A Wizard's Wings (34 page)

“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?”

“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.

Hallia tapped the pillar beneath us. “Already this seems part stone, and part mist.” She scraped the surface with her finger, pulling away some threadlike vapors. “What does this mean, young hawk, for my people, for our sacred lands? For all those hidden pathways and glades and meadows that you and I ran through together as deer?”

“Drowned in mist,” I answered somberly. “Just like everything and everyone else in Fincayra.” I swatted at some white tufts clinging to my leggings. “Our homeland is lost, I can feel it. All we fought for, all Cairpré and so many others died for—lost.”

We sat in silence for a long time, watching the mist deepen. My doubts about the future returned, but with a different twist. With no more Fincayra, what would become of Hallia? Of us? Perhaps we could live out our days in the Otherworld that was swallowing our homeland. Perhaps my time had truly come to travel to Britannia, with Hallia at my side. Or perhaps . . .

At that moment, I noticed that a visitor had entered our camp. Up the hill he strode, moving briskly through the swelling mist. When he neared the circle, a gust of warm air blew over us. At the same time, birds of all kinds flocked to the stones, perching where they could see him. Many other creatures—centaurs and sprites, butterflies and wolves—followed him into the ring. Even the bear, with bandages on her whole body, hobbled in his wake. The living stone, too, rolled behind him, crunching heavily on the soil.

He was an elderly man, his silvery hair as wispy as the vapors curling about his ankles. One arm dangled uselessly at his side, but his confident stride conveyed an air of strength. As soon as he approached, I recognized him. Yes, even before I gazed again into those deep brown eyes, full of wisdom and compassion and hope.

“Dagda,” I said reverently, walking over and kneeling before him.

He touched my shoulder lightly, and his face crinkled in a sad smile. “I am sorry for what you have lost.”

I couldn’t find the words to reply.

He studied me for a moment, then said in a resonant voice, “All is not as it appears, however.”

“I . . . don’t understand.”

“You shall, in time. Rise now, Merlin. I have brought someone to see you.”

As I stood again, he reached down and scooped up a curl of mist. It rested in the palm of his hand, slowly spiraling. Then he blew upon it, very gently. It began to enlarge, growing taller and fuller. A rounded body appeared, then sleek wings with bands of silver and brown, then a proud head with yellow-rimmed eyes and a perilous beak. Trouble!

The bird whistled, glanced at Dagda, and fluttered his wings. He lifted off, landing on my left shoulder with a rush of cold air. Again he whistled, before grasping me tightly with his talons.

Feeling his weight again on my shoulder, I almost smiled, yet my heart remained too heavy. “Thank you,” I said quietly. “I’ve missed him.”

“And he you,” the elder spirit replied.

I beckoned to Hallia, and also to Rhia, who was standing across the circle. More than anyone else, they knew how much this hawk meant to me. Both kneeled in greeting to Dagda, as I had done, then stroked Trouble’s feathered back. The hawk strutted happily on my shoulder, pausing once to tickle Rhia’s nose with his wing tip. Scullyrumpus, peering in awe over the edge of Rhia’s sleeve pocket, was uncharacteristically silent.

At length, I turned back to Dagda. “Tell me, please, what you meant.”

The old man’s eyes lowered. “You know now that the veil between the worlds has been torn, the cosmic balance shifted. Nothing can change that.”

He splayed his fingers, causing the mist to lap against our legs like waves on the open sea. “And now . . . our worlds will merge. They are joining, even as the Forgotten Island has joined with the mainland. No longer will Fincayra stand apart, a haven between mortal Earth and immortal Otherworld.”

“So it
has
been destroyed.” I shook my head dismally. “Just as I thought.”

The elder raised his hand. “Not destroyed, Merlin. Transformed.”

I traded uncertain glances with Hallia and Rhia. “Transformed how?”

“Look more closely,” bade Dagda, waving at the vapors flowing over the stones and all the assembled creatures. “Do you notice something else about this mist?”

I scanned our surroundings, increasingly white. “No,” I admitted.

“I do,” offered Hallia, her face suddenly aglow. She pointed at the fallen pillar where we had been sitting. It looked now almost like a rectangular cloud, not so much covered by mist as infused with it. “Instead of drowning our world, it could be, well . . .
becoming
our world.”

“I see!” exclaimed Rhia, bouncing so vigorously that Scullyrumpus’ ears flapped against her arm.

“Well, I don’t,” I said in exasperation.

Dagda reached over and placed his hand upon my shoulder, right next to Trouble’s talons. “Now you shall, thanks to all your good work. For the moment has come that I have long awaited.”

35:
M
IRACLES

Dagda’s eyes brightened, like stars emerging in a dusky sky. “Fincayrans have united,” he declared, loud enough that all the creatures gathered around the stone circle could hear. At once, the entire ring fell silent. Not a single bee buzzed; not a single bird chattered. Even the great bear, swathed in bandages, seemed to hold her breath.

“Fincayra’s many threads have bound together into a sturdy rope,” proclaimed the elder spirit. “Not only have all of you fought together against a common enemy, you have done something much harder still. You have begun to live together as a single community, sharing your food and labors and dreams. That has not happened since days long past.”

He paused, the barest hint of a smile touching his lips. “Those days held gifts for all, none of them more precious than peace. And for the men and women of that time, those days held one gift in particular.”

Beside me, Rhia gasped.

Lifting his hand high above his head, Dagda drew a graceful circle in the air. “And so shall it be again.”

Rhia gave a shriek, as shrill as one of Trouble’s whistles. At the same time, Hallia leaped like a surprised doe. For both of them were experiencing the same thing as I—a deep, sustained pulsing in the middle of the back. This wasn’t the old ache between my shoulder blades. Far from it! This was a feeling of exhilaration and contentment combined, what I imagined a seed might feel before erupting at last into sunlight.

My tunic felt suddenly tight around my chest. Before I knew what was happening, I heard a tearing sound. And out through my tunic and vest, as through Rhia’s suit of woven vines and Hallia’s robe, burst something utterly extraordinary.

Wings.