A Wizard's Wings

by T.A. Barron

  “Fools!” roared Rhita Gawr, sensing the swelling discord among his troops. “You can’t die. Only mere mortals can die!”

  But his words were lost in the rising chorus of voices now from the spirit warriors:

  “Flying children—how can they do it?”

  “Great powers, that’s how. Curse the bloody day! What else can they do?”

  “No tellin’! But they spell the end of our conquest, I feels it.”

  “More likely the end of us!”

  Rhita Gawr clapped his hands to his head, mussing his perfectly combed hair. “Nonsense, you fools! Whatever powers those children have, it’s nothing compared to mine!”

  Just then, Lleu veered downward, leading his companions to land on the hillside next to ours. One by one, they settled on that slope unmarred by battle, their feet touching the ground with grace that mystified the onlooking crowd. Indeed, they landed as gently as windblown seeds, yet they lacked wings or anything else to support them. The anxious mutterings of the warrior goblins grew louder.

  Lleu stretched out his hands to the sides. Medba took one, and a gangly boy wearing leather sandals took the other. Quickly, the rest of the children joined hands, forming a long line. Then, as one, they started marching down the hillside, advancing toward our embattled slope.

  Seeing them approach, the spirit warriors grew increasingly agitated. They seemed completely unable to comprehend these strange attackers striding boldly into their midst—attackers who bore no armaments at all.

  “Look there. They’ve got no weapons!”

  “Just their magic, that’s enough.”

  “Don’t be a fool, they must have weapons! Hidden, like their wings, I’ll wager.”

  “And powerful enough to . . . well, I’m not waitin’ to find out!”

  Singly, or in small groups, the warrior goblins started retreating. Several dropped their swords and fled up the hill to the circle of stones, plunging into the tunnel to the Otherworld. More followed, and still more, heedless of the furious commands of Rhita Gawr to stay and fight. Newly heartened, Fincayrans of all kinds—dwarves and giants, four-leggeds and two-leggeds, light flyers and marsh ghouls—started pursuing the spirit warriors. In the span of minutes, the invasion had turned into a rout.

  Amidst the chaos, Rhita Gawr remained inside the ring, stomping about and ranting hysterically at his troops. “Come back here, you cowardly slugs! Plague-ridden fools! Now, I say. How dare you retreat before I give the command? Stay here and fight, you craven, fainthearted, bonebrained idiots!”

  For minutes on end, he cursed venomously and spat orders, flinging lightning bolts that exploded on the pillars, shooting towers of flames into the air. Any of his own warriors who strayed into his path he pummeled without mercy, threatening to torture them into eternity if they didn’t obey. Nevertheless, the ranks of his deserters swelled; wave after wave threw themselves into the tunnel. His soldiers fought against themselves for the chance to escape.

  At last, the defeated warlord stood alone before the gaping hole he had opened between the worlds. Soot and bloodstains splotched his tunic, and his hair looked completely disheveled. He glared at his surroundings, aghast, his moonlit figure glowing against the black hole behind him.

  Catching sight of me across the ring, he clenched both of his fists and shook them. “Scourge! Worthless wizard. You did this!” He raised his already-glowing hand and pointed straight at me. The air around his extended finger crackled, and I knew a lightning bolt was about to burst.

  At that instant six or seven warrior goblins, hotly pursued by shrieking marsh ghouls, plowed right into him. The lightning bolt shot skyward, illuminating the snow-laced hills. Like a surging wave, the fleeing warriors carried Rhita Gawr backward as they tried desperately to escape. Heedless of their leader’s screams, they plunged into the tunnel.

  Just before Rhita Gawr reached the hole, Trouble swooped out of the sky and gave him a sharp peck on the forehead. The warlord’s wrathful shriek rose into the air, then abruptly ended as he and the others dropped into the darkness.

  Trouble veered sharply and flew toward me. He circled once, close enough to my head to brush my ear with the tip of his wing. It felt even softer than the precious feather in my satchel, more like air than body. He whistled triumphantly, and my heart soared alongside him. Once more he circled, then shot straight into the hole, just as it shrank down and vanished completely.

