A Wizard's Wings

by T.A. Barron

  “That’s terrible!” moaned Rhia. “How could anyone do such a thing? Especially to a child.”

  “Such things,” I corrected, grinding my staff into the soil. “Who is this warrior? And why is he attacking orphans?” I moved to the fellow’s side. “Did he say where he was going next?”

  He squinted, thinking, as light flickered across his wrinkled face. “He did say something about Caer Darloch, the next village to the north. Whether he was coming from there or going there, I don’t know.”

  “And did he say anything else?”

  Slowly, the old man bobbed his head. “He said that this girl’s death was just the beginning. Aye, the beginning! And that many more children will soon lose their limbs—or their lives. Unless . . .”

  “What?”

  “Unless the one called Merlin faces him in combat alone.”

  12: DECISION

  We returned to our camp, numbed from both the cold of night and from the old man’s news. The first thing I did was to check on Lleu, and I sighed gladly to see him sound asleep on the moss, just where we’d left him. Noticing his scarf beside him, I gathered it up and carefully wrapped it around his bare feet. Then, hearing Rhia’s teeth chattering, I put caution aside and asked her to warm us with her Orb. She gratefully agreed.

  For the rest of the night, we sat on the gnarled roots of the leaning oak, debating what to do. The shadowy form of the tree, lit by the Orb’s orange glow, hung over our heads. But a darker shadow loomed over all: our rapidly dwindling time.

  “Blood of Dagda,” I cursed, jabbing at the tree trunk with a stick. “We had too much to do already. And now this!”

  Rhia shifted her weight on the oak’s burly root.” “Who is this sword-armed assassin?” she demanded, for perhaps the twentieth time. “And why children—orphan children?”

  “Great seasons, Rhia! I’ve no better idea now than I did an hour ago.”

  She lifted her arms, stretching her back stiffly. “I know, I know, but the questions keep circling in my head.” Peering at me across the crackling flames, she added, “One of the strangest questions of all is why he wants you.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” I snapped in frustration. “It’s as mysterious as why he appeared now, on top of everything else.”

  She continued to watch me intently. “Do you think—this is crazy, I know—it might have something to do with the fact you once thought yourself an orphan?”

  “How could it?” I flexed my fingers before the glowing sphere, trying to work out the stiffness. “Just because I spent those years not knowing Elen was our mother, or Stangmar our . . .” I halted, choking on the word. “Just because of that, why would he start these terrible attacks? No, no, it doesn’t make sense. Sword Arms, whoever he is, has a deeper motivation. A larger purpose. I can feel it, Rhia.”

  Suddenly a new thought struck me. “Is it possible, do you think, he’s really part of the greater wickedness? Part of Rhita Gawr’s plan?”

  “How so?”

  “Well, maybe Rhita Gawr knows that I’ve been warned about what’s to come. He could have sent this warrior to distract me, to keep me from assembling a force to stop him.”

  Rhia’s eyebrows, tinted by the Orb, lifted. “If that’s his goal, he’s already succeeding. Winter’s longest night is only twelve days away. And we’ve just spent most of the night talking about this, with nothing to show for it.”

  “True.” I ground my teeth. “You agree, though, it’s more than just a coincidence that Sword Arms is striking right now?”

  “Sure, I’ll grant you that. But why orphans?”

  I glanced over at Lleu, curled into a ball, his head resting on a thick tuft of moss. Orange light rippled over his face and tattered tunic. “Maybe . . . Rhia, I have it! When Lleu told us about those children running, fleeing from whatever, he didn’t call them orphans. Remember? He called them children.”

  She stared at me blankly.

  “And when the old man told us about what the warrior threatened, he said many more children will die. Not orphans—children.”

  Rhia fingered her curls, her face bewildered. “What’s your point?”

  I leaned closer and grasped her thigh. “Don’t you see? Orphans are really just children. But unprotected children! The easiest ones to catch. Or harm.”

  Her eyes grew round. “So you think Sword Arms is really after any children he can find?”

  “Yes! And if he doesn’t soon get what he wants—the chance to fight me—he’s going to broaden his attacks. He’ll stop maiming, and start killing outright. He’ll hunt down any child he can get.”

