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Jesse plunged deeper into the forest, ignoring the branches that caught at his sleeves and the thorns that scratched his arms. Running away had been an impulse, not a carefully thought-out plan. They’d thrown rocks at him once too often, and he’d turned and bolted straight into the woods.
Anger and hurt and frustration and a wild hope for something different had kept him going when the trees became denser and the light began to fade. And by then he knew that he’d gone far enough that trying to turn back would likely get him just as lost than pressing forward. So he went on, figuring eventually he’d come to the end of the woods. And on, and on, until he had plenty of time to regret everything. He particularly regretted not having worn a coat that morning, for as time went on, the forest went from pleasantly cool to distinctly cold.
He was trying to decide whether it would be better to sleep in the forest or keep walking all night when he almost ran into a tower of gray stone. He stopped and stared. He knew what the tower was. Like everyone in his village, he’d seen it when the sky was clear and its top wasn’t hidden by clouds. It was abandoned, everyone said, a crumbling relic of ancient times. That had only made it seem more interesting to him. But it had looked so far away, and he’d never heard of anyone actually visiting it. He’d never imagined that he could have reached it in a single afternoon and evening of walking.
The sight cheered him. Jesse, the village outcast, had found something none of them had. It was magnificent, not crumbling at all, a spear of gray piercing the sky. By the light of the full moon, he could see that its smooth sides were carved with strange runes and mystic symbols, or at least he supposed that was what they were. They certainly weren’t any kind of writing he recognized.
He paced around the tower, intending to look for a way inside, but ended up so fascinated by its mysterious carvings that finding a door came as a surprise. Like the tower itself, it was in much better repair than he had expected. It was a heavy wooden door with a bronze knocker shaped like a pair of wings. Out of sheer impulse, he lifted it and gave a sharp knock.
The door swung open, releasing a flood of warmth and golden light. Jesse nearly jumped out of his skin. At first all he could see was a the silhouette of an angel standing in the doorway. Then his eyes adjusted and he saw that it was a man. A man with wings.
The man wore robes of dark blue embroidered with silver runes like the ones carved into the tower. He was tall and slender, with sharp but handsome features and a sensual mouth. His eyes and rumpled hair and great feathered wings were all the same shade of amber, like the golden edge of a flame.
“You have wings,” said Jesse, and immediately felt foolish.
The winged man looked like he should speak in grand and mystic pronouncements, like “Who cometh to the tower that is both light and darkness?” What he actually said was, “Who are you, and how on earth did you find my tower?”
“I’m Jesse, from the village. I ran away and I just… walked to it.”
The winged man seemed dissatisfied with that explanation. “Ran away from what?”
“Everything.” Jesse had never before had to explain his situation. Everyone in his village already knew. So he stumbled a little when he said, “My mother died bearing me. Then my father died in an accident. His sister took me in, but she died of a sickness. I was passed on to their mother, and she died of old age. The villagers decided I was bad luck, and no one wanted to take me in.”
“Foolish,” remarked the winged man. “Bad luck is exactly that: luck. By definition, it has no cause.”
“I never thought of it that way before,” Jesse said. All his assumptions were shifting in his mind like clouds blown by the wind. If a man could have wings, and the tower wasn’t abandoned, then maybe he’d only been unlucky, rather than the cause of his own unluckiness.
“How did you survive, then?”
“By then I was old enough to do the kind of work a child can do, picking berries and pulling weeds and so forth, so that got me food to eat and an abandoned shed to sleep in. But the villagers never accepted me. Some of them will still give me food in exchange for work, but a lot of them make the sign to avert the evil eye when I pass, or even throw rocks at me.”
“Villages have long memories,” said the winged man. He frowned at Jesse, but not with the villagers’ malice and fear. He looked more like Jesse was a difficult and unexpected problem, like a wagon that broke an axle halfway to the marketplace.
The sound of wings broke the silence. He glanced upward and saw a small dark shape flying down toward them. At first he thought it was a bat, then he decided it must be a bird. But as it came closer, bypassed him, and landed on the winged man’s shoulder, he was unable to disbelieve his eyes. It was a cat. A cat with wings.