  Hallia moved to my side, slipping her arm under my thick vest and around my waist, while I wrapped my own arm around her shoulder. We watched, in silence, as the moon dipped lower and the eastern sky grew gradually lighter. A faint swath of pink, braided with lines of azure blue, appeared on the horizon. Somewhere down the slope, a curlew piped its morning greeting. Not far away, a companion answered, trumpeting its own salute to the day. Fincayra’s longest night had ended.

  From somewhere on high, a distant horn joined the curlews’ song. Deep, graceful notes it blew, rising in ascending steps of exaltation. Then the sound of harps, plucked gently, drifted through the brightening sky. A flute warbled, as did another, along with more songbirds. All these and more joined in the rising chorus that echoed across the slopes.

  I recalled the words of Fin’s prophetic ballad:

  If land long forgotten

  Returns to its shore,

  And ancient opponents

  Stand allies once more,

  Then all through the heavens

  Grand music may sound:

  The balance restored;

  The hidden wings found.

  Hallia and I embraced all the more tightly. For this moment was ours, and could never be lost.

  34: THE JOINING

  For the next several days, the Fincayrans encamped at the circle of stones. Though they had plenty to celebrate, they also had much to mourn. And much to do: It was time to bury the dead, seek out the missing, and bandage the wounded—as well as grieve for those who, like Cairpré, had given their lives.

  Still, something more potent than grief filled the crisp wintry air. The surrounding hills no longer echoed with the music of the heavens, but with another kind of music altogether—the sound of widely varied creatures working together in concert. While dwarves still eyed men warily, and foxes still watched sparrows hungrily, something remarkable had happened. The shared experience of marching to the hillside, and the battle itself, had cast aside many old fears and resentments. Now the air atop the hill vibrated with a cooperative chorus of growls, whinnies, whistles, chirps, buzzes, brays, squeals, hisses, and hoots, along with the occasional spoken word.

  Women and men built fires on the frosted slope for warmth, using broken branches discarded by the trees, gathered by the children, then chopped to size by the dwarves with their double-sided axes. Badgers, moles, and bears dug graves, while healers of every race tended to those in need, illuminated by the glow of light flyers circling them late into the night. Horses and goats carried loads of firewood or chunks of ice to be melted for drinking water. Giants (except for Shim, who lay down between two hills and took a nap that lasted nearly two days) made regular trips to the eastern seacoast, returning with enormous nets of woven kelp that overflowed with fish, clams, mussels, and a fruity purple reed.

  Gwynnia set to work roasting fish with her fiery breath; eagles gathered watercress and eelgrass from the southern streams, along with huge quantities of winter mushrooms, beetroot, and bryllnuts; bees carried bits of honeycomb to anyone who craved some. The spidery form of the Grand Elusa scoured the surrounding hills for any mortal—and thus edible—warrior goblins who might have survived. Meanwhile, for everyone’s entertainment, centaurs danced in stately formations, elves and sprites performed acrobatic leaps and tumbles, curlews staged whistling competitions, and larks and nightingales sang for all to hear.

  Only a few of Fincayra’s defenders didn’t stay long. For the solitary unicorns, the crowd in and around the stone circle was too much to bear, and they slipped away to the farthest reac
hes of the isle. On the first day after the battle, the marsh ghouls also departed, floating off as silently as they had arrived. Before they vanished from sight, however, a great, bellowing cheer arose from their fellow Fincayrans, thundering across the hills.

  My shadow, who had been acting more cocky than ever since the sun rose on our victory, seized that moment to leap from my side. It positioned itself against one of the largest pillars and took a series of bows. As long as any cheers continued, so did the bows. Watching its performance, I felt like cringing and laughing at the same time.

  When the shadow strutted back to my side, I declared sternly, “You know, you really don’t deserve that week off I promised you.”

  Stunned, the shadow glared at me, hands on its hips. Its edges started to vibrate angrily.

  “No,” I continued, “you deserve two weeks off.”

  Instantly, the vibrating ceased. The shadow took a single, low bow, doubling up on the ground.

