Wild Magic (7 page)

The stag struggled, painfully gathering the last of its strength. “Rats,” it whispered
.
“A plague of rats.” Then the breath left its body and it was gone. Truly gone. It simply vanished into thin air. There was nothing left to show it had ever been there at all.

Except Finn's wound. The wound was real and the blood was real. Finn lay back on the damp earth, groaning as the pain crept up his body. He felt hot, then cold. Dizzy. He closed his eyes. His face grew damp with sweat. He bit his lip, determined not to cry out, and realized he had to do something.

He tore a piece of cloth from his shirt and bound the wound as best he could. Then he called to his horse, hauled himself into the saddle, and breathed a single word: “Home.”

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

Finn awoke in his own bed, with no memory of the journey home. His wound had been dressed. His clothes had been changed. His head rested on a pile of pillows. His body was covered with a sumptuous satin throw. He could smell the scent of roses and jasmine floating in from the garden outside. Hear his sister, going about her daily tasks.

The door opened.

“Finn!” His father, arms wide in greeting. “You join us again!”

Finn pulled himself higher up on the bed. “How long—”

“Have you been sleeping? Three days. You've had quite a fever.”

“No,” said Finn, shaking his head vaguely. “How long . . . till the next full moon?”

His father frowned, then started to laugh. “My son!” he said. “Your brain is befuddled. This week, next week—it doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me,” growled Finn. He reached for his father's arm and gripped it so hard, the older elf could feel a bruise forming. “It matters. Tell me. When?”

“Ten days? Twelve? I can't be sure,” said his father in some confusion. “Why does it matter? Son? Why does it matter?”

But Finn didn't reply, simply fell back against his pillows and closed his eyes. His father was right in a way. Ten days, twelve days—it didn't matter. It was coming. That was enough.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

Finn started packing the very next day. He told his sister, Beren, he was moving north. She was young, giggly, full of questions.

“Why?” she asked.

“To study magic.”

“Can't you do that here?”

“No.”

“Is there a girl in the north?”

“No.”

“Are you taking Aspen?”

“Yes.”

“Are you taking Flyte?”

Finn glanced at the window. His hawk was outside on the ledge, preening his fire-gold feathers in the warm sunshine. “Yes, I'm taking him too.”

“Oh.”

Beren sighed so prettily, Finn couldn't help smiling. She had always adored Aspen; clearly she had dreamed of owning him too. But she must have known Finn would never leave him behind. Horse and elf were bonded for life.

As for Flyte—well! Finn couldn't imagine life without him. He had found the bird one spring morning: a damp bundle of feathers, fallen from a nest. He had raised him and trained him. Watched him grow into the most magnificent hawk he had ever seen. And then, one day, Flyte had thanked him.

Finn had been a boy at the time. He had stood there, openmouthed, while the bird talked of care and kindness. “I'm dreaming,” he had told himself. “This isn't happening
.”
But then Flyte had pecked him sharply and assured him it was real.

Finn remembered asking him,
Are you magic?
The hawk had chuckled.
No
, he said.
But you are
.

And so it began—the awakening of Finn's magic powers. As the weeks went by, he learned that his gifts went beyond those of other elves. Understanding the language of birds was just the beginning. He discovered he could breathe underwater, bring blossom to trees, summon a storm. Best of all, he could take an ordinary object and make it magic.

He started with his pipe. It was just a simple silver flute, but Finn turned it into something special. He practiced daily, teaching himself tunes. Soon he could charm any living creature with its music. And all the time, on Finn's journey of discovery, Flyte was by his side.

Was he taking Flyte?
Of course he was! The hawk was already perched on the wagon, fire-gold feathers glinting in the morning sun.

“Do you know exactly where you're going?” asked Beren.

“No.”

“When are you coming back?”

A pause.

“Soon.”

“Yay!” Beren clapped her hands and ran to find presents. Trinkets, pictures, . . . pretty things to remind her brother of home.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

A day went by. Two days. Three. Finn had packed everything he wanted. It filled the wagon—he wasn't expecting that. But the thought of never returning made him pack more and more. Things he didn't need, like the wooden sword he had played with as a boy. His father noticed but made no comment.

Four days. Five. Time was passing. Finn was delaying. Only he knew why.

