Free The Mirror of Fate by T. A. Barron Page A

when she sprinted the last few lengths toward me, my own face felt the rushing of air, my own thighs the pounding of turf. For I remembered, with aching clarity, the freedom of running like a deer.
    Stretching my stiff shoulders, I thought about the legend, first told to me by Cairpré, that long ago all Fincayran men and women could fly. Everyone possessed wings, he claimed, wings that had been treasured, before they were somehow lost forever. Many times I had wished that I, too, could fly. Yet, as I followed Hallia’s movement down the slope, drawing nearer to me with every bound, I knew that I would rather fly over the ground in another way altogether. With her at my side.
    I watched as the doe slowed her gait to a walk. At the same time, she straightened up, lifted her head, and transformed into a young woman. She strode quickly to join me. Seeing me uninjured (and covered with swamp muck), she broke into a grin.
    “You do have a way with giants, young hawk.”
    “Only ones with clogged noses.” I clambered to my feet. With difficulty, because of all the filth sticking to my boots, I managed to step clear of the debris. But apart from a few bruises and a scraped hip, I felt no injuries. My staff, still hanging from my belt, was also intact. As was the ballymag—whose muffled ranting and howling from inside the sling told me that he had revived. And that he remained quite unharmed.
    Hallia’s grin faded. “Please, now, let us return to the Summer Lands. To my people, and also my dear Gwynnia. She’ll be frantic by now.”
    Instead of replying, I turned my gaze toward the steaming bog that stretched all the way to the horizon.
    Reading my thoughts, she persisted. “Perhaps you’ll find some way to help—but later, when you know more. The elders of my clan might be able to tell you some useful things about the marshlands. And there’s Cairpré, too. Surely he can advise you.”
    Still facing the marsh, I gave a subtle nod. “He could, that’s true.”
    “Besides, young hawk, you just can’t go in there. No one goes in there.”
    Slowly, I turned back to her. “Then why do I feel so drawn to it? Even as I feel so repelled by it—and whatever dangers it holds?”
    She sighed. “I don’t know. But shouldn’t you look for the answer to that before you go any further?”
    “I’ve been looking, believe me, but it’s all a blur.” I chewed on my lip. “A real wizard, I think, would see things more clearly.”
    Moving closer, she fingered the muddy sleeve of my tunic. “A real wizard would know what he can do—and what he cannot.”
    “I suppose . . .” I hesitated, clenching my jaw. “I suppose it’s folly to rush into this. That forest has survived for centuries. Surely it can last a little while longer—long enough, at least, for me to learn more about what’s really happening.”
    “That’s right,” she said softly. “And now let’s run. Before the sun falls any lower.”
    “You lead,” I proposed. Then, noticing my empty scabbard, I caught my breath. “My sword! Where is it?”
    Hallia spun around. “There,” she announced, pointing down the slope. “See where it landed?”
    Indeed, it could not be missed. For my shining sword stood perfectly upright, its tip planted in the soil, its hilt held high. Rather than a weapon, it looked more like a marker, dividing the forested lands above from the swampy morass below. In the distance, the swirling vapors almost seemed to reach toward it, curling themselves around the hilt, clutching at the blade.
    At that instant, a large, gray-winged bird swooped out of the sky. Without slowing its plunge, it clasped the hilt in its claws and wrenched the sword free from the ground. The bird gave a raucous shriek, flapped its powerful wings with a slow, rowing motion, and rose again into the sky.
    “Come back!” I shouted, so taken aback that I couldn’t have wielded any magic, even if I had known what magic to use.
    Flapping slowly, almost wearily,