The Floating Islands

by Rachel Neumeier

  Trei nodded. He wished that they’d already arrived; more than that, he wished the audition was already over. At the moment, he wished most of all that everyone would stop telling him how well he’d do. He said nothing.

  “And if you aren’t approved for kajurai training, you can still aim for the ministry examinations,” his uncle went on. “Oh, I know that’s not what you want, Trei, but plenty of boys have a much less enviable second choice—” Uncle Serfei took a more careful look at Trei’s face and stopped. After a moment, he said gently, “It’s hard to believe they’d be so foolish as to turn down a boy who wants it so badly, though.”

  Trei didn’t say that aptitude probably counted for more than longing, or that, as he’d found out, fewer than a fifth of applicants were accepted for training, or that the wingmasters might very well decide, despite Uncle Serfei’s assurances, that a boy with a Tolounnese father wasn’t the best choice for making into a symbol of the Floating Islands.

  “I’ll leave you here,” Uncle Serfei said once they’d reached the tower where the audition would take place. He rested a hand on Trei’s shoulder. “Go on in. I know you’ll do your best, Trei.” He paused and then added, “Your mother always loved the dragons of these Islands, you know.”

  Trei tried to smile. Then he turned and walked into the tower, along with several other boys he did not know. He felt oddly bereft, even though he’d known Uncle Serfei fewer than fifty days. Or maybe that was just nervousness.

  The tower seemed very large and, despite the other half dozen boys who’d just entered, very empty. They all glanced at one another, but nobody spoke. Their footsteps echoed. But the way they were supposed to go was obvious. Other than the door through which they’d entered, there was only one way to leave the room: a wide spiral stairway coiled its way down and down into dim shadows. Trei went down the stairs, neither the first boy nor the last. The treads were wide enough for at least three or four boys to walk down together, but they went down single file.

  The stairway turned five times as it descended and then opened up to a large chamber, already occupied by several dozen other boys. Most were clearly from the Second or Third Cities, but one of the boys was clearly a First City noble. His air of assurance made him look older than most of the other boys, but after a careful second glance, Trei guessed he was actually only about fifteen, maybe sixteen. He wore white, with a violet ribbon threaded through his dark hair and a thin gold ring on one thumb.

  “A Feneirè son,” a thin, intense boy near Trei whispered to a stocky friend, with a glance at the one in white. “The third son, it must be. I don’t suppose the kajuraihi would dare turn down—”

  “They’ll take who they take,” the stocky boy murmured back with stolid calm. “Don’t worry about him, Rekei.”

  Trei glanced at the Feneirè son—and what was the Feneirè family, that everyone would recognize their third son?—then gazed around the chamber. It was worth a second look, and a third. One whole wall was simply missing. On that side of the chamber, the tiles of the floor simply gave way to empty air. Far out in the sky, a small Island floated, its high, jagged peaks wreathed with streamers of cloud.

  The small Island was connected to Milendri by a single bridge. This bridge was nothing like the solid bridges of Tolounnese construction, however. It consisted simply of a pathway of floating stones that rose in a slow arc and eventually descended again as it reached the far side.

  “I wonder when we’re going to start?” Rekei wondered out loud.

  One of the younger Third City boys gave the other boy a hostile glance. “Impatient, are you?”

  “Oh, pardon me—” Rekei began hotly.

  “Maybe we’re supposed to just cross the bridge on our own,” said the First City boy. His tone was merely thoughtful, but there was something about the way he turned his shoulder toward the incipient squabble that somehow rebuked both Rekei and the Third City boy.

  Rekei’s calm friend asked the Feneirè son, “How long do you think we should wait? I’m Kai Talana. My father is a minister of roadways and stoneworks.”

  “Ceirfei Feneirè,” answered the other boy. He didn’t give his father’s name or position. Trei guessed he didn’t have to. “I suppose the trick is to wait long enough, but not too long.” He grinned suddenly, glancing around at the rest of them. “We can toss pebbles; shortest throw has to decide how long is long enough.”

  There was a slight pause. Then the oldest of the Third City boys said, “It’s nearly second bell now. At half past, I say that’s long enough.” Although his tone was decisive, his glance at Ceirfei was deferential. Trei understood that the other boy was really asking whether Ceirfei thought that would be all right.

