The Floating Islands

by Rachel Neumeier

  The path was steep, sometimes more a vertical climb than a footpath. Trei used his hands almost as much as his feet to climb, but he quickly learned that the rocks could be sharp-edged as knives. He shook blood off his hand, sucked the cut for a moment, and finally sliced a strip off his shirt on that same edge of stone in order to bandage his hand. His palm hurt for a while, but so much of his attention was taken by the other perils of the path that he soon forgot the pain.

  Occasional twisted trees, dwarfed by wind and scant soil, thrust almost horizontally out of the broken stone face of the mountain. Their roots could be seen, gripping hard along the stone before disappearing into whatever crevices of soil they’d found. They made good handholds, but almost more importantly, they served as reminders that life existed even here in this improbable place.

  Mist wreathed the path, which sometimes took sharp turns back on itself. The switchbacks and the mist together meant that Trei could seldom see very far ahead. Each time he made his way around a turn or through a streamer of mist, he found something that seemed more dangerous than whatever obstacle he’d just negotiated. A narrow trail of broken footing above a precipice, for example. Or a long gap in the path across a sheer cliff, bridged only by a pair of thick ropes. He crossed that gap by sliding his feet along the lower rope, gripping the upper one tightly in his hands.

  Trei was always conscious of time passing. He tried not to worry about it. He reminded himself how foolish he’d feel if he tried to rush and fell over a cliff. And he wondered, when he had a moment, where the other boys were: had they all moved so much faster that they were already finished and only he was left struggling up this mountainside?

  Then at last he caught hold of one more stunted tree, hauled himself up and around a leaning shelf of stone, and found himself on a path that had suddenly become smooth and level. For a long moment he just stood, bent and gasping with effort, hands braced on his knees, gazing along the last short length of the path to the slender white tree that commanded this height. The tree bore silvery leaves, and both white flowers and small golden fruits. Under the tree was a small pool bordered by round white stones.

  Trei made his way cautiously toward the tree. The whole mountaintop seemed to him like the sort of place that was probably dedicated to one of the Three Gods—to the Silent God, most likely, because it was very silent here. A cup of white stone stood beside the pool. Trei found he was terribly thirsty. He made the sign of the Silent God, dipped the cup in the pool, and drank.

  The water was very cold, so cold Trei was amazed it wasn’t ice. It tasted of clouds and snow and high winds and of something else, something wild and unfamiliar. Trei spilled a few drops of water on the ground for the God.

  The silvery leaves of the tree fluttered, though Trei could feel no breeze. He stepped over to the tree and laid a hand on its smooth bark, looking up into its branches. Its golden fruits were shaped like teardrops. They were gleaming and translucent, like polished gems placed on the tree by a master jeweler.

  Wondering if this was right, feeling that it was, not seeing anything else to do, Trei plucked a single fruit from the tree and ate it. It was not like any other fruit he’d ever eaten. It was sweet and crisp, but it tasted, behind the sweetness, of the same vivid wildness as the freezing water of the pool. The wildness lingered on his tongue longer than the sweetness. It was not meant for men at all; he somehow knew that. He was immediately afraid that he might have made a mistake, that maybe he should have resisted the impulse to eat it, that he might have ruined his one chance to fly. The fear of this made him tremble, where the cold of the water had not. But he had chosen to eat the fruit, and it was too late now to choose again.…

  The fruit had one seed, a little larger than an apple seed, white and faceted like a jewel. Trei spat the seed out into his palm and gazed at it for a moment. Then, acting on a sharp, inexplicable impulse too powerful to even consider, he put the seed back in his mouth and swallowed it whole. It felt cold and sharp going down his throat, and the cold of it spread from his tongue down his throat and through his blood. Trei put a hand on the tree’s trunk again, steadying himself against a sudden wave of dizzy confusion; he found himself sitting on the ground, leaning against the tree’s twisted trunk, with no memory of either deciding to sit or falling. He dipped a shaking hand in the pool and splashed the cold water across his face. A fragrance like snow and apples and crisp pine rose around him, and he shut his eyes and fell into a crystal wind as cold as ice.

