Taking Flight

the way I am!”

And then, as if to emphasize her point, she vanished. A moment later Kelder heard the beating of wings outside; he stepped to the door and saw her appear again, rising into the air on gleaming white pinions.

He watched her go with his gut hard and tight with disappointment.

“I should have known,” he muttered to himself.

Valder and Iridith said nothing.

Irith returned during supper, and the subject was never mentioned again; instead, Iridith explained how to remove the spell on Ezdral.

“That’s all?” Irith asked. “Two drops of blood? I could have done that years ago!”

“Yes,” Iridith agreed. “If you’d known, you could have.”

Irith frowned. “Well, next time,” she said, “I’ll know what to do.”

“Next...” Kelder stopped himself before another word could escape, but the knot of dismay in his belly grew larger and heavier.

“Shall we take the blood now?” Iridith asked, drawing the silver dagger from her belt.

Irith eyed the blade unhappily, then glanced at Ezdral, still asleep on a bench by the hearth. “There isn’t any hurry, is there?” she said. “I mean, Ezdral won’t care if we wait a few days.”

That was the pebble that sank the barge. Kelder grabbed Irith by the arm and shoved his face close to hers.

“Listen,” he said, “you are going over to Ezdral right now, and I’m going to prick your finger, and we’re going to put a drop of your blood under each eyelid, just the way Iridith said, whether he’s asleep or not. He’s been under your damnable spell for forty years too long already!”

“All right,” she said, pulling away. “You don’t need to shout!”

She turned and looked at the drunkard with distaste, but when Kelder reached for her again she rose quickly and crossed to him. She knelt beside him and held out her left hand.

“Here,” she said.

While Iridith watched silently, Kelder used the point of his own knife to draw blood from Irith’s left little finger. He dabbed up a drop on his own little finger, then peeled back one of Ezdral’s eyelids with his other hand and carefully pressed the drop onto the eye beneath.

Ezdral snorted, but did not stir.

Kelder repeated the operation with the other eye, then sat back on his haunches and waited.

Nothing happened, except that Irith said, “Hai, that hurts! Has someone got a bandage, or some water? Iridith, do you know healing spells?”

The two of them ate their supper that night in resentful silence. At the next table, where Valder and Iridith were bringing each other up to date, Asha made a point of bringing Iridith her meal, to impress her new mistress with her enthusiasm and ability. Whenever the girl looked away Iridith grinned with delight. When Asha was watching, of course, the wizard kept her face serious, accepting the over-attentive service in the spirit in which it was meant.

Afterward, Kelder decided that something had to be done. He suspected that Irith, in terror of being coerced out of her magic, was on the verge of fleeing. That would not do. If she fled this time, somehow, he was less certain than ever before that he would ever see her again. Zindre’s predictions seemed a tenuous thread to bind her with; he could no longer trust only in the prophecy. He wanted to speak to Irith in private, to explain, to tell her he loved her and ask her to marry him.

After all, why should he keep the prophecy secret any longer? If she was to be his wife they had to trust each other.

And even with her magic, even with her refusal to consider a life in Shulara, he still wanted her. They could live in Ethshar, if she wanted, or somewhere else; there was no hurry about going back to Shulara, and he didn’t really care if he ever went back — except that Zindre had said he would, and it was her promise that made him dare to ask Irith for her hand.

After all, how could an ordinary farmboy have the audacity to try to wed a legendary creature like Irith, without some magical support of his own?

He needed to tell her all that. He needed to talk to her alone, but with the inn full of customers, with servants hurrying hither and yon, finding a suitable place was a challenge.

Finally, in a moment of inspiration, he borrowed a lantern from Valder and suggested to Irith, “Come out to the hilltop with me, and let’s look at the river in the moonslight. Both moons are up; it should be especially pretty.”

She considered him for a long moment before saying, “All right.”

Together they walked up to the top of the ridge behind the inn, not speaking yet, and together they settled onto the grass of the meadow. The night air was cool, but not cold — certainly warmer than it had been on previous evenings. The river was a constantly-changing band of rose and gold sparkles in the light of the two moons, and for a long moment they watched it in silence.

“Thank you,” Kelder said at last, “for curing Ezdral.”

“Well, it wasn’t his fault,” Irith said.

Kelder was still trying to puzzle out exactly what she meant by that when a blood-curdling shriek split the night. Both of them started; the crickets fell silent for a moment before resuming their interrupted chirping.

“What was that?” Irith asked.

“I don’t know,” Kelder said. “I think it came from the inn.” He turned to look.

“Where is she?” screamed the voice. “Where is that bitch?”

“That’s Ezdral,” Irith whispered. Kelder turned in surprise, and she added, “He’s really mad at me.”

Kelder had not thought about how Ezdral might react, once the spell was removed. Now that it was thrust under his nose, though, he realized that naturally, the man would be furious. The love spell had protected itself, in a way, by making it impossible for Ezdral to think ill of Irith; now that the spell was gone, forty-four years of frustration and anger could pour out all at once.

And Irith was its obvious target.

Kelder stood and looked back toward the inn.

He could see a shadowy figure, barely visible in the distant light of the torch over the door — a man, standing unsteadily in the road. The figure shook a fist in the air. “Irith!” Ezdral bellowed, “I’ll hunt you down and kill you, you stupid little monster!”

“What should we do?” Irith asked, holding Kelder’s leg.

“I don’t know,” Kelder said, frozen with indecision.

The figure by the inn was turning, turning and scanning the dark landscape, and now his gaze climbed the ridge, and Kelder suddenly realized that he must be silhouetted in the moonlight, and that Ezdral might well blame him, as well as Irith, for all his misfortunes — however unfair that might be.

Ezdral spotted him.

“Irith!” the old man bellowed again.

Kelder had not even considered the possibility of mistaken identity.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s get out of here.” He pulled Irith up and began running down the slope toward the river — not with any particular goal in mind, but simply because it was away from the raging Ezdral.

Ezdral, his mind still fogged with drink and fury, saw the figure atop the ridge fleeing, and knew unthinkingly and beyond question that it was Irith, that his vengeance was at hand if he could catch up with her. He charged up the slope, yelling.

“I wasted my entire life hunting for you, you stinking little idiot,” he shouted, “and by all the gods, I’m going to catch you, finally!”

Kelder and Irith stumbled down the northern slope, toward the bridge and the river, in a panic; Kelder kept a firm grip on Irith’s arm. The four soldiers, the toll collectors, turned to see what the commotion was, and in response Kelder instinctively steered away from the bridge, not realizing that that left nothing but the steep bank of the river.