  “That seems sensible to me. Kai?” asked Ceirfei, and not just as though he was being polite. As though he really cared about the other boy’s opinion. Trei was impressed that Ceirfei had so smoothly gotten all the nervous boys to settle down and stop snapping at one another.

  “Probably if someone is coming, he’ll be here before that,” Kai said, giving the Third City boy an acknowledging nod. It was obvious all the Third City boys were happy to be taken seriously by the others, especially Ceirfei Feneirè.

  As though hearing this thought, Ceirfei turned his head suddenly and looked straight into Trei’s face. He was smiling, but the expression in his dark eyes was thoughtful. Yet Trei got no sense that the other boy was faking the smile. Both the friendliness and the restraint seemed real. In a moment, Trei knew, Ceirfei Feneirè was going to ask his name, and he tried to decide whether he should give his father’s name or his uncle’s.

  Then, before either of them could speak, the rapid sound of boots on stone rang out, and four kajuraihi came into the chamber. None of them were wearing wings, but they were obviously kajuraihi. Their eyes were strange: what should have been the white part of their eyes glittered like crystal. This made their pupils look blacker than usual. They wore unrelieved black, except for steel studs at wrist and throat and for a single feather braided into each man’s hair. Three of them had red feathers, but the one in front had a feather black as coal; Trei knew that this meant he was a wingmaster.

  The men halted and just stood there for a long moment, regarding the boys, who drew together in a tight group in response. Trei noticed, a little amused, that they all gathered around Ceirfei Feneirè—that was even his own impulse.

  The wingmaster had a strong, austere face and an air of chilly reserve. Two of his companions were young men in their twenties, probably not long out of the novitiate themselves. But the remaining man was older than the wingmaster, with iron-gray hair and a mouth set in what seemed a permanent expression of stern disapproval. Trei wondered whether it was his imagination that this man seemed to be staring directly at him.

  “I’m Taimenai Cenfenisai,” the wingmaster said abruptly. “This is Anerii Pencara, master of novices, and Rei Kensenè and Linai Terinisai, second-ranked kajuraihi. All your names and connections are known to me.” He paused.

  The boys gazed back at the wingmaster in uncertain silence.

  “You will cross the floating bridge to the island you see,” said the wingmaster, still speaking with that alarmingly brusque manner. “That is Kotipa, the Island of Dragons, which we also call the Island of the Test. No one ever sees it clearly, save kajuraihi. There you will do what you find to do. You will return as novice kajuraihi, or else not. There is some risk in this endeavor: from time to time a boy does not return at all. You accept this risk when you set foot on the first stone of the bridge.” He paused.

  None of the boys said anything, not even Rekei or the hot-tempered Third City boy who’d tried to start a fight earlier. Some of them, including Rekei, looked nervous; others seemed more excited, a few eager. Ceirfei Feneirè looked merely politely attentive. Trei tried not to show anything but a bland calm.

  Wingmaster Taimenai surveyed them all. His stern mouth curved in a smile more sardonic than encouraging. “You will go one after another, a tent
h-bell between you,” he concluded. “Remember: Do what you find to do. I can tell you nothing more specific than that.”

  “What if we meet each other over there?” one of the other Second City boys asked nervously.

  “If you do, act as you see fit,” answered the wingmaster. His tone was flat. No one else asked any questions. After a moment of silence, the wingmaster said to Ceirfei Feneirè, “You will cross first.”

  “The benefit of rank,” Rekei muttered under his breath. His friend Kai gave him a quelling glance. Ceirfei himself merely inclined his head to the wingmaster and walked toward the floating pathway of stepping-stones. He paused for an instant when he stepped onto the first one, however, looking startled. But then he drew a visible breath, lifted his hands a little out from his sides, and took the long step from the first stone to the next.

  “I don’t think there’s a steadying magic on that bridge,” a boy nearby whispered to a friend. Trei had reached the same conclusion. He felt slightly ill. Maybe there were boats below the bridge, ready to rescue anyone who fell? But then, the wingmaster had said that about risk. Trei wanted to go to the edge and look over, see if there were boats down there. But that would let everyone see he was frightened. He didn’t move.