  4

  On the day her cousin was due for his kajurai audition, Araenè rose early so she could make the breakfast bread herself. While the bread baked, she sent Cimè to buy the very freshest figs and made a sweet rice custard scented with cardamom and vanilla.

  Naturally, after all that, no one had much appetite for breakfast. Trei remembered to taste everything and tell Araenè how wonderful it all was, which was, as Araenè thought, just like him. But really he only crumbled his slice of bread, and he only ate three figs—Araenè counted.

  “You ought to eat more,” she told him. “Who knows if they’ll give you something later?”

  Mother glanced up at this, registered how little Trei had eaten, and earnestly seconded this advice, throwing in all sorts of maternal fussing for good measure. “You’ll do splendidly, dear,” she promised him at last.

  Trei dutifully ate a bite of the custard.

  Araenè tried to smile. She hoped Trei would do well at his audition; of course she did. But she knew already how much she would miss his company—not just the freedom his escort gave her around the city, but his actual company, too, and who would ever have expected that? Trei met her gaze for a moment, then flushed and looked down at his hands, and Araenè knew he was aware of her conflicted feelings. She felt her own face heat and hastily went to bring in more bread.

  Later, after Trei and Father were gone, Mother fluttered around restlessly, hardly beginning one task before forgetting about it and starting something else almost at random. She, too, seemed to have caught the summer cough, though she wasn’t yet coughing much. Araenè made her tea with honey and lime.

  “Thank you, dear,” Mother said gratefully. “Such a nuisance!” But it wasn’t really the cough that made her restless, Araenè knew. Mother was worried about Trei, too—worried about how Trei would feel if he failed his audition, but also worried, mother-like, about the possibility that he might be hurt somehow during it. Sometimes that happened. Mother was probably even worrying a little about the dangers Trei would face if everything went beautifully, because being a kajurai wasn’t as safe as being a minister or a magistrate.

  “You ought to go visit Adeila Hanerè,” Araenè told her at last. “She’ll be worried for her own son. You can take her some of my bread.”

  “My dear,” Mother said gratefully, “that is such a splendid idea. But surely you would like to come? Teresna Hanerè is just your age—”

  “Teresna and I aren’t really friends, not as you and Adeila are. And you’ll want to stay all day, won’t you? I wouldn’t want to stay so long. I have work I’d like to do here. You know that’s what will make me feel better, really.…” Araenè eased her mother out the door, encouraging her to take Cimè to carry a pot of custard as well as the bread. Then she sent Ti out on an errand that would keep him out all morning and told him to take the afternoon off as well.

  Then, after the house was empty, she changed quickly into boys’ clothing and slipped out into the alley behind the house. She felt guilty about using Trei’s audition to make a free day for herself, but what use would it be to her cousin if she stayed home and fretted? And freedom was going to be so much harder to find now.… Araenè realized that she expected Trei to succeed today. She really did, and was surprised to remember her disbelief—all right, even disapproval—when he’d first suggested it. But that was before she’d seen how wind-mad he really was.

  There weren’t any famous lecturers scheduled for the day, and somehow Araenè didn’t really feel lik
e going to the University anyway. She’d automatically turned that way at first, but then she found her steps slowing. The wide Second City streets opened out around her, inviting her to explore inward, toward the center of Canpra and the sea. Instead she headed toward the busy noise of Third City. There were booksellers … or she might find another secondhand boy’s shirt at a cheap price; she’d need another before too long … or she could look for odd spices; strange things from Yngul and other distant places sometimes turned up in Third City shops.

