A Wizard's Wings (19 page)

Hidden though they were, the waves announced themselves. For a long moment, I listened to them heave and slosh, slap and pound. With its own unending rhythm, the sea itself was breathing, drawing watery breaths as it had for ages upon ages. Somewhere out there, I knew, swam the glistening bodies of the legendary people of the mer. So elusive were they that in all my travels, I had only seen them twice, and even then for just an instant. Yet their voices had long called to me silently, fascinating me.

Mer people . . . they seemed somehow near, even now, when the mist obscured their watery realm. Perhaps there was some truth to the tale that my own grandmother—Olwen, wife of the powerful wizard Tuatha—had emerged from the sea, forever binding her people to the race of men and women.

What, I brooded, would Tuatha do? Surely he could have found some way to transport the children to the island. Absently, I tapped the wood of my staff, which had long ago been touched by his power. A gentle scent of hemlock wafted to me, mixing with the briny breeze.

Slowly, the wall of mist before me shifted, forming strange shapes within its depths. None of them could I recognize, yet all of them felt disturbing, as if they had been stolen from my most hideous dreams. Then, for a flicker, I glimpsed an eye, dark and mysterious. Watching me—I felt sure of it! Tuatha? I stared at the eye, even as it melted away. No, it couldn’t be him. Dagda, perhaps. Or perhaps . . . Rhita Gawr.

The heavy, arched brow was the last part of the eye to fade. As I watched, it coalesced, transforming into a fluid, shimmering wing. It stretched across the shore, fluttering as if buffeted by the winds of flight. Then it, too, dissolved, disappearing into the shifting clouds.

Beneath the wall of mist, I noticed something strange lying upon the sand. It appeared to be a kind of rope, running the full length of the beach—but a rope made from kelp, eelgrass, gull feathers, and other gifts from the sea. Rolled together by the gently lapping waves, and pushed higher and higher on the sand as the tide lifted, it had been left behind when the high water finally receded.

Sadly, I smiled. It was, truly, a lover’s braid, woven by the ocean itself and given to the land. It made me think of the woman whose auburn hair I loved to braid, and whose own gifts came from someplace as deep as the sea.

Something tugged on my tunic, near my waist. To my amusement, a small crab, mottled brown, was scaling me like a mountain. Carefully, I lifted him by the back, but his largest claw pinched the cloth tightly. I tugged, and he finally let go, though his wriggling made me drop him. He fell onto the hilt of my sword with a
ping.
The sound swelled for an instant, ringing like a distant chime, then faded into the sound of the surf.

I thought of Slayer, and his own deadly blades. What was it about him that had seemed so oddly familiar? It might have been his stance, or his voice. Yet that didn’t seem possible. Someone of his power, and wickedness, I’d surely remember.

As I pondered, the mist seemed to harden, flattening as if it were a sheet of metal. Like an enormous sword, it rose right off the base of the dunes, slicing a crisp line between sand and surf. I wondered how Slayer had come by his power. It rattled me that his abilities so closely mirrored my own. I gave weight to his sword; he did the same to mine. I transformed myself into a deer, or called upon the wind; he followed suit. It was terribly hard to fight someone like that. Impossible, really—as if I were dueling against myself.

Dueling against myself.
A new idea struck me, one that sent a jolt down my spine. Was it possible, even remotely, that my adversary had no real power of his own? That his magic came not from himself—but from me? Listening to the waves surging behind the sheer wall of mist, I considered this radical notion. It might just be possible that, in unleashing my skills in battle, I was somehow empowering my own enemy!

My gaze moved down to the base of the dune, where a glistening pool of seawater, as slender as a snake, wound its way through the rounded stones and brightly colored shells. Pink, yellow, and lavender the shells glowed. Like the spiraling one beside me, all of them had once made their home somewhere beyond the mist, beneath the waves. All of them had been brutally torn away from that home, removed from the world they knew, and finally hurled ashore. Just as I had been, on this very spot.

It seemed so long ago, that day I washed ashore! Brackish water soured my mouth. I had no parentage that I knew, no identity that I believed. Yet, despite all that, I remember having felt a tender spark of hope. A belief that somehow I would find what I yearned for, if only I searched long and hard enough.

