As fast as it had arrived, the shape disappeared into the silvery beams of moonlight on high. Not before I glimpsed its outline, though. Just as I’d heard its whistle, and recognized its boldness. My friend Trouble had returned! He must have followed Rhita Gawr out of the Otherworld, then circled silently overhead until the moment we needed him. The moment I needed him. How like the hawk I knew so well!
Hallia and I stared up at the sky—as did Rhita Gawr himself, boiling with rage. Though all of us were searching for the hawk, we saw instead something strange. So unaccountably strange that I stumbled backward in disbelief, knocking into the slanted pillar behind me.
Flying toward us, bright under the glowing moon, came seventy or eighty figures. They floated steadily nearer, their bodies bobbing with the gusts of air, like a flock of ungainly birds. But these were no birds, nor any creatures with wings. These were children.
The children.
Steadying myself against the block of stone, I watched them approach. Swiftly, they sailed toward our hilltop, arms and legs outstretched, tattered clothing flapping against their bodies. Flying! But without wings. How?
In the lead, his face aglow in the moonlight, I saw a small boy. Lleu! The woolen scarf that had once belonged to Cairpré trailed behind him, fluttering in the night. To one side, I saw Medba—flying upside down, her hair blowing crazily. To the other, I found little Cuwenna, holding the hand of someone much larger: Elen. I glanced down at the corpse of the bard at my feet, shuddering at what grim tidings awaited her.
Then my whole body stiffened, as I thought of what awaited the children. They were flying into a gruesome battle. No, into certain death! Whatever allowed them to soar this way, I felt sure, couldn’t also spare them from being killed once they landed.
As the flying children neared the circle of stones, one combatant after another looked skyward. The fighting slowed, then finally halted, as puzzled warriors—mortal and immortal alike—paused to view the uncanny sight. All across the hillside, a collective hush fell over the battlers. Even Rhita Gawr kept staring at the sky, seemingly unsure what to make of this.
At that moment, I caught the slightest scent of cinnamon on the air. A gust of warm wind brushed against my cheek. And I understood, in a flash, how the children were able to fly.
“Aylah,” I whispered anxiously, not wanting Rhita Gawr to hear. “Why did you bring them? They’ll all be killed!”
The wind sister swirled about me, ruffling the sleeves of my tunic. “It was you, Emrys Merlin, who called to me, from the land long forgotten. Do you not recall?”
I winced. “Yes, yes,” I whispered. “I sought your help to get here. But—”
“And when I arrived at that place, Emrys Merlin, you had already gone. The boy named Lleu begged me to carry him to you. As did the others, including the one you call Mother. I could not refuse them, ahhh no, for I could tell they spoke solely out of loyalty and love.”
“They will die!” I exclaimed, shouting in distress. “Every last one of them will die!”
My outburst echoed over the hushed hillside, startling the combatants. One warrior goblin in the center of the ring turned to another and asked in a bewildered voice: “We’ll all die?” The second goblin repeated the words, as did another, and another. Like ripples flowing over a tarn, the phrase swept across the circle and down the hillside.
We’ll all die,
went the refrain.
Every last one of us will die.
“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:
T
HE
J
OINING
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 reaches 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.”