  Just then I felt a whirling of air across my face, and the sweet smell of cinnamon. “Aylah,” I said, my voice full of gratitude, “you made all the difference.”

  “Not I,” she whispered gently, “but those I carried.”

  “Yes . . . and now, you’re ready to move on?”

  “The wind must fly, Emrys Merlin, for I have new worlds to explore.” She spun slowly around me, fluttering my tunic. “As do you, Emrys Merlin, as do you.”

  I scowled. “I’ve just seen my homeland saved! I don’t want to go anywhere else.”

  The scent of cinnamon grew stronger. “Your homeland may not be your true home, Emrys Merlin, ahhh yes. Just as neither Emrys nor Merlin is your true name.”

  Suddenly, as she spoke, I remembered Dagda’s promise, long ago, that he would one day reveal my true name—my soul’s name. The name, as he’d told me, that he could give only after it was truly earned. At the same time, I recalled his grimmer promise that someday I must return to Britannia on mortal Earth: the land of the young king I would mentor, the land of my heralded destiny.

  I thought of that world I’d seen so often in my dreams. The cave, sparkling with crystals, that I would call my own; the boy named Arthur, whose eyes shone with high ideals; the society, full of tragedy as well as hope, where I might leave a lasting mark. So much about that world inspired me, lifted my heart, yet one crucial aspect left me fearful. There was no sign of Hallia in those dreams. Nothing—but for a single lock of her auburn hair.

  “I don’t want to go,” I repeated. “At least not for a very, very long time.”

  “So be it, Emrys Merlin,” answered the soft voice surrounding me. “But when the time comes for you to decide, listen to your innermost wind. Ahhh yes, and follow it, wherever it may carry you.”

  With a final flutter of my sleeve, she was gone.

  I stood there in the center of the teeming ring, pondering her words. Absently, I watched Lleu and a few other children sliding down the foot of a giant seated just outside the circle. So deep in thought was I that I hardly heard Lleu’s shrieks of laughter as he slid across the hairy flesh, bounced over an immense ankle, and rolled onto the sloping ground.

  Someone’s hand touched mine. I knew, even before turning around, it was Hallia. My hand closed on hers, and I gave a wan smile.

  “Where did you go, young hawk?” She lifted her slender chin, probing me with her gaze. “Somewhere far away?”

  Puzzled, I shook my head. “I’ve been right here, ever since you left me to visit with your clansfolk.”

  Releasing my hand, she reached up and stroked my temple. “In here, I mean. Where did you go?”

  “To the future. And Hallia . . . I didn’t like everything I saw.”

  Her brown eyes watched me soulfully. In a hushed voice she said, “I’ve been there, too.”

  “Am I there?”

  She paused awhile. “Only as a wish, a longing—not as you.”

  I twisted my staff into the turf. “It doesn’t have to be that way.”

  She said nothing.

  Slowly, we walked across the ring. For the rest of that afternoon, we worked together as healers, helping bind wounds wherever we could. One young eagle, whose wing had been badly torn, screeched triumphantly when I assured him that he’d soon fly again. The cry, so fierce and vital, reminded me of Trouble, and I wondered when—and whether—I would see the hawk’s bright eye again.

  To my surprise and delight, we found a spark of life remaining in the bear who had battled so bravely. I did my best to mend her gouges, a job made more difficult by the angry swats she took at my head whenever I touched someplace tender. Hallia, meanwhile, fed her handfuls of the giants’ freshly caught fish. And judging from the bear’s appetite, she was sure to recover.

  Throughout that day, and those that followed, Hallia and I spoke no more about our future. Yet the same doubts continued to hover around us. They filled my mind even when I spent the better part of a day alone with Rhia, following her as she strolled among the assembled trees. She moved as gracefully as a walking tree herself, stroking bark, untangling branches, and conversing in the ancient languages of rowan and oak, cedar and pine. Throughout the day, she (and Scullyrumpus, perched upon her shoulder) peppered me with questions about the strange events at the Forgotten Island, and about the lost wings. I did my best to answer, despite the furry beast’s constant grumbling that I should have been more observant—and less clumsy.