  “But why, Merlin? It doesn’t make sense.”

  I started to answer, when Lleu rolled over in his sleep, whimpering painfully. In the wavering light of the Orb, his severed ear looked grotesque, a lump of blackened tissue. In my memory, I heard him telling me bravely that he could still hear all right, that the worst part was his dreams. He was far too young to know such terror!

  As I watched, he whimpered again, this time more shrilly, like a trapped animal. I shivered, yet I knew his fate could have been worse: the fate of Ellyrianna. Or of others to come.

  Both my hands closed into fists. I turned back to Rhia, and announced, “I’ve made a decision.”

  “You’re . . . going to face him?”

  “I’m going to do whatever it takes to save the children of this land!”

  “But wait.” She shook her head vigorously. “What about the longest night? All you need to do to stop Rhita Gawr?”

  I clasped the hilt of my sword. “I must stop this murderer first.”

  “This is crazy, Merlin! As bad as he is, he’s not nearly as bad as Rhita Gawr! One is killing children, yes. But the other is going to destroy everything—every creature who lives on this island. There’s no comparison!”

  She reached for the Orb, clasping it in her hand, and lifted it toward my face. I could feel its warmth against my neck and chin. “Look at me,” she commanded, peering closely at my face. “Tell me the truth, now. Why are you doing this? Is it just because you feel so much for those poor orphans?”

  “It’s much more than that!” I slapped my hand on top of the sphere, pushing it aside. Rays of orange light sliced between my fingers, striping our faces and the ragged bark of the tree. “These are children, Rhia. Suffering and dying right here, right now. And the worth of every child is untold—beyond any jewel, any treasure. Every child could be a poet, a healer . . . or a wizard.”

  She swallowed. “I know, Merlin. But I’m talking about losing our homeland forever.”

  “So am I!” My voice deepened, and my words echoed in the night air. “If this warrior succeeds, it could wound Fincayra deeply. At its heart.”

  I released the Orb and took hold of her hand. “If you ruin a nation’s children, you ruin its future. What will it matter to win at the circle of stones, to push back Rhita Gawr and his army—if so many children have been maimed and killed that our future is forever spoiled? If every day is as tortured as little Lleu’s dreams?”

  Rhia gazed at me awhile, then nodded grimly. “If you destroy enough children . . . it’s like robbing a forest of its seeds.”

  “Right. Which is why I must go after him. Stop him. And I’m sure I can do it in time to get to the circle of stones by the longest night.”

  “But who will spread the alarm?” she demanded. “Who will rally the people of Fincayra?”

  In silence, I watched her.

  She started. “No, Merlin! You don’t think . . .”

  “I do, Rhia. You can spread the word. You can rally the people.”

  “But . . . to most of them, I’m just a stranger.”

  “Not to the wood elves, or your friends the river sprites. And don’t forget the canyon eagles, who taught you how to speak their language! And what about the glyn-maters, hidden away in their secret caverns?”

  Groaning, she rubbed the side of her head. “They know me, sure. But will they listen
to me?”

  “That . . . no one can say.” I slid myself over to the root where she sat, so that our shoulders touched. “I can tell you this, though. Even to those who don’t know you, you’ll be more than just a stranger. You’ll be Rhia, woman of the enchanted trees! You carry the Orb of Fire on your belt, and the pointed ears of every Fincayran man and woman on your face. And you also carry the word of Dagda himself.”

  She stared into the sphere, her brow deeply creased. Beneath her eyes, her skin glowed, as if it were itself aflame.

  I slid my arm around her waist. “And you bear one thing more, something you can always depend on. My love for you. Yes, and my belief in you, too.”

  Very slowly, she turned away from the Orb and toward me. “I think,” she began, “I should try the canyon eagles first.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Giants’ bones, but you’re brave.”

  “Not brave,” she replied. “Just full of madness.” She cocked her head mischievously. “After all, I’m related to you.”

  I chuckled. “Of that I’m glad.”

  “I’ll remember you said that, Brother.”