  “Rekei Horirè,” said the wingmaster, and Rekei twitched, hesitated, gave a sharp nod, clapped his friend Kai on the arm, and walked toward the bridge. Ceirfei had only reached the middle of the span.

  “Tenarii Hanerè,” the wingmaster said, and one of the other Second City boys stiffened, looked once quickly to either side, received an encouraging shove from a friend, and went toward the bridge. Far out over the sea, Ceirfei was hardly visible.

  After that, Wingmaster Taimenai called Kai’s name, and then that of another Second City boy, and then the names of the rest of the boys one after another, Third City after Second City. He did not call Trei’s name. After the first Third City boy was called, Trei understood that he would be called last—if at all. He knew he flushed when he realized this, but his hands felt cold. He fixed his gaze on the first stone of the bridge and said nothing. It took a long time for all the other boys to cross the bridge. Third bell rang, and later fourth. Trei wanted to sit down. Pride, or maybe vanity, kept him on his feet. More than just on his feet: immobile, and blank-faced. His eyes burned. But he wouldn’t show that to these men.

  “Trei enna Shiberren,” the wingmaster said at last.

  Trei did not move toward the bridge. He lifted his gaze to the wingmaster’s face and waited.

  “Or Trei Naseida?” asked the wingmaster. His crystalline kajurai eyes held Trei’s. His expression, perhaps because of those strange eyes, was unreadable.

  Trei opened his mouth, closed it again, and swallowed. He said at last, “Both. Sir.”

  “You think you can claim both names?”

  But the wingmaster’s tone, Trei thought, held neither anger nor disbelief; really nothing worse than dry curiosity. “Yes,” he said. “Sir.”

  “Tolounnese boys don’t need wings,” the master of novices, Anerii Pencara, said abruptly. His tone was harsh, decisive. “Or eyes that can see the wind.” He advanced the few steps required, reaching out to grasp Trei’s chin and force his face upward, staring down into his eyes. “From Rounn, are you?”

  Trei had fought not to flinch from the novice-master’s unfriendly grip, but now he deliberately jerked himself loose and backed up. He bit his lip with the effort not to stumble, stiff after making himself stand still so long. He didn’t try to argue with the man’s all-too-obvious opinion, but only repeated, “Yes, sir.”

  One of the younger kajuraihi, Rei Kensenè, said mildly, “If he’s not Islander enough, I think we’ll find out.” He gave the distant Island a meaningful glance.

  The master of novices gave the young flier an annoyed stare. Rei Kensenè returned his look with perfect equanimity and said to Trei, “Your father gave you an Island name, did he?”

  “My parents named me after my mother’s grandfather. My father always said I took after my mother,” Trei said firmly.

  “We were all grieved to hear about the Rounn disaster,” the young kajurai murmured. “But did you have no other relatives to go to, youngster? Tolounnese relatives?”

  Trei met his eyes, then turned his head to stare at the master of novices. He made his tone flat and cold. “I went to them. They thought I wasn’t Tolounnese enough.”

  Wingmaster Taimenai held up one hand, halting Anerii Pencara’s forceful response to this before the novice-master could fairly begin it. “And so you came to your mother’s kin here. Understandable. But why do you want wings?” the wingmaster asked, neutral as ever.

  “I …” Trei swallowed. “I knew the first time I saw kajuraihi, sir. They came down and looked at the ship I was on. I knew then. They say here I’m sky-mad, wind-mad. There wouldn’t be terms for it, would there, if boys didn’t sometimes feel this way?”

  “Not Tolounnese boys,” Anerii Pencara said harshly.

  The wingmaster held up a hand again, glancing sternly at the other man. He said to Trei, “It’s a long way across the bridge, and as Rei points out, you may find something to do on the other island. And you’ll need to be finished with it by dusk. So you’d best go quickly.”

