A Wizard's Wings by T. A. Barron

my plans.
    Plans. That was much too strong a word. I had only an idea, and not a lot of confidence that it would work. Or that Rhia would even agree to it. I felt grateful, at least, that I still had a few more hours to think it through, since Rhia had asked only that I explain myself by nightfall. But the passage of time did nothing to calm my queasy stomach.
    For the rest of the day, we rode north together across the frosted plains. We spoke little, though Scullyrumpus’ unwavering scowl told me his thoughts quite plainly. Throughout the day, the horses’ pace, like the dreary clouds overhead, never changed. Why rush, when I myself wasn’t sure where we were going?
    In time, a colorless sunset brightened the clouds to the west. We approached a still-flowing rivulet, bubbling out of a thick stand of trees. Pointing to a tilting oak tree by the forest’s edge, I declared, “There’s our camp for the night.”
    “Wondyful, just wondyful,” grumbled the voice from Rhia’s shoulder. “And no food for supper, I suresure.”
    Rhia silenced him with a wave. “I’ve got some oatcakes, you glutton. And maybe some rivertang berries if you stay quiet.” She shot me a glance. “Merlin has some talking to do.”
    “Goodgood,” chattered Scullyrumpus. “Clumsy man talking helps me sleeping.”
    Without bothering to tether the horses, we sat by the roots of the oak, which clasped the turf like bony fingers. From one of her pockets, Rhia pulled out a handful of oatcakes, plus a few dried berries, purple and tart. I took some, as did Scullyrumpus with a smack of his lips. Reaching for a rounded stone, I broke away the fingers of ice that were stretching across the rivulet. As I dunked Rhia’s flask, filling it to the top, the frigid water drenched my hand.
    “We could use some of your raspberry syrup right now,” I lamented.
    She chuckled at the thought, her eyes alight. Despite everything, I felt glad to be in her company. For one more night, at least.
    “Well,” I began. “Let’s—”
    “Night night, talky man,” said Scullyrumpus, sliding into Rhia’s sleeve pocket with an oatcake in each paw. “Be sure jabber all night now. And don’t fallyfall in river, hek-heka, hee-hee-hee-ho.”
    Watching his ears disappear into the pocket, I shook my head. “He’s such good company.”
    Rhia swallowed one of her berries. “He makes me laugh now and then. That’s worth something.”
    “About as much as a sour stomach, if you ask me.”
    She reached over to me, rustling her thick vest, and tapped my leg. “So tell me this idea of yours.”
    Drawing a deep breath, I began again. “Think about our problem for a minute. There isn’t nearly enough time to alert every creature on Fincayra. So that means I’ve got to decide which ones would be most helpful in turning back Rhita Gawr, and go after them. I’m thinking of trying the canyon eagles first.”
    Rolling a berry between her fingers, she pondered the notion. “Makes sense. Go on.”
    I studied her for a long moment. “Rhia, there are some creatures you know better than I—who trust you, as I do.”
    She tensed, backing up against a burly root. “You’re not wanting me to . . . No, Merlin. I’d like to help you gather everyone, but I really can’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because,” she blurted out, “it can’t be done!”
    “We don’t know that.”
    “I do!” She turned away, staring into the gloomy forest behind the old oak. “At least it can’t be done by me. I belong in the Drama, you know that. With the trees, my friends.”
    I laid my hand on the oak’s deeply rutted bark. “They might listen to you, Rhia. They might even stir from that slumber that’s kept them rooted for so many centuries.”
    “Unlikely,” she scoffed. “Even the Drama’s trees, which are more awake than most, can’t lift their roots out of the ground anymore. They’ve slept so long they’ve forgotten how.”
    “What about the walkers?” I pressed. “I met one