  Smiling, I glanced to the east. Across the frosted plains, the sky was beginning to lighten subtly. Bands of pink and crimson showed along the horizon, tinting the undersides of the heavy clouds. “It will be dawn soon. Should I go find the makings of breakfast?”

  Before she could answer, a furry head popped out of the pocket on her sleeve. After a prolonged yawn, he squeaked, “Breakyfast? Did somebody saysay breakyfast?”

  “Yes,” I answered curtly. “And if you want some, you can help get it.”

  Startled, the little beast shook his head, flapping his ears against his face. He gave Rhia a puzzled look. “Grumpy man, he is! Always like this in morning, yesyes?”

  She tickled the side of his nose. “He didn’t get much sleep, that’s all. But do as he says, would you? Find a few turnips, or some winterroot, and breakfast will come all the sooner.”

  His lips twitched hungrily. Without another squeak, he scrambled out of the pocket and down her arm. Barely had his paws touched the ground before he raced off into the ferns bordering the thick forest behind us.

  “You certainly know how to wake him up,” I observed.

  Rhia’s amused expression faded. “I only wish I knew as much about how to wake up the trees.”

  Retrieving my staff, I stood. “If anyone can find the way, it will be you.” I placed my foot on one of the oak’s roots. “Now, if you’ll build us a tripod and find something to use for a pot, I’ll get a fire going and start collecting ingredients.”

  “An’ I’ll be helpin’,” declared Lleu, walking toward us. “What do ye need?”

  I grinned at him. “Some kindling. Know where we might find some?”

  13: THE VISITOR

  Half an hour later, a thick stew of turnip, late season watercress, moss sprouts, and pwyll nuts boiled over our fire at the forest’s edge. Seasoned with a dash of acorn powder (contributed by Lleu), and served in cupped shards of elm bark, the stew tasted surprisingly satisfying. And it was warming, as well, enough so that Rhia removed her thick vest and hooked it on a branch of the tilting oak. As we ate, the first rays of dawn crowned the topmost limbs, bathing them in amber, while a raven cawed roughly in the distance. The dried grass of the plains, stretching as far as we could see to the east, gleamed the color of rust.

  As Rhia passed around the dregs from the hardwood burl that had served as our cooking pot, she looked toward the horses. Coella was contentedly grazing on the ferns, while Ionn stood apart, drumming his hoof on the hardened ground. “Ionn senses something,” she remarked. “Do you think he knows our plans have changed?”

  “Possibly.” I took a last sip of stew, and tossed my cup of bark aside. “That horse has a special way of knowing things.”

  At that, Ionn shook his mane and snorted loudly. I stood, as did Rhia and Lleu. Scullyrumpus, sensing trouble, licked his paws anxiously. Suddenly Lleu gasped and pointed to the edge of the forest, still in shadow.

  A lone figure, wearing a hooded cloak, had emerged from the trees. He drew steadily nearer, walking with large, quick strides. Although his shoulders were hunched, he was still quite tall. Beneath his cloak, he seemed powerful, as well as dangerous, like a wounded wolf on the prowl.

  Ionn stamped the ground, then trotted over to me. I stroked his nose, but he whinnied nervously. One look in his great brown eyes revealed something most unusual for the great stallion: fear. Again I studied the figure, large under the cloak, drawing steadily nearer. Who was this, that Ionn would react so strangely?

  I could discern, under the hood, a man with a thick black beard. The hairs sprouted, it seemed, from a face as stern as chiseled stone. He glared at us with intense black eyes, his jaw etched in a permanent frown. As he reached the other side of the rivulet flowing out of the forest, the man halted. Sharply, he threw back his hood, so we could not mistake his identity.

  Yet I already knew him well. Here, standing before me, was the person I most despised, the person whose name had brought nothing but agony to the land he once ruled. Stangmar.

  I grabbed the hilt of my sword. Boldly, I stepped forward to meet him.

  “So,” growled the deep voice. “You would slay me without a thought?”

  My teeth ground together. “No, that would reduce me to your equal.”

  Stangmar’s massive hand curled into a fist. “You destroyed all I once had, boy. All! I have a long line of ancestors, too many to name, who ruled this isle before me. Yet none of them was ever toppled by his own son.”