The wound had healed. The skin had pulled together and the scab had fallen away. There was nothing left except a scar, silver as a snail trail. But then, one morning, Finn awoke and felt fresh blood, wet on his leg, and knew it was time to leave.

When the dreaded moment came, his family was waiting for him by the wagon. A gray mare was harnessed between the shafts, and Beren, suspecting nothing, had decorated both with flowers. As soon as Finn appeared, she dashed forward to greet him. Finn stepped back, startled. She looked so like their mother. The dark hair . . . the mischievous smile. Someday she would be a real beauty—but he wouldn't be there to see it. Beren kissed him; he closed his eyes. There could be no tears today.

Then it was his father's turn to say good-bye. The older elf took him to one side, put his hands on Finn's shoulders and said, “Son, look at me.”

Finn lifted his gaze and looked into his father's eyes. And there he saw such love and concern, he longed to tell him everything. But he didn't.

“Finn,” said his father, “it doesn't have to be like this. Whatever you have done, I forgive you. You don't have to leave.”

“I do,” said Finn.

“You don't! That's what I'm trying to say. Whatever it is, you can still live here with us.”

“I can't live with myself,” said Finn bleakly. He pulled away from his father and watched Beren braiding ribbons into Aspen's mane. “I can't be trusted anymore.”

His father followed his gaze and suddenly felt fear twisting inside him like an eel.

“You haven't told me the whole story, have you?” he said quietly. “The forest where you picked up the wound . . . was it the Whispering Forest?”

Finn didn't reply, but his breathing deepened.

“The deer you were hunting . . . was it a magic beast? Did you . . . exchange words?”

Still Finn didn't reply. But he didn't need to. The look on his face told his father all he wanted to know.

“Finn,” he said at last, “my heart breaks to see you go, but I won't stop you. You're an adult now. You have to make your own decisions and some of them will be hard.” A sob rose in his throat. He stopped. Closed his eyes. Struggled to control himself—and Finn, watching, suddenly saw the future. He saw his father aged and withered. The worry and the grief of losing his only son had worn him down, and it was entirely his fault. He had ridden into the forest alone, but both of them would suffer for it.

The vision faded.

His father sighed. “I never thought I'd say this,” he said, “but I'm glad your mother didn't live to see this day. She loved you more than life itself.”

Finn reeled. Why did his father have to say that? Wasn't it enough that his heart was breaking? Did his father want to rip it out of his chest too? Because that's what it felt like.

But Finn's father wasn't being deliberately cruel. He was simply lost in his own grief. “I don't want Beren to see me like this,” he said, wiping his face with his fingers. “She thinks you're bound for romance and adventure, and I won't spoil it for her.” He threw his arm around Finn's shoulders. “Come! We shall smile for her sake.”

He led Finn back across the courtyard, pausing only to whisper a final message into his ear: “This will always be your home, Finn, and I'll always be here. Remember that.”

Finn nodded. His eyes were bright with tears and he didn't trust himself to speak. He hugged his father, held him close, kissed him fleetingly on the cheek, then clambered onto the wagon.

“Blessings to you both!” he cried, raising his hand in farewell. “Father—I will send the gray mare home, as soon as I have found somewhere of my own.”

“There's no hurry,” replied his father, waving him away. “Keep her if you want. Aspen is very fond of her!”

With the broadest smile he could manage, Finn clicked the reins and the wagon moved off. Aspen followed behind. The hawk circled above. Ahead lay nothing but a bleak, lonely, terrifying future.

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

Finn drove north, not caring where he went. On the first night he slept in a barn. On the second he camped under the stars. All the while, his wound wept and the moon waxed mercilessly. And then, all too soon, it was the third night.

Full moon.

Finn turned the wagon off the lane and onto a bumpy track. It led through woodland to a glade, and there he stopped, jumped down, and unhitched the gray mare. He glanced up. The full moon was rising, climbing into the sky like a great round beetle. Finn felt hot. Feverish. The wound throbbed. Blood was seeping through the dressing, sticking his leggings to his thigh.

“Aspen,” he called softly. The stallion came forward. “You must leave me now. Take Gray with you. Return in the morning when you hear my call.” He stroked the stallion's ears, running them through his hands like water. “Go well, my friend.”

The stallion bowed his great head and turned away, whinnying to the gray mare as he did. Together they disappeared into the wood.