A Wizard's Wings

by T.A. Barron

  “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 DISTANT DOORWAY

  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.”

  Taking an unsteady breath, I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I had hoped to prevail without your help, to halt Rhita Gawr before he ever reached your world. But that hope has failed.”

  “And now there is no other.”

  “No,” he corrected, “there is still one hope, though it is frail indeed. If enough Fincayran creatures, not just men and women but many more besides, amass at the stone circle in time, they might find some way to turn back his invasion. Many lives may be lost, with much suffering, but that is our only chance.”

  “Then we’re doomed,” I lamented. “Even if there were two years, instead of two weeks, to gather everyone in Fincayra, it couldn’t be done! Don’t you know how much bitterness and suspicion there is here? Ever since the days of Stangmar, most races live in fear of each other.” I thumped my chest. “And of my race most of all.”

  “This I know well,” answered Dagda ruefully. “And it began long before the days of your father’s rule. Long before, in days now forgotten . . . but that does not concern us now.”

  He paused, and I felt that his vaporous eyes were peering right through me. “Only someone who is known to all those races can possibly rally them—someone who has labored with dwarves, walked with marsh ghouls, spoken with talking trees and living stones. Someone who has swum with mer folk, flown with wind sisters, and stood upon the shoulders of giants.”

  I stepped backward, right to the edge of the stone. “You can’t mean . . . No, I can’t. No.”

  The glowing face, rippled with streaming clouds, watched me impassively.

  “It’s not possible!” I knelt on the boulder, clasping my hands. “Even if I could assemble an army, I wouldn’t know how to lead them. I can fight, sure, but I’m still not a warrior. No, no, I’m something else—a seer, maybe, though not with my eyes. Or a healer, or some sort of bard.”

  “Or a wizard,” declared Dagda. “And a man who loves peace far better than war. But there are times, I must tell you, when even a peaceful man must stand in the path of harm to the land he loves. And yes, to the people he cherishes.”

  I wrung my hands together, lowering my head. After a long moment, I lifted my face again. “Only two weeks? That’s next to nothing.”

  “It is all we have,” declared the visage on high. “To prevail on winter’s longest night, you will need to defeat your greatest foe, nothing less.”

  “But tell me,” I pleaded, “is there any real chance of winning? Any chance at all?”

  Dagda studied me long before answering. “Yes, there is a chance. But all Fincayra’s threads, in all their colors, must bind together in a sturdy rope. And for that to happen, the rarest of seeds must find a home at last.”

  Perplexed, I shook my head. “The rarest of seeds?” I tapped my leather satchel. “You mean this one in here?”

  “Perhaps, though a seed may take many forms.” All at once, the silver lines of his face brightened, even as his voice grew deeper, so that every word echoed in the night air. “Heed well these words, young wizard: Fincayra’s fate has never been more in doubt. You may find unity in separation, strength in weakness, and rebirth in death, but even that may not be enough to save your world. For in certain turns of time, when all is truly gained, all is truly lost.”

  Wind swept past the hillside, howling in the trees below. Gradually, the clouds overhead started to thin and pull apart. As I watched, the face of Dagda faded, until at last it vanished completely. Only his words remained, throbbing like a fever in my head.

  Then I heard something else—a strange, ominous creaking. It sounded, vaguely, like a distant doorway starting to open.

  5: RADIANT SPIRIT

  Dawn came at last, so slowly and dimly that it seemed merely an extension of the lingering night. Gray-washed clouds streaked the sky, shrouding the forest lands and the grassy hillside where we had camped. The air, while calmer than last night, felt colder still. No whispers stirred the trees; no songbirds heralded the start of day.

  Pulling the collar of my tunic over my face, I shivered. And not just from the chill of morning. Whether I had slept or not after seeing the vision of Dagda, I wasn’t sure. I could only recall stumbling down the hillside, trying not to fall in the darkness. But the vision itself, and the words Dagda had spoken, were carved upon my mind as sharply as the seven symbols of wisdom were carved upon my staff. I vaguely remembered having had some sort of dream before his face appeared, etched on the clouds—something about flying, or falling. But the harsh reality of his words had thrust that memory aside. Fincayra’s fate has never been more in doubt.

  Feeling Hallia’s warm breath on the back of my neck, I rolled over. Her eyes, as deep as the deepest pools, watched me soulfully. I sat up and caressed her lightly on the cheek.

  She pushed some stray hair off her brow. “You slept poorly, didn’t you?�
�

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “I just knew. Your face—it’s strangely clouded.”

  I stiffened at her choice of words.

  Her eyes lowered briefly. “I, too, slept poorly. Oh, young hawk, I had a terrible dream.”

  Gently, I wrapped my arm around her. “Can you tell me what it was?”

  “About . . .” She bit her lower lip. “About losing someone I love.”

  I pulled her close to my shoulder. How could I tell her that Dagda’s old law was now the least of our troubles? And that the future she ought to fear was not my going to live in the realm of Britannia, but going to die in battle with Rhita Gawr?

  I wove my fingers deep into her unbraided hair. Tenderly, I spoke the only words that came to me. “Nothing can separate us, you know. Not distance, not time, not even . . .”

  “Shhh,” she said softly, placing her forefinger on my lips. “Speak not of such things, nor even of the future. Let us just rejoice in the present, in the days we have together now.”

  Though I wished I could have felt comforted by her words, or confident enough to comfort her in turn, I felt nothing of the kind. Turning aside, I merely kept working my hand through her locks, studying the reddish glints that reminded me of a fire’s dying embers.

  “Ah, so you’re awake,” called Rhia’s voice from above us. She stood at the crest of the hill, waving vigorously. “Come soon to breakfast if you want any.”

  Silently, Hallia and I walked through the bristling stalks of grass, climbing the slope together, pausing now and then to catch our breath. Moments later, we stood on top of the hill, and in a few more seconds, on the flat surface of the stargazing stone. Rhia sat there, cross-legged as before, surrounded by assorted leftovers from last night’s repast. Perched on her shoulder was the furry form of Scullyrumpus, busily chewing on a slice of beetroot.

  “Come,” she beckoned, her mouth full of honeycomb. “Before Scully eats it all.”

  “Get awayway,” snapped the little beast. “Clumsy man no steal breakyfast!”