  One cloudy evening, when the moon showed only as a veiled orb, and shadowy steeds raced overhead, I joined my mother at Cairpré’s grave. Together, we sang some of his most cherished ballads, and for a few moments I forgot my own concerns. What sorrow lined her face, dimming even her sapphire eyes! Yet I couldn’t do anything to help; her wounds ran too deep for healing salves and poultices. Her only solace, it seemed, came from helping the smallest of the children, several of whom joined her even at the graveside.

  Every so often, as I roved about the hillside, I thought about Dinatius. He’d awakened on the morning after the battle, but remained weak and disoriented. He said nothing, ate very little, and couldn’t walk because of his broken legs. Still, he was Dinatius—and thus dangerous. So I asked some dwarves to fashion a chain to bind his arms, replacing the worn cord. Broken and defeated, he sat on the ground, his back propped against a stone pillar.

  As I looked at him, sitting silent and alone amidst the bustle of the circle, I felt an unexpected touch of sympathy. Sure, he had tried his best to slay me, and nearly succeeded. Yet he, like me, had suffered for years in that wretched village of our childhood; he, like me, had been maimed in that terrible blaze. And while I couldn’t forget all the harm he’d brought to others, I also couldn’t forget the harm I’d brought to him.

  Throughout those days of our encampment, something else was happening, something very strange indeed. It involved not the varied creatures gathered on the slope, nor the towering stones, but the land itself. A mist was rising, spreading over the terrain.

  I first noticed the mist in the center of the ring, lapping at my feet. Gradually, it grew thicker, and before long it filled the whole circle and pressed against the surrounding pillars. Eventually, it started rolling down the slope, through the trees, and over the neighboring hills. It even mingled with the flames of the Fincayrans’ campfires. Yet for some time I paid it no heed, assuming it would pass.

  It didn’t.

  With each succeeding day, the mist grew more pervasive, spreading like an inland sea. Still, it seemed just a curiosity—until I noticed that, unlike ordinary mist, it seemed to be seeping upward through the ground within the circle. Then, with a shudder, I realized the meaning of these encroaching vapors.

  “Hallia,” I said, taking her hand and leading her over to the edge of the ring. I pointed beyond the pillars, to the rumpled horizon of hills. “What do you see out there, in the distance?”

  She twisted her mouth quizzically. “Why, hills, of course. Lots of them.”

  I gave a grim nod. “What else?”
<
br />   “What are you getting at, young hawk? All I see are hills, and some scattered trees.”

  “And?”

  She stomped her foot in frustration. “Nothing! Unless you mean . . .”

  “The mist. Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.” I faced her squarely. “Have you ever seen mist like this before? So thick, so lasting?”

  “Hmmm,” she said, her brow furrowing, “I suppose I haven’t. Not even on the coast. That wall of mist is always there, just offshore, but it never moves inland.” Her eyes searched my face. “It’s not . . . just some sort of weather?”

  Slowly, I shook my head. “No, it’s not. Hallia, this mist is coming from the Otherworld.”

  She started, then kicked at a fluffy spiral near her foot. “You mean it’s rising through the gateway Rhita Gawr opened?”

  “That’s right. You must have seen how it started right here in the circle, then flowed down the hill and beyond.” I squeezed her hand. “Dagda warned me, when he came to me that night at the stargazing stone, that terrible things could happen if Rhita Gawr broke the barrier between the worlds.”

  “Now wait a minute.” She gave her flowing hair a skeptical shake. “What’s so terrible, really, about some mist from the spirit world covering our hills?”

  I drew a long breath. “It’s not just covering the land. Don’t you see? It’s taking the land.”

  She gaped at me, even as curling strands of mist wrapped around our hands, slipping between our fingers.

  “My love, I’m certain.” I gestured toward the creatures gathered around the ring of pillars. “This is what Dagda meant when he said that sometimes, when all is truly gained, all is truly . . .”

  “Lost,” she completed, her voice suddenly hoarse.

  Together, we sat upon a fallen pillar. Its rough edges seemed softened by the mist rising around its sides. We said nothing, overwhelmed by the weight of this realization, much as the land we loved was being overwhelmed by a new kind of force, one we could not fight.