Wizard's Heir (A Bard Without a Star, Book 1) (11 page)

Gwydion enjoyed himself,
swooping and diving through the cold air. There were no other birds around that
he could see, and he felt as though the world belonged to him. But he also
began to feel his strength starting to fade. The cold air burned in his lungs,
and his wings suddenly felt much heavier. He stretched them wide, and floated
down until he was back in the trees.

He spent the rest of the day
amusing himself with his new abilities. He would jump off a branch and see how
far he could glide, or plummet to the earth, catching himself just before he
hit. He flew in loops and rolls, caught acorns with his feet and beak, and
practiced hovering in one place. As the light began to fade, he found a hollow
tree trunk and settled down for the night, tucking his head under his wing.

For the next two days, he
explored the world in raven form. He flew through the forest, seeing it
through avian eyes, and then he became bold and flew back to Caer Dathyl, where
he sat in a bare tree in the courtyard, watching the movement below. A group
of children spied him and began throwing rocks at him, convincing him to return
to the forest.

He began practicing
shapeshifting back to human form, spending several hours tumbling through a
snowy field as he tried to change shape just as he landed. After earning
plenty of bruises for his miscalculations, he figured out the timing of it, and
continued doing it until he could do it without thinking. Then he went the
other way, jumping into the air and becoming a raven in flight, which took him
a lot less time to learn.

He left the forest again,
wheeling over the countryside, over fields fallow for the winter, forests of
skeletal trees, and craggy mountain tops. He marked the borders of Gwyneth,
then crossed them and winged his way through the surrounding cantrevs.

After a few days, he returned
to the evergreens that he had started from, becoming a man again. His body
felt very heavy, and he felt like he plodded on the ground as he went back to
Caer Dathyl. He did not enter the keep, but bought food from an inn just
inside the city gates. The fire in the common room was warm and cheery, and a
bard played in the corner. It made him want to sink into the floor, and when
the innkeeper suggested he take a room for the night, Gwydion agreed. The bed
was thin and lumpy compared to his own in the keep, but he fell into it
gratefully and slept for twenty hours.

When he woke, he left the Caer
again, and headed out to the Sayont River. The main channel flowed dark and
swift, but the edges were frozen, and in some cases covered with snow. A
primordial fear gripped his heart as he slid cautiously towards the water. He
had almost decided to head back to the shore and try it from the pier when the
ice split under him and he fell into the river.

The shock of it took his breath
away, and he felt the current catch his feet and drag him towards the center of
the river. The weight of his clothes started dragging him under, and it took
all of his powers of concentration to form the image of a salmon in his head.
As soon as he started changing, he felt a different type of panic, realizing
that his head was still above water.

He let himself submerge
completely, and felt the rush of water over his gills. He felt like pure
muscle; he dove to the bottom of the river, where the water moved more slowly,
while he acquainted himself with his new shape. It was like flying, but
without the drag of gravity. He found himself darting all over, just because
he could.

He found that the cold water
made him feel a little sleepy, so he let the current carry him downstream
towards the sea, using flicks of his fins to keep him away from rocks and
submerged trees. He didn’t worry about time, although he noticed the passing
of days by the alternating light and dark. It took three days to get to the
mouth of the river, where warm currents from the ocean mixed with the wintery
river. The salt water invigorated him like a slap to the face, and he raced
around the harbor, investigating all the nooks and crannies. He found several
ships half buried in the mud, rotting, and full of tasty scavengers. He also
found a couple of nets put out by hopeful fishermen, which he avoided.

He left the harbor after a
while and ventured into the open ocean. The salt became stronger the further
out he went, and he began to cruise lazily just below the surface. The weak
winter sun was not enough to warm the water, but he didn’t mind. In a fit of
energy, he propelled himself downwards, passing through water that went from
green to blue to black. He could feel the weight of it crushing in upon him,
but he continued diving until it became too painful to continue. He could see
bright spots all around him, evidence of some kind of life, but he did not
investigate too closely. Instead, he slowly swam back towards the surface,
trading the dim phosphor glow for the bright yellow sun.

The bottom rose up to meet him,
and he found himself skirting a small, heavily forested island. A shadow
passed overhead, and he rolled to look up at what it might be. It took a
moment for his brain to register the eagle that was plummeting towards him, but
in a move that spoke of developing instincts, he pushed for shore and turned
into man, throwing up his arm in defense.

The eagle, clearly baffled at
the change, struck his arm a glancing blow, then shot up and away with a
frustrated cry. Gwydion stood knee deep in the water, watching it wheel away
through the blue sky, feeling the wind drying the water from his face and
hair. The absurdity of his situation suddenly struck him, and he began to
laugh. It came out first as a low chuckle, but soon he was holding his sides
and laughing as loud as he could, startling a flock of sparrows from the
island, which made him laugh even more. He calmed down after a few minutes,
and wiped away the tears from his eyes. Then he thought about how to tell Gil
about what had just happened, and he started laughing again.

He waded to shore, and began to
gather firewood. He found a sheltered spot in the trees to build his fire, and
spent several hours warming his bones and not thinking much. The winds were
quiet. He played his harp some, but mostly he just watched the dancing flames,
letting the moment be without any thought. He did, however, smile more than he
had in a long while.

He woke the next morning next
to a cold pile of ashes, and moving proved to be difficult due to stiff
muscles. He stumbled out to the shore to try and get his bearings, but he did
not remember how he got to the island. He panicked for just a moment, then
shrugged it off. He figured he had been swimming mostly west; he launched
himself into the air as an osprey, circled the island twice, and then began
flying into the rising sun.