I sighed, wishing I felt that same spark today. Instead, I felt a growing sense of doom. And a deep ache, worse than usual, in the tender spot between my shoulder blades.

On an impulse, I grasped the pointed top of the purple shell beside me. Pulling hard, I extracted it from the dune, spraying my tunic with sand in the process. With care, I lifted it higher and pressed its open end to my ear. A rushing, coursing sound came pouring forth. And with it, something more.

“Ffflllyyyyy,” spoke the shell in its breathy voice. “Ffflllyyy fffaaaaarrr.”

I nearly dropped it on the sand. “Fly? But how?” Cautiously, I replaced it on my ear.

“Ffflllyyyyy,” repeated the shell, its voice rushing to me as a wave rolls to shore.

Unsettled, I lowered it. Maybe I’d only imagined its voice, twisted into words the sound of the sea. But no, I knew better. This was a place, as I’d learned before, where the shells might speak, whether or not the listener could understand. I gently replaced the shell in its sandy lair, puzzling over its choice of words.

The mist softened, and began to shift yet again. The metallic sheen vanished, replaced by rolling billows. Then the vaporous wall withdrew, revealing much more of the beach. Before me lay a wide stretch of fine, golden sand, dotted with shafts of driftwood, starfish, crab parts, sea kelp, and colorful shells, including whelks, conchs, mussels, and ribbed scallops. Wet from spray, the shells gleamed like precious metals—gold, iron, silver, and bronze. Past the beach lapped the shallow waters of the surf, the thin leading edge of the ocean beyond.

At that moment, a lone seabird broke through the mist. It was a brown cormorant, its long neck curved like an enormous worm. Landing in the shallows with a splash, it padded around, squawking noisily. A few seconds later, another bird soared out of the vapors. This one, a blue-tinged heron, splashed down, ambled onto the beach, and stood regally looking out to sea. Another cormorant joined them, then a pair of brightly painted ducks, followed by a ragged-looking crane with black feathers all askew. Still more birds arrived, swimming and preening and wading together.

As more and more birds descended from the sky, crowding the beach, their sound overwhelmed even the ceaseless sloshing of the waves. They chattered and piped continuously, flapping their wings great and small, stamping through the shallows and tide pools, smacking their beaks with gusto. Whenever several flew together, I could feel the rush of air from their wings, their own gentle wind. Fascinated, I watched them, for I’d never seen the massing of such a huge number of birds.

A rush of wind blew across my cheeks. Expecting to see a new group of flyers, I looked up. But there were no birds there. Only air. The wind blew again, warmer than before, almost like a living breath. With it came a particular smell, the faintest scent of cinnamon. It was a scent I well remembered.

“Aylah!” I called to the wind sister who had once carried both Rhia and me across the whole length of Fincayra. “Aylah, it’s you.”

“Ahhh yes, Emrys Merlin, I have come.” Her whispering voice swept around me like a whirlwind, fluttering the sleeves of my tunic. “And with you I shall stay for a while, though the wind never stays very long.”

Suddenly an idea struck me. “Aylah, sometime tomorrow, some children will arrive here. And I must take them away, so they’ll be safe.” I paused, as a large wave splashed onto the beach, raising a great cacaphony from the birds. “Could you help me, Aylah? Could you carry them across the water to the Forgotten Island?”

The warm air flowed over my face, surrounding me with the aroma of cinnamon. “I cannot stay until tomorrow, Emrys Merlin, for very soon I must go to other seas and other shores.”

“But I need your help!”

“I cannot stay, Emrys Merlin, I cannot.” She spun around me, whirling in the air. “And you will need more help than mine if you wish to voyage to that island. Many others have tried, ahhh yes, but none have ever succeeded.”

I struck the sand with my fist. “I
must
succeed.”

“Then you must try, Emrys Merlin, you must try.”

Pleadingly, I asked again: “Can’t you help us?”

For several seconds, the cloak of warm air encircled me. “I cannot help in the way you ask, for tomorrow I shall be far, far from here. My sisters and I are gathering, as the wishlahaylagons have done for years beyond count, at the place we call
the wellspring of the wind.
Yet I shall return, Emrys Merlin, on another day, and perhaps I can help you then.”

“I need your help right now,” I beseeched.

“You have other friends, ahhh yes, who might be able to help. And now farewell, Emrys Merlin, farewell.”