The winged cat, a calico with feathered wings the same colors as her fur, meowed at him. Without thinking, he did what he always did with cats. He offered his hand, murmuring, “Here, puss puss puss.”
The cat leaped to Jesse’s shoulder. He staggered slightly, more from surprise than from the cat’s light weight or the small prick of her claws, then laughed with sheer delight. A flying cat! Somehow, that seemed even more impossible than a flying man—perhaps because he’d never seen the man actually flying.
“Good pussy,” said Jesse, scratching her behind her ears. She purred and nuzzled him.
The winged man frowned harder. He whistled at the cat, who ignored him and chewed on Jesse’s overgrown hair. He held out his forearm, but she only dug her claws in and clung harder to Jesse’s shoulder. Grudgingly, he said, “She likes you.”
“Cats always like me,” Jesse replied. “All the village mousers come to my shed. They say cats will steal your breath if you let them sleep with you, but all they do to me is keep me warm at night.”
“I see.” With a final, especially fierce scowl, the winged man seemed to give in. He stepped inside the tower, and beckoned to Jesse to come in. “I suppose you must come in if I’m to get my cat back.”
Jesse had heard all the stories about children and gingerbread cottages, but he wasn’t a child and the tower wasn’t edible. The forest was icy cold and he could hear the distant howling of wolves. Besides, the cat on his shoulder was sleek and well-fed, with none of the dirty fur or scrawniness of the village mousers. Surely a man who would care so well for a cat couldn’t be evil.
Jesse stepped inside.
A cozy warmth enveloped him. A fire burned in a fireplace, there were woolen rugs on the floor, and wooden furniture scattered about. A kettle hissed on the stove in a kitchen area. The inside of the tower smelled not of cold stone, but of fresh-baked bread, fried ham, and old paper.
Most of the space inside was devoted to bookshelves. They went a very, very long way up. Jesse couldn’t see the top of the tower from the inside. He couldn’t see where the bookcases ended. Overhead was a vast space that seemed to go up forever.
“Sit down,” said the winged man. “I was just about to have supper. You may as well eat with me.”
Jesse sank down gratefully into a chair with soft cushions. The cat leaped off his shoulder and flew toward the winged man as he walked to the kitchen, meowing plaintively. The winged man chopped some ham and put it in a saucer on the floor, and the cat fell to.
“What’s her name?” Jesse asked.
“Callie,” said the winged man.
“And what’s yours?”
The winged man gave him a sharp look. “Don’t you know not to ask a sorcerer his name?”
“Is that what you are?”
“Yes.”
“I always heard you should never tell a sorcerer your name,” said Jesse. “Though maybe that’s not true. What could they possibly know of sorcerers? They didn’t even know anyone lived in the tower.”
“There is more to you than meets the eye,” said the winged man. He busied himself with dishes, then shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. I know yours. And you know Callie’s. My name is Alwyn.”
“Alwyn,” Jesse repeated. It was a beautiful name, one that felt right for this handsome, magical man with his beautiful wings.
Alwyn brought a tray to the table, with dishes for both Jesse and himself. If Jesse had ever asked himself what he’d expect a sorcerer to have for supper, he’d probably have guessed it would be eye of newt and toe of frog, or a magically conjured banquet, or that they ate no food and were sustained by the light of the stars.
Alwyn ate fried ham, thick-crusted bread, sweet butter, and turnip pickles, with mugs of beer to wash it down. It was the best meal Jesse had eaten in a very long time, not to mention with the best company. Callie rubbed herself against his ankles under the table, and Alwyn spoke little but pleasantly. As for Jesse, he enjoyed just looking at him, his amber eyes like a wolf’s, his shaggy hair like a candle flame, his magnificent feathered wings.
So Jesse was surprised when at the end of the meal, Alwyn stood up and said, “Be off with you, now. You’ll spend no night under my roof.”
Jesse’s face flamed hot as he reproached himself for having imagined that he might be allowed to stay, even for a single night. Standing, he said, “Thank you. You were very kind.”
Now it was Alwyn who looked discomfited. “Not particularly. It’s better for you to leave, though. Those who come too close to me are… changed. Wait here.”