He landed that evening on the
mainland, though he was still not quite sure what part of Glencairck he had
found. He shapeshifted to a cat, and slunk through the alleys of the port
town, listening to the conversations of men in tavern doorways and merchants in
the streets. He discovered to his surprise that he was in Airu instead of
Cairnecht. He found a quiet spot where he could shift, going straight into
raven form, and followed the coast south until he recognized Afron at the mouth
of the Sayont River. He followed the river until he was in the wilderness near
Caer Dathyl, where he became a man again, walking through forests traversed
only by animals.

He walked until he found a
stream that had clusters of birches around it. He walked around several,
touching the bark and following the branches out to their tips. The various
forms he had assumed had him thinking that becoming a tree was unnecessary, but
he was curious as well; he hadn’t been a plant yet. Holding his hands above
him, and the image of the tree in his mind, he began the shape shift. He felt
the change slower than before. His toes stretched out into the dirt, and his
legs fused together. His chest shrank to the size of his neck, and his arms
receded while his fingers lengthened. His toes split and split again as they
pushed deeper into the soil. Gwydion felt stretched to the breaking point when
the world seemed to stop.

He could feel the winter, knew
that it was nearly over. He could not feel the wind at all, but the water in
the ground rushed past with a similar sound. Days turned over, one after
another, but time felt curiously distant. He sighed deeply as a peace he had
sought for months made its way into his heart.

He might have spent the winter
there by the stream, but he became aware of a group of men nearby. He casually
expanded his awareness, feeling through his roots the thrumming of horse hoofs
on the forest floor, and through the whispering in his branches a discussion
among the trees about fire, and swords. His tree thoughts were concerned with
the possibility of a forest fire, but the human core of him wondered what
business they were conducting far from other men, in an uninhabited portion of
the cantref.

He reluctantly assumed human
form again, and crept towards the men, sword in hand. He stopped a few yards
back from their camp, hidden by the trees, using the wind to help him hear what
they were saying.

“Give it up, Iolgu. It’s not
worth it.”

“Of course it is!” Iolgu said.
“There are more marks to be had. A bit of bad luck, and you’re ready to just
give up?”

“A bit of bad luck cost Filig
his life, you idiot. I don’t want to be the next to experience that kind of
luck, no matter how trivial it might seem to you.”

“But I’m telling you, spring is
the best season,” Iolgu said. “The marks are big and easy. What do you think,
Dorath?”

“I think both of you of you had
better shut your gobs and remember who’s in charge around here. I decide when
we’ve had enough. And I decide which marks to go for. Filig jumped out in
front of that merchant before I had a chance to see that he was carrying a
crossbow, and we were damn lucky to get away from there! Now, once Felmid is
back, we’ll talk about what’s next. Until then, shut it!”

The news of another man made
Gwydion uneasy, and he spun around just in time to see a thick branch being
swung at his head. He tried to block it, but wasn’t fast enough, and the crack
on his jaw spun him into oblivion.

He woke to find himself bound
to a tree, arms stretched uncomfortably behind him. He shook his head to try
and clear the fog, and a hand grabbed his hair and lifted his head. “See? I
told you I didn’t kill him.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re such a
genius, Felmid.” The man who spoke stood up and wiped his hands on his leather
vest. He stood close to seven feet tall, and was heavy with muscle. A dark
scar ran down one cheek.

“Why didn’t you just kill him,
Dorath?” asked Iolgu. He was thin and wiry, with a dark bristly beard.

“You don’t recognize him?”
Dorath asked. “It’s the heir apparent.”

The fourth man whistled. “Now
that’s luck, indeed. I’ll bet Math will pay a pretty penny to get him back.”

Gwydion’s head was clearing,
and he considered his options. Dorath came over and squatted in front of him.
“How much do you think you’re worth, eh?” His breath was foul and Gwydion saw
plenty of missing teeth. He also didn’t look as powerful with his sallow skin
and bloodshot eyes.

“Nothing,” Gwydion answered.

The smug smile faded. “What?
How do you mean, nothing?”

“I mean, if my uncle finds out
that the likes of you captured me, he’ll kill me himself before paying you one
coin of ransom.”

Felmid took a hissing breath. “You
lie!”

“It’s a trick!” Iolgu said. “It
has to be!”

Dorath’s concern faded back to
a grin. “That’s right,” he said. “I heard you think you’re cleverer than
everyone else. Well, it won’t help you this time, boy.”

Gwydion grinned in return. “It
already has,” he said, and shapeshifted into a raven.

The bandits cried out as the
ropes fell away and he flew up into the trees. He spotted his sword and his
harp beside where he had been bound, and he led the men on a chase through the
trees, drawing them further from their camp. When he figured they had gone far
enough, he turned and sped back towards them, causing them to dive out of the
way, cursing. He landed in human form, scooped up his sword, and turned to
face his foes.

Iolgu reached him first,
attacking with a wild cry and his sword held high. Gwydion didn’t even think
about what to do; he simply stepped inside the man’s guard and thrust his sword
in his belly, twisting as he did. The spray of blood shocked him, but he could
not stop to even be sick; Felmid was already upon him.

Gwydion feinted twice, and was
parried both times. He saw the unnamed bandit moving around him, trying to
come at him from behind. He considered the possibilities, then made a lighting
attack towards Felmid, driving him back momentarily. That allowed Gwydion to flip
Iolgu’s sword off the ground with his foot. He grabbed it backwards, a move
that he had only read about before. The blade laid the length of his forearm.

The two bandits were coming
towards him again, and Felmid feinted, forcing Gwydion back, and within range
of the other bandit. Gwydion saw his blade coming down, and threw up his arm,
using Iolgu’s blade as a shield. The man cursed and tried to hit low, but
Gwydion blocked that move, too.