A Wizard's Wings (5 page)

Instantly, my shadow leaped closer to the fire. Throwing itself upon the shelf of rock behind Rhia, it started to dance, spinning and twirling wildly. Seeing this, Scullyrumpus shrieked in fear, dropped his apple slice, and scurried up Rhia’s arm to his hiding place. As the rest of us grinned, my shadow continued to cavort in the light of the fire, showing its best leaps and twists, rolls and spins.

Rhia’s bell-like laughter rose into the night air. “It looks like a fledgling jumping around in the nest, trying to find some way to fly.”

“No,” I answered. “More like
you
jumping around, trying to find some way to fly.”

At that, we all laughed. Except, of course, for Scullyrumpus, who remained buried in Rhia’s leafy pocket.

Finally, I motioned to the shadow with my hand. The antics ceased abruptly. “Excellent, most excellent. All right now, come back to me.”

But the shadow did not follow my command. Sulkily, it placed its hands upon its hips, glared at me for a moment, and sat down at the opposite side of the fire. Knowing my shadow well, I merely shook my head.

“As you can see,” I muttered, “it’s still as obedient as ever.”

“Actually,” said Hallia, licking some honey off her wrist, “it’s just about as obedient as its master.”

“Right,” chimed in Rhia. “And besides, maybe it simply loves to dance. How can you blame it for that?”

“I can’t.” Looking upward again, I scowled at the thick clouds moving over us, already obscuring Pegasus, the first constellation to show. “Fumblefeathers!” I exclaimed. “We may not have any stargazing at all tonight.”

Hallia placed her hand on my knee. “Don’t fret, young hawk. It’s still been a beautiful evening.” She touched her bracelet, glittering in the firelight. “Truly beautiful.”

A chill wind, driving the clouds overhead, swept through the trees below us, making them moan and clatter. Dead leaves swirled in the night air as the wind rushed across our hilltop. Quickly, Rhia reached to catch a walnut shell and two linden strips before they blew over the edge of the stone. The fire sputtered, and Hallia slid closer to my side for warmth. Defiantly, I threw another branch onto the coals. But the wind blew stronger, and the wood barely smoldered.

Slapping her hands against her sides, Rhia said, “Feels like winter all of a sudden.”

“It does,” agreed Hallia. “But the truth is, winter’s been with us for a while already. Even the Drama is much less lively now. No amount of baked apples and raspberry syrup can change that. The longest night of the year is just two weeks away.”

I nodded, feeling more glum than I could explain. “Summer doesn’t last forever,” I mused. “Nothing does—not even our time in Fincayra.”

At my words, Hallia tensed and withdrew her hand. “Please, not now. I don’t want to think about that.”

“Sorry. I only meant . . .”

She frowned. “And I don’t give a hoofprint about that sword of yours, either.”

“I’m not talking about the sword,” I grumbled.

“Well then, it’s that young king, from the place called Britannia. The one you promised would carry the sword one day.”

“It’s not about him, either—though I do see his face often enough in my dreams.” I sucked in my breath. “No, it’s the fact we all know: that someday Rhia and I, being part human, will have to leave.”

“Why?” asked Rhia, trying to poke some life into the fire. “Maybe Dagda, great spirit that he is, will just change that ridiculous old law.”

I shook my head, even as the wind howled anew.

“He can do whatever he wants. Besides, it’s just a silly rule.”

“But it’s not! You know that. It’s part of what keeps all the worlds separated, and in balance—Earth, Otherworld, and Fincayra somewhere in between.”

“I know, I know,” she replied. “But Dagda himself might be surprised. Like he was when you, just a boy, overthrew Stangmar.”

Stangmar. The name itself blew more frigid than the wind. How could a man, entrusted to rule all Fincayra, have become so corrupted, so twisted? He had utterly destroyed that trust—and so much more besides. The anguish of his Blighted Years still lay thick upon the land.

Whatever troubles had existed among the races before Stangmar’s reign, they were far worse now. I thought of Hallia’s own people, so reluctant to allow a stranger in their midst. And the canyon eagles, who rarely showed themselves at all anymore. The dwarves never even spoke to the giants, once their allies; any man or woman foolish enough to enter the dwarves’ territory would probably never leave it alive. The examples went on and on.