  Finished by dusk. That was the first time anybody had said so. And the wingmaster had kept him here till last, and then kept him back for … for nothing, really, for no reason except maybe to delay him. It had to be almost fifth bell by now—Trei turned, walked to the bridge, and stepped across to the first stone without letting himself look down. Anger and offended pride carried him across the first half dozen stones before he even realized that, indeed, there was no magic holding him on the bridge. He stopped involuntarily, wobbling. The sea breeze felt much stronger out here than if he’d stood on a balcony with a railing.

  No one else had fallen, though. Or even hesitated, much. He was angry with himself for stopping—for letting all those kajuraihi see him stop. Why should he fall? Of course he wouldn’t. The stones were more than wide enough. Anyone could walk this bridge. A child could walk it. Trei made himself walk forward, not running, but walking fast, jumping over the gaps.

  The bridge was wider than some of the pedestrian walks laid out in Rounn streets so people could keep their feet clean, and a lot smoother than parts of the mountain road between Rounn and Sicuon. If one simply didn’t look down … and didn’t think too much about the breeze, which out here seemed to gust harder …

  He found the rhythm of it at last. The stones were mostly near enough the same size. You came down on the edge of a stone, took two small steps, and jumped across to the next stone. He went even faster, until he nearly was running, taking just one big stride per stone. The climb steepened, and he found himself panting. He wanted to stop and rest, but he wanted a lot more to have the bridge behind him, and all the time he was aware that minutes were passing. Finally he reached the crest of the bridge and found himself on the long downhill side, halfway across.

  Then he unexpectedly found himself stepping into a gap wider than the rest. Before he could stop himself, his foot plunged into empty air. Trei flung himself forward, breath hissing out in a sharp gasp, clutching for handholds on the farther stone. His chest struck the edge of the step hard, but his hands found no purchase on the smooth stone, and he slid backward—he knew he was going to fall—his flailing left hand finally found the edge of the step, and with that hold and his right palm flat against the stone, he managed to stop his backward skid. Then he managed to drag himself forward and, with an effort that felt like it tore all the muscles of his shoulders, haul himself up on the flat surface of the stone.

  He knelt there for a long moment, trembling. Eventually he crawled to the edge of the step and looked over, wondering whether there were really boats down there in case someone fell. But there was too much haze now to even see the waves below. Somehow this made him feel that he was even higher up, so high that he’d climbed out of the world entirely, and if he
fell, he’d fall forever through the empty sky.

  The sun, too, was hidden in the hazy overcast, but Trei was sure that fifth bell must have come and gone. Maybe it was even sixth bell. And what was he supposed to do, besides go forward? Back was just as bad as forward. He could hardly sit forever right here in the middle of the bridge, yet he could not make himself move. He would fail this test … he would never have his own wings, never fly.…

  That terrible thought was the one that allowed Trei to climb, still shaking, to his feet. To edge his way toward the edge of the stepping-stone—this stone was significantly narrower than most of the others; no wonder he’d missed his step—and take a broad, cautious leap to the next. The jump was easy—he’d known perfectly well it would be, he could see how easy a jump it was—but still, for the instant in which he was in the air between the stones, he was sure he’d miss and fall. But he landed safely. Looking ahead, Trei tried to guess how many stones were left, but the end of the bridge was lost in the haze. He found it easy to imagine that these floating stones were all that was left in the world, that everything else had vanished, or even that nothing else had ever existed. Trei leaped to the next stone in line and then the next, concentrating on nothing but each stone as he came to it.

  He could have cried with relief when the small island finally came into sight, closer than he’d expected, half veiled by streamers of mist and cloud. Even so, he didn’t let himself hurry, but took one stepping-stone at a time until at last he could make the final leap off the floating bridge onto solid ground.

  No one else was in sight. The bridge had brought Trei down into a paved courtyard. Around the courtyard, sharp-edged rock rose precipitously. Except behind him, where it fell away in cliffs just as steep; Trei had had enough of heights and kept well away from those cliffs.

  The bridge had come down on the western edge of the courtyard. On the far side Trei could see a rugged path leading up to the mountain heights, though those heights were hidden in mist and cloud. The path looked difficult. Even standing at its foot, Trei couldn’t see very far along it—it twisted around too many turns and there was too much mist. Trei looked around the courtyard once more in case he was missing something. Then he turned back to the path, took a slow breath, and took the first step to follow it.