  “None of them ever tried to murder his own son!”

  He merely glared at me. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice grim. “Our wretched history does not concern me now. I seek not you, but someone else.”

  Behind me, I heard Rhia draw a sharp breath.

  “How did you find us?” I demanded.

  “The stallion’s tracks, of course! Think you I don’t know my own horse? He still bears that slice in his forehoof from our first battle.”

  Ionn neighed, stamping the turf forcefully. I glanced over my shoulder at him; the look in his eyes had changed to defiance.

  “You, boy, have stood in my way at every turn,” Stangmar said icily. “You have stolen my very realm! My castle, my soldiers, my servants. But you shall not stand in my way this time.” His voice snarled like an angry beast. “Tell me where Elen is now.”

  I held myself as straight as my hemlock staff. “You shall not harm her.”

  “Tell me where she is!”

  “Never.”

  Stangmar’s whole frame quaked with rage. Then, drawing a prolonged breath, he seemed to gain control of himself. “She left me, boy. Left me without a word, or a letter, before I had any chance to—”

  He pounded his fist into his palm, as his wrath suddenly returned. “Why should I tell you this? I must find her, that’s all you need to know! And I am certain you know where she is.” He slammed his foot on the rivulet’s bank, cracking off a slab of ice. “Now tell me.”

  “So you can kill her?” I shot back. “She knows perfectly well what you would have done to her if she hadn’t left. The same as you tried to do to me!”

  He released a low growl. A spark from our cooking fire landed on the shoulder of his cloak and faded swiftly away. “Hear me out! I don’t want to harm her. I never wanted that.”

  “Oh, no,” I scoffed.

  “I speak the truth!” he bellowed. “I only want . . . to speak to her. To tell her something.”

  This was more than I could bear. “You only want to murder her!”

  Vigorously, he shook his head. “You don’t understand, boy. I . . . well, I . . .” Awkwardly, he waved one of his powerful arms, as if trying to seize the words he needed. “You see, I . . . love her.”

  Dumbstruck, I rocked back on my heels. “You expect me to believe such madness?”

  “No,” he grumbled, his voice quiet, almost tender. “
I had just hoped you might listen. You—who look so very much like I did at your age.”

  I stiffened, my mind reeling at the very notion that I shared anything at all with this man. “Leave us,” I spat. “And cease your searching. You shall never find Elen. Never.”

  His face hardened again. “That we shall see, boy.” A hint of a smirk touched his lips. “Just as you shall see how Rhita Gawr deals with his foes.”

  My scarred cheeks throbbed. In my mind echoed Dagda’s warning: To prevail on winter’s longest night, you will need to defeat your greatest foe, nothing less. That meant Rhita Gawr, to be sure. Yet Stangmar filled me somehow with deeper wrath.

  Rhia stepped toward him, standing shoulder to shoulder with me. Forcefully, she declared, “He’s right. You’ll never find her.”

  “Oh?” scoffed Stangmar. “And who are you, vine-clad girl, to tell me what I shall or shall not do?”

  Resolutely, she studied him for several seconds. “I am her daughter,” she said at last. “Her daughter—and yours.”

  For an instant, his harsh face softened ever so slightly. He returned her gaze, eyeing her with more curiosity than scorn. Despite myself, I found myself thinking he looked almost feeling, almost handsome. His clenched fist slowly relaxed, and dropped to his side.

  “The daughter we . . . lost?” he asked stiffly. “Long ago, in the forest?”

  “Yes, the daughter you named Rhiannon.” Seeing his look of disbelief, she went on. “The trees raised me, took care of me. But down inside I never forgot about my true parents, and always wondered if I’d see you again.”

  From her belt, she took the Orb of Fire. As she held it before her, a glimmer of orange sparked within its depths. Lit by the globe in her hand, as well as the glow of the rising sun, her face radiated. It seemed to shine from another source, as well, a source that could not be seen.

  “Once, you possessed this Orb,” she said softly. “You called it one of your Treasures. Did you learn how to tap its powers?”