me with vacant eyes. “No one knew his name. He was a warrior, a monstrous warrior, with sword blades instead of arms.”

  Together, Rhia and I sucked in our breath. The elder appeared not to notice, and continued, his tone as grave as the villagers’ chant. “He tried to cut off her hand, he did. Ellyrianna’s hand!” He blew a long, tormented breath. “We tried to save her, but aye, she bled to death most horribly.”