Free A Wizard's Wings by T. A. Barron Page A

uncharacteristically grim. On her shoulder sat Scullyrumpus, watching me with a disapproving eye while I climbed after them, panting heavily, my breath making white clouds. Though Rhia never spoke a word, I knew that now, more than ever, she was wishing she could truly fly—just as I was wishing I could tap the power of Leaping. Why did that particular magic have to be so difficult?
    The temperature dropped as we reached the banks of the River Unceasing. Black clouds rolled overhead, sending down a sprinkling of snowflakes which melted into the water and frosted our backs and shoulders. Rhia plunged straight into the rushing river, and I followed. The incessant current lifted my boots, as if urging me onward. But it didn’t last long. As soon as I reached the other side, my sopping boots slapped the ground, feeling heavier than before.
    By the time we reached the village of Caer Aranon, the sunset was seeping across the sky like blood soaking through a cloth. The village gate, like the leafless tree by its side, took on the same reddish-brown color, while a lone thrush, rounder than a gourd, watched us from the tree’s lowest branch. Beyond the gates stood a collection of square-shaped hovels, made from mud brick and thickly woven thatch. Each of them seemed to be leaning, though in different directions, like an assembly of drunkards. Atop one, a rooster sat alone; two or three scraggly goats milled about. All in all, it reminded me of the squalid village in Britannia where I’d spent so much of my childhood—and lost forever the use of my eyes.
    Two dozen people, of all ages, clustered around a raised floor of uneven planks that rested on the dirt common between the huts. This was, no doubt, the theater. And this little throng could have turned out to hear Cairpré’s reading. That man could read poetry like no one I’d ever heard.
    At one side of the stage stood a flagpole, flying a banner marked with the image of a black quill pen. At the base of the pole lay a pile of old robes, along with one tattered gray wig and a couple of roughly carved masks. At the other side, the stage planks ended abruptly, as if the builders had simply run out of wood before they could make any railing. Nearby, a pair of upright timbers suspended a brown sheet that would, during any production, allow the performers to change costume (or perhaps hide from thrown objects).
    “Lovely placeyplace,” piped Scullyrumpus. He shook his head, causing his long ears to slap his cheeks. “Need a good strong flood, they do, not a stage.”
    “Hush, Scully,” came Rhia’s stern command. “We’ll get back to our forest home soon enough.”
    “Promise, youyou do?”
    “Hush, I said. Merlin, do you see Mother in that crowd?”
    “Not yet. Let’s—”
    I stopped as a loud whinnying echoed across the common. A great black horse, his broad back glistening, came trotting toward us.
    “Ionn!” I cried, stretching out my arms to greet the stallion who had borne me so often since childhood. To Rhia I said, “Mother must be here. Weeks ago she asked if she could ride Ionn in her travels with Cairpré.”
    The horse approached, crunching the dirt beneath his hooves. I reached to rub his nose, to feel his warm breath on my hand. But he turned sharply away. Instead of nuzzling me in greeting, he whinnied shrilly.
    “Something’s wrong,” Rhia declared.
    “Very wrong,” I agreed. “Ionn, take us to our mother.”
    The stallion tossed his mane and trotted over to the mass of people surrounding the theater. Pushing our way past all of them was made more difficult because everyone else, it seemed, wanted to get closer to the stage. Hearing their gossipy whispers, I realized they weren’t gathered for any performance. No, this was the kind of crowd that assembled to gawk at someone who’d been injured—or worse. Ionn’s sturdy neck pushed others aside, clearing us a path. Yet my temples pounded. Were we already too late?
    At last, Rhia and I