To be sure, Stangmar didn’t deserve all the blame. Rhita Gawr had played a terrible part in all this. It was he, warlord of the spirit world and Dagda’s eternal foe, who corrupted Stangmar and bullied him into fostering rage and mistrust among others, so Rhita Gawr himself could ultimately rule. The balance between the worlds meant nothing to him—only his craving for power.

Even so, Stangmar should have resisted. Known better! Closing my hand into a fist, I imagined him now, imprisoned in the lightless cavern where he would remain until his bones finally rotted away. Good riddance! No one—except perhaps Dinatius, the fool who tried long ago to kill both me and my mother—had ever made me feel so much anger as that man Stangmar. Why, I wondered? Why couldn’t I move beyond that anger?

Because Stangmar was more than a wicked ruler. More, even, than a warrior who had tried to strike me down when I stood against him. He was, beneath all those things, one thing more. He was my father.

Ever so lightly, Hallia’s hand touched my brow. “Come, young hawk. Let’s forget about all that for now. This day has been ours, and nothing can ever take that away from us.”

I nodded, though deep within myself I didn’t feel so sure.

4:
A
D
ISTANT
D
OORWAY

That night, to shelter ourselves from the wind, we slid off the stargazing stone and hiked down the steep slope to the base of the hill. Even among the thick grasses, howling gusts whipped past, raking us with icy fingers. The constant rattling and groaning of limbs in the surrounding forest made sleeping all the more difficult.

In time, the others drifted off—Hallia curled snugly in the manner of a deer, and Rhia stretched out as if she were resting in the boughs of a tree, her fingers twirling the vines of her gown. Scullyrumpus joined them in slumber, snoring in high-pitched whistles within Rhia’s pocket. Only I lay awake, rolling from side to side, rearranging my pillow of grasses to find a comfortable position. All the while, dark clouds scudded overhead. Whenever a glimpse of starlight broke through, the clouds swiftly erased it. Some stargazing night this had turned out to be!

Knowing I needed to relax, I thought back over the day, hoping to find some memory that could calm the churning waters of my mind. There was the bracelet, and Hallia’s smile upon receiving it; the vine, and the momentary thrill of flight—before it ended all too suddenly; the little hedgehog lazily scrutinizing us. At last, I hit upon the vision I’d been searching for: the sight of Trouble’s silver-brown feather, drifting slowly to the ground. In my mind I watched its fall, riding the air with ease and grace, over and over again. In time, I began to relax. And finally, to sleep.

I dreamed, not surprisingly, of the feather, floating gracefully. Yet this time the feather was enormous, at least in comparison to me. For I was seated on it, riding the currents of air.

Once, long before, I had ridden on Trouble’s back as he soared through the night. He had carried me effortlessly then, and did so again now, though this time nothing more than his feather supported me. Chilled air flowed over my face, enough to make my sightless eyes water, and I nestled deeper into the bristling quills to stay warm. The feather quivered, as did I, with every new gust, both of us moving as one with the wind.

Freedom. That’s what I felt, more than anything else. The freedom to float aloft, following the currents wherever they chose to bear me. I didn’t need to know where I was going. Nor did I care.

Without warning, the world darkened. The feather’s bands of silver and brown turned to dull, uniform gray. A new rush of air, colder than before, tore over me. I grasped at the quills, trying not to fall off.

From out of the dark clouds above came an immense arm, girded with metal bands for battle. No—not an arm, but a sword, flashing menacingly. But wait! It was something worse yet: a fearsome sword that was also an arm! I shrank down on my feather.

Down came the blade, slashing through the clouds. In another instant, it would slice apart the feather, and me with it. I was helpless to stop it, helpless to prevent my own destruction. Closer came the sword, and closer, its edge turning the color of blood. Fresh blood! Just as the sword struck my own arm, biting deep into my skin—

I awoke. Shivering, panting rapidly, I grasped at my arm. Through my tunic, soaked with perspiration, I could feel my own skin. My own arm. As my heart pounded, I told myself it was only a dream. Yet it had felt so terribly true.

Rolling over, I stared up at the clouds, peering with my second sight. I found no sword, no deadly arm. Nor any stars at all. Just clouds, ominous and thickening.