  She found herself relaxing as soon as she plunged into the narrow, angular alleyways of Third City. She hadn’t even known she was tense until she felt the knots at the back of her neck dissolve. A trio of girls younger than she hurried by, laughing and talking: Araenè looked after them for a moment, jealous of their assurance and freedom, and of their … togetherness, she supposed. None of the girls looked back. Araenè followed them slowly, wishing she was with them, one of them. Or, no, not exactly … but maybe wishing that Trei was with her. They could go see a play, even an informal street performance. Or just walk down random alleys and buy bread to feed the birds.

  Coming to an awkward intersection of seven alleyways, Araenè chose the one that looked the most interesting. Overhanging rooftops closed out the sky as she made her way down the alley. It was cooler in the shade, where only the occasional glint of sunlight made its way down to the cobblestones. Somebody had put a large tub of flowers where one of those unexpected shafts of light could strike it; the orange and gold flowers blazed like sunlight. A boy sitting on the steps outside one shop was sharing bread and dates with a white monkey, which sat on his knee and gravely accepted each tidbit. Somewhere a woman was singing.

  Araenè nodded to the boy, stepped around the flowers, and found herself walking beside a long wall. The wall, two or (in places) three stories high, stretched without a break ahead of her and then turned around a corner. Yellow bricks scattered among the red ones made an odd, angular pattern that somehow drew her eye. Araenè put out a curious hand, tracing the pattern as high as she could, and followed the wall and the pattern around the corner.

  Almost as soon as she’d turned the corner, she found a door in the wall. Three times her height, the door was nevertheless so narrow her shoulders would brush its frame if she passed through it. It was made of some dark wood, but with squares of a pale yellow wood inlaid here and there. The inlay wasn’t really random, Araenè saw: the inlaid pale squares echoed the broader pattern of the yellow bricks. She touched one of the yellow squares, and the door swung silently open.

  All at once, Araenè remembered the other door—the quartered oak door, with behind it the long hallway and cluttered room, and the Yngulin man and the boys and the strange glass sphere that tasted of anise and cumin, ginger and lemon. She hadn’t forgotten about any of that, exactly. But the memory of that strange and frightening evening had somehow settled to the back of her mind, never quite noticed or examined. Now it rushed back to her, so that she backed up and sat down abruptly on the step of the ordinary little shop across from the narrow door.

  Across from her, the door stood open. Waiting. Araenè wondered what would happen if she simply turned her back on it and started making her way east, toward the Second City and home. Would she find herself lost again, with everyone she asked assuring her that her way lay just a street ahead and around a corner? Maybe every time she left her house, she’d find one strange door or another standing before her? She found herself growing angry: what business of anyone’s was it where she went?

  At the same time, Araenè found she actually wanted to push that door wide, step through it, find out what waited on the other side. She got up, crossed the alley, and stepped warily through the door.

  This time she found herself in a warm, richly appointed room. Its walls were oak and ebony, its small tables of carved ebony, its chairs upholstered in white. Lanterns hung from the ceiling by short chains. A long translucent feather hung from the base of one of the lanterns, twisting gently.

  A pedestal almost as tall as Araenè occupied each corner of the room. Three of the pedestals were occupied by thick books bound in gold-embossed leather, each chained to its own stand. A fourth pedestal was empty, its chain hanging limp.

  On the farthest chair sat the black-skinned Yngulin man. Against the white cloth of the upholstery, his robe and face and hands looked even blacker. A gold-flame marmoset perched on his knee; a slender white lizard with ruby eyes clung to his shoulder. The marmoset turned its head when Araenè entered the room, bounced a little, and chirped. The lizard blinked, slowly.

  The book from the empty pedestal lay open on a glass-topped table beside the black man’s chair, and he held a long quill in one hand. But he was not writing in the book. He wasn’t even looking at it. He was looking at Araenè.

  She swallowed. Then, though she thought of ducking back through the door, she moved forward one step. “You’re a mage.” Her voice sounded thin to her own ears, as though the room absorbed sound and gave little back.

  “So are you,” the man answered. His voice was just as Araenè remembered: smoky and dark, with a rough undertone. “Or you will be, if you do not strangle the magic as it rises in you. What is your name?”