He got up and rummaged in first the kitchen, then a wardrobe, and returned with a heavy wool coat, a flask of water, and a bag crammed with food, all of which he thrust unceremoniously into Jesse’s hands. “There you are. That will see you to the next town, or back to your village if you prefer, though I can’t think why you would. Now hold still.”
Jesse was astonished when Alwyn bent and pressed his lips against Jesse’s forehead. Every nerve in his body awoke and sang at that unexpected kiss.
“The wolves won’t bother you now. I’ve put my mark on you. Goodbye!” And with that, Alwyn thrust Jesse back out into the night. The door slammed behind him.
Jesse was left alone in the echoing darkness with his arms full of bounty and his forehead burning like it had been touched by a brand. He didn’t know whether the heat was magic, or simply that his skin didn’t want to forget the touch of Alwyn’s lips.
He found himself a place to settle down for the night, wrapped in his warm coat. His mind spun with all the events of the night, along with regret that he would have to leave in the morning, and would never see Alwyn again. He thought he’d never sleep at all, but exhaustion caught up with him, and he closed his eyes.
Jesse awoke at dawn in an acutely uncomfortable position. He was lying with his back across a lump, and his back itself felt squashed and cramped. He rolled on to his belly, but that didn’t help as much as it should have. His back was still squashed and cramped, as if he wore a huge pack beneath his coat.
He got up and squirmed out of the coat, which was unaccountably now too small for him, when the night before it had been too large. The coat fell to the ground, but now the pack was under his shirt, which was so tight it felt like it might tear apart. Now somewhat panicked, Jesse hurriedly unbuttoned it and cast it aside.
His wings sprang free.
Without conscious thought, he stretched and spread them wide, fluttering them to shake out the cramps. They were feathered and black as his hair, with glimmers of purple and blue.
Wings.
He had wings.
The next thing Jesse knew, he’d spun around and was bolting back to the tower, yelling Alwyn’s name. He pounded on the door, shouting, until Alwyn opened it.
Alwyn’s amber eyes widened, but he looked less shocked than regretful. “I was a fool to let you inside at all. I thought it was harmless so long as you didn’t spend the night.”
“The tower gives you wings?” Jesse asked.
“Not the tower,” said Alwyn. “Me.”
Callie flew out the door and onto Jesse’s shoulder, purring loudly. She chewed on his feathers, which gave him the oddest tickling feeling.
“The trouble with being a sorcerer is that you don’t always cast magical spells. Sometimes spells infect you, like a disease. Worse, like a disease you can give to others.” Alwyn gestured at his wings. “I came here to avoid people. I thought it wouldn’t affect animals. I was wrong. Though Callie doesn’t seem to mind.”
“I don’t mind either,” said Jesse. “It’s not a disease. It’s beautiful, and wonderful, and—”
The expression on Alwyn’s face silenced him. Jesse supposed he might have looked something like that himself, when Alwyn had told him that luck had no cause by definition.
“They are beautiful,” Jesse repeated. “At least… Yours are.”
“Oh, yours are too,” said Alwyn. “Like a cormorant.”
“What’s that?”
“A sea bird.”
“I’ve never seen the sea.”
“You can now,” said Alwyn. “With wings, you can go anywhere.”
“Will you teach me to fly?” Jesse asked.
“Your wings already know how,” said Alwyn. “Just as your eyes know how to see. Follow me.”
Alwyn’s folded wings opened. In the pearly morning light, they glimmered with a thousand subtle shades. He leaped into the air, and his wings carried him upward.
Jesse followed. His wings did know. They flapped strongly, carrying him upward. A moment later, he and Alwyn were soaring above the forest, seeing the world from above as birds did. They flew through the cold white mist of clouds, and let the sun dry their feathers as they glided again in the clear sky. They tumbled and spiraled and dove and climbed, free amidst the endless blue. Callie joined them, batting at clouds like they were great puffs of dandelion fluff.
Finally, they landed before the tower, hot and sweating and content.
“I can’t go home,” said Jesse. He gestured toward his wings, but they weren’t the only reason. How could he return to the smug little village that had made him an outcast? How could he go to any town? How could he leave Alwyn?
“Of course you can,” said Alwyn. Jesse’s heart sank until Alwyn took his hand. “You already have. Here you are.”