The Purple Emperor

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

It was really peculiar. If he tried and thought about it, nothing happened. But if he didn't think about it and just did it, the wings moved. Not a lot, admittedly, but some. The trouble was they didn't move together. Sometimes one twitched, sometimes the other waved about a little. But there was no question of coordination, or any real strength.

As he tried to move the wings, Henry discovered he had a brand new slab of muscle. It stretched between his shoulder blades and the wings were rooted in it like a tree. He could move the muscle too, if he wriggled about a bit, but again only weakly. He stood in the middle of the maroon plain, totally absorbed. It was scary, but the wing business was still the most exciting thing that had happened to him in years.

The wings suddenly unfolded and stretched out behind him like a

… like a… He couldn't think like a what, but' he could see himself in his mind's eye as an incredible winged boy, standing statuesque and proud on the edge of unexplored terrain. It made him feel heroic and confident. But it would be a lot better if he could use the wings.

Henry twisted his head to look at them. They hung behind him, large and marvellous. They weren't the wings of a bird, more like the wings of a butterfly or moth – a rusty iron colour with some patchy, muted markings. He'd seen more spectacular butterflies, but his wings were still beautiful. Beautiful! He had wings! He was a winged boy! It was just too wonderful for words.

Henry began to run. He thought that if he ran, his wings might make him fly.

His wings stretched out behind him and he could feel the lift of air beneath them. That was really freaky. There was sensation in the wings, a straining in the new muscles between his shoulder blades while the air itself took on a squishy-pillow feeling. He thought he might lift off, but it didn't happen. He tried again, running harder. His wings vibrated and flapped uncontrollably, but nothing else.

It occurred to him that since he couldn't really move his wings, the next best thing might be to hold them rigid. He ran again, experimentally. His wings locked easily into one position and there was a slight, reassuring sense of upward pull. Maybe he was on the right track.

Near one of the quadruped trees, Henry found a small, spongy hillock. On the far side was a gentle downward slope that ended in a sheer drop of several feet. It was a perfect launching pad.

He could spread and furl his wings now, more or less to order, and while he couldn't move them otherwise, he thought this might be enough. He spread his wings, locked them open, then began to run down the slope towards the drop.

He began to feel the lift on the slope. The locked wings tugged at him, affecting his balance and almost causing him to veer off to the right. He gritted his teeth, compensated and managed to head straight. Even before he reached the edge, he knew it was going to work.

The edge was rushing towards him faster than he would ever have believed possible. At the last possible moment, he began to doubt. This was stupid. The wings would never work. He was running down a weird hill on a weird plain in some weird world and the chances were when he went off the edge he would end up breaking his neck.

Henry ran off the edge.

And flew.

Henry soared. It was fantastic. It was as if a giant hand had pulled him upwards. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before, not like running, not like swimming, but a magnificent, wonderful, delightful, joyous something else.

The strange thing, the great thing, was how natural it felt. Henry had never had much of a head for heights, but now he didn't care. It was as if he lived in the air, as if he'd lived in the air all his life. It felt as safe as walking.

Within seconds he discovered he was in control. He didn't quite know how, but it was happening. If he wanted to turn right, he turned right, banking like a glider with his right wing tipping downwards. He wheeled and plunged and soared and fell and soared again. It was utterly, totally and completely wonderful.

Henry flew higher and higher. He felt the wind on his face and the elation in his heart. He flew until he thought he soon must touch the sky.

His hand reached out and really touched the sky. The blue dome wasn't sky at all – it was ceiling. The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt. He was in a giant room. What he had thought were tree trunks were the legs of chairs. The horizon was a wall. That strange formation to the south was actually a bed. There was a dressing table, a cupboard, a wardrobe. The 'hill' he'd used as a launch pad was a crumpled garment somebody had left lying on the floor.

Not a giant room. Not a giant room at all! Henry had shrunk. It all came together now. The strange perspectives. The missing biofilter on the portal control. He had reached the palace all right – he was in somebody's bedroom – but he had undergone a transformation in the process.

He fluttered down to the dressing table and examined himself in the towering mirror. He was a fairy creature. Except for the patterns on his wings, he looked like Pyrgus had looked the first time they met. He was a fairy creature who could fly! He felt like dancing with delight.

Then he saw the spider.