  “Ar—Arei.” Araenè hesitated, half expecting the mage to suddenly realize she was a girl and become offended or shocked or angry. But despite his intense scrutiny, he did not seem to see anything unusual. Maybe he was just looking for a mage gift and hadn’t thought to look for anything else. Recovering some of her ordinary confidence in her disguise, she asked boldly, “What’s yours?”

  The Yngulin mage’s smile widened. It was a smile with an edge like a knife. “You may call me Master Tnegun.”

  From the way he put this, it clearly was not his true name. “What does that mean? Tnegun?”

  “You wish to learn Ylembai?” The master smiled again at Araenè’s startled head shake. “It means ‘black.’ Few Islanders wish to take the trouble to learn the correct pronunciation of my true name. ‘Tnegun’ is difficult enough for an Island tongue.”

  Araenè blinked. She said, trying out the unaccustomed sound of it, “Tnegun.”

  “Passable,” said the master, with a slight, approving tilt of his head. “However, Master Tnegun, if you please—as you will be my student.”

  Araenè took a step back toward the door. “I … I can’t stay.”

  The master frowned at her, a frown as edged as his smile. “You can hardly go. Smothering your mage gift as it rises is a sin against the Gods who gave you the gift. But if you are to use it, you will find magecraft requires dedicated study. Students generally board here in the school—ah. Your family?”

  “They won’t understand,” Araenè agreed, grateful for this easy excuse. “Besides …” She stopped.

  The Yngulin mage waved a hand, dismissing whatever objection Araenè could produce. “You have my Dannè sphere. I told you to bring it back to me.”

  “I …”

  “Next time you come, bring it.” Master Tnegun frowned as Araenè shook her head again. He added severely, “You will find you must return or else smother everything you might become—and you will indeed find the effort much like smothering. Once magery begins to rise in the blood, it doesn’t care to be dammed up. Your family will become accustomed to the idea.” At Araenè’s stubborn head shake, he waved an impatient hand and added, “Oh, go, then. Go, if you must. But bring the sphere when you come next!”

  Afraid to argue, Araenè nodded awkwardly, backed out through the door, and, as it swung shut, collided with someone who said, “Oof!” Papers and scrolls and feathers exploded through the air all around her.

  “Oh!” Araenè whirled around and stared, shocked. She’d left the room through the same door by which she’d entered it, but she wasn’t in the Third City alley at all. She was in an endless shadowy hallway, the only light coming in through dusty panes of glass in narrow windows. A plump boy about her own age, sand-colored hair falling ove
r his eyes, was sitting in the middle of the hall, gazing in consternation at the scattered papers. They spread out a long way down the hall.

  The boy lifted a round face to blink at Araenè. “I’ll be late,” he told her reproachfully. “Really late instead of just a little late.”

  “I’m sorry—I didn’t expect—I thought—” Araenè looked again, in disbelief, at the hallway. She still half expected to see the alley instead.

  The boy sighed. “You’re new here. Help me pick all this up?” He began, rather slowly, to gather together the scrolls nearest at hand.

  Araenè went down the hall to collect the loose papers and feathers that had scattered farthest. “Feathers?” she asked cautiously.

  “The long black ones are black gull and raven; those are mostly for auguries. We get raven eggs from Tolounn—some of the mages like ravens for, um, pets. The red ones and these red-tipped gray ones are from macaws and parrots. Those are good for memory; students use a lot of them. The green ones are Quei.”

  “What are Quei feathers for?”

  “Well, luck, of course.” The boy finally climbed to his feet. “Thank you.” He accepted a pile of loose papers and nodded at another scattering of scrolls. “Can you get those? And the feathers?” He smiled suddenly, reading Araenè’s expression. “Yes, I know, it’s really too much; I’d probably have dropped everything even if you hadn’t knocked into me. Come on—the stairs are usually just up the hall here, and sometimes around the corner.”