With that, she brushed my cheek lightly. At the same time, the smell of cinnamon faded, and the warmth around me disappeared. Aylah had gone, and with her, my fleeting moment of hope. Suddenly I winced. I’d forgotten to tell her about the longest night! Even if she couldn’t help me save the children, she and her sisters might have helped at the battle. Damn! What an idiot I was to miss such a chance!

I hunched forward on the dune, staring at the congregating water birds. After some time, my thoughts returned to the children. What had Aylah meant when she’d spoken of other friends? My friends were scattered all across Fincayra, with plenty of difficulties of their own. They couldn’t possibly help me right now. Still, would she have said that unless she knew something?

At that instant, a shadow fell over me from behind. The shadow of a man! I spun around.

“Cairpré!” I leaped to my feet to embrace my old mentor.

He threw back the hood of his heavy cloak, and returned the hug. After a moment, he stepped back to study me in his inscrutable way.

“You look as worn out as I feel, Merlin.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Recall the lines from my last ode?
So ready for rest: Alas! Now the test
.”

“Yes, the test,” I replied grimly. “You always have the fitting couplet.”

“Only because I’ve written so many, my boy.” He looked at me wistfully. “And yet the poetry never gets any easier to write. Especially endings! They can be impossibly difficult. My greatest challenge.”

He paused. “Except for your mother, that is.” He lingered my astral vest. “She’s worth it, though, wouldn’t you say?”

I managed a grin. “How did you ever find me here?”

“Shim. He’s stomping around the countryside, at a rapid pace even for a giant, bearing a great load of passengers.”

“So he got my message,” I said, feeling relieved that at least one part of my plan was working.

“Yes,” Cairpré replied, his eyes alight. “And he is carrying them in a rather, well, unusual way.”

“Tell me.”

“No, no, I’ll let it come as a surprise.” He placed his arm around my shoulder. “I do have something else to tell you, though. Something important. Come sit with me—away from that throng of birds, where it’s quieter. You’ll want to listen carefully.”

20:
F
IN’S
B
ALLAD

Together, Cairpré and I strode down the sand to the lee of the dune, facing away from the sea. As we dropped lower, the noise from the water birds’ shrieking and honking lessened, though we continued to hear their clamor along with the sloshing waves. We sat in a small gully at the base of the dune, near a stand of trees drowned by one of the River Unceasing’s spring floods. Their whitened trunks, stripped of most of their bark, stood like gigantic arrows shot into the ground. Beyond the dead trees stretched the floodplains, a quilt of dry grass and hardened mud.

“Cairpré,” I announced, “I have a plan to save the children, a place where they’ll be safe.”

“Good, my boy.
May whimsical fate not destroy but create
.”

“I just have to figure out—”

“Later, Merlin. You must hear what I’ve found.”

The gravity of his tone caught my attention. “All right, then. What is it?”

He leaned closer. “It’s an ancient ballad, so obscure I’d forgotten about it completely. Until you spoke about your vision, that is.” Urgently, he took my hand. “It’s written by the bard Fin Gaillion!”

I shook my head. “Who?”

He frowned, scratching the tip of his nose—a look I’d seen occasionally during our tutorial sessions over the years, and which I knew meant something akin to
you blockhead.
More slowly this time, he said, “Fin Gaillion, seer of the western shores.”

Blankly, I stared at him.

Cairpré ground his teeth impatiently. “He was a prophet, a seer. Famous—at least to some of us. He wandered the coast centuries ago, putting his prophecies to verse. Unfortunately, most of his predictions are about as clear as the misty shores where he wrote them. But every so often, he gives quite a vivid glimpse of the future.” Under his breath, he added, “Though it may be a glimpse we’d rather not have.”

“What does this ballad say?”

He closed his eyes, concentrating on the words, as his fingers drummed against his thigh. At length, he recited:

On solstice that summons
The year’s longest night,
Fincayra shall suffer
The Otherworld’s might.
For spirit and mortal
 True sighted and blind,
There cometh a battle
Of ultimate kind.

At Dance of the Giants
A gate doth appear
On worlds out of balance,
Now riven by fear.
When dawn’s light caresses
The circle of stones,
The fate of Fincayra
Shall truly be known.