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

knew how to reach our old friend Aylah.”
    “You never find the wind,” I corrected. “It finds you. Now, someone I might be able to reach is the Grand Elusa. She’ll surely fight for Fincayra! With her size and power—not to mention that appetite of hers, fitting for a giant spider—she’s the most dangerous creature ever to walk on this island.” I paused. “Except for a dragon.”
    My throat constricted as I thought of Hallia, traveling northward in search of Gwynnia’s lair. Would she find it in time? Would the dragon be there . . . and willing to help?
    “We’ll need men and women,” Rhia said decisively. “Every person we can find. And my friends the wood elves might agree to join us, though they’re as elusive as shadows.”
    My own shadow, barely visible on the darkening ground, shook its head vigorously.
    “All right, all right,” I said. “None of her elves are as elusive as you.”
    The shaking ceased.
    I swung my head back to Rhia. “The marsh ghouls, too.”
    She frowned. “Not them. They’re savage fighters, all right, but they can’t be trusted.”
    “You weren’t there when I met them—and helped them. Maybe they’ll remember, and want to repay their debt.”
    Her frown only deepened. “They’re at the bottom of our list. Only the living stones would be worse prospects. Ha! You won’t even get a living stone to talk with you, let alone join with you.”
    “But I did, Rhia! Don’t you remember? That night when the living stone tried to swallow me? We did speak, and I remember it still—that deep, rumbling voice. There’s life in those ancient boulders, and great wisdom, too. I can reach them, I’m sure I can.”
    “Myself, I’d rather try to wake the trees. If it’s really possible.”
    “Let’s find out,” I suggested, nodding toward the oak.
    She eyed me uncertainly for a moment, then laid her hand, fingers splayed wide, upon the rutted bark of the trunk. Closing her eyes, she started to whisper in the deep, breathy tones of the oak’s language. Hooo washhhaaa washhhaaa lowww, hooo washhhaaa lowww wayanooo. Again she repeated the chant, and again.
    In the root running under my thigh, I felt a very slight twitch—almost a movement, though not quite. Had I just imagined it? I stretched out my own hand, touching the trunk alongside Rhia. Slowly, I began to feel a faint, distant warmth under my palm, radiating out from the heartwood. Hooo washhhaaa washhhaaa lowww, hooo naaayalaaa washhhaaa lowww.
    Another root stirred, quivering ever so slightly. It tensed, like an arm about to move. At the same time, a branch above our heads started swaying, slapping against the trunk. A dead leaf shook loose and floated downward, landing in Rhia’s abundant curls. Her eyes opened, full of wonder, as the heartwood’s warmth swelled a little stronger.
    “It’s working,” she whispered excitedly. “Can you feel it?”
    “See if you can get it to lift its roots out of the ground!”
    At the instant I spoke, though, the tree fell still again. Beneath my palm, the warmth seemed to recede, as swiftly as it had appeared. Rhia and I chanted, louder this time, over and over and over again. The warmth, though, continued to diminish, draining out of the fibers of wood like water from a broken flask. A few seconds later, all I could feel was rugged, lined bark under my hand.
    Not willing to give up, we tried chanting again. We kept pressing our palms against the tree, so hard that the veins bulged on the backs of our hands. Nothing stirred, however. No movement. No warmth. No life.
    At length, we drew back. Rhia cast me a solemn glance. Shaking her head, she dislodged the frayed leaf, which drifted down to the ground, settling by her feet. “It won’t be easy,” she said dismally.
    “Right,” I replied. “Yet . . . you truly started something there. Who can tell? Maybe you’ll find another way—a new word or tone that could make all the difference.”
    The edges of her mouth curled