I sat up, my back arched, feeling a strange new tension in the air. The hairs on my neck prickled. Darker grew the clouds, and darker, piling on top of each other, leaving no space at all for light. Soon I could see no trace of movement, no hint of shape or substance. This was a sky like none I’d seen before, the home of utter darkness, the final night of night.

My sword started buzzing in its scabbard. I put my hand on the hilt and felt the growing vibrations run up my arm and into my chest. Then, in the distance, I heard a faint rumbling—like thunder, or waves bashing against some faraway shore. Without knowing why, I sensed something was calling to me, beckoning to me.

As quietly as possible, I rose. With barely a glance at my slumbering companions, I started climbing the steep hillside. Driven by a yearning I couldn’t begin to name, I moved swiftly higher, clutching bunches of grass to help me go faster. Before long, I reached the top of the hill, panting hoarsely. I pulled myself over the edge of rock and stood alone atop the stargazing stone, the wind tearing at my tunic.

The rumbling deepened, even as the air around me crackled with tension. Suddenly the clouds directly above my head shifted, lightening in places, parting a little. Driven by the skirling wind, the patches of light swelled and arranged themselves into shapes. No—into one particular shape. A face.
A man’s face.

“Young Merlin,” the face in the clouds intoned, its voice rolling across the forest and distant hills.

“Dagda,” I whispered in awe. I hadn’t seen the spirit lord since we stood together years before, under the glistening boughs of the Tree of Soul, wrapped in the eternal mists of the Otherworld. Then, as now, he chose to appear as a man, frail and silver haired. But now, somehow, he seemed much older.

“I come with woeful tidings,” he announced, his words buffeted by the wind. “The time of greatest peril has arrived.”

“Peril?” I asked. “For who?”

Dark clouds sped past his luminous visage, casting shadows on the silvery lines of his face. “Peril for you, Merlin, and for those you love. But most of all, for the world that has been your home, the place called Fincayra.”

I glanced over my shoulder into the darkness below where Rhia and Hallia lay sleeping. Turning back to the sky, I demanded, “How, great spirit? When will this danger arrive?”

“Already it has,” he declared, his resonant voice echoing through the night. “The greatest struggle, and greatest sorrow, I fear, lie just ahead.”

A massive cloud slid over his eyes, and he waited in silence until it passed. “On the longest night of the year, less than one full moon away, the cosmos will complete a shift that began ages and ages ago. When that happens, the world of Fincayra and the Otherworld will move perilously close together. So close, in truth, that their terrains will nearly touch.”

“And that will bring the peril?”

“Yes indeed! For at the moment of sunset, a doorway will open between the worlds—a doorway that must not be crossed from either side, or much more than I can say will be lost.”

More clouds, thin and wraithlike, flew past his glowing face. “The passage will appear at a spot you well remember: the circle of stones where the Dance of the Giants took place years ago.” He waited, as if the words weighed heavily upon him. “And it is through that doorway that Rhita Gawr and his army shall come.”

Dagda’s brow, streaked with silver, knotted. “Even now, in the Otherworld, I am trying to ward him off, to prevent him from crossing over. But even with the help of many brave spirits, I cannot contain him. I fear he will succeed, sending his own deathless troops into Fincayra as soon as the doorway opens. He covets your world, for it is the very bridge between Earth and Heaven.”

I stood rigid on the stone. “But can’t you pursue him after he comes here?”

The luminous eyebrows drew together. “That I cannot do, even at the risk of losing Fincayra. You see, Rhita Gawr expects me to follow him, leaving the Otherworld unprotected. I have learned he will take only part of his army into Fincayra, leaving the rest behind, so he can seize the chance to conquer the spirit world as well.”

“But if Rhita Gawr can have troops in both places, why can’t you?”

“Because,” came the solemn reply, “our numbers are too few. And I have other reasons as well—reasons that even Rhita Gawr cannot comprehend.”

“Can’t you do
anything
to stop him?” I beseeched.

His face grew stern. “I am doing all I can.” His shining eyes dimmed slightly. “And there is also this: If I were to send spirits through the doorway, I would be violating one of the most basic principles of the cosmos. The worlds must stay apart, or cease to exist.”

“But Fincayra will cease to exist!” I shook my head, as the wind whipped my cheeks and brow. “Dagda, forgive me. It’s just . . . so much.”

His voice rolled again over the hills, though it sounded somehow closer, almost at my side. “I forgive you, my young friend.”