“Never approach them,” Rei told them sternly. He reached to grip Trei’s shoulder and Ceirfei’s, compelling their attention. “Never trouble them. Their magic is what keeps these Islands in the air, you know, and it’s their magic we kajuraihi borrow. Always respect the dragons!”
“They don’t mind, though,” Trei asked, a little doubtfully, “that you—that we use their magic?” The dragons in the far reaches of Tolounn were not at all like these graceful creatures of air: Tolounnese dragons were huge and rare and very dangerous. He flinched from the images of his nightmare—of the gaping wound in the mountain above Rounn, its edges black and charred, the Gods’ furnaces glowing deep within. Of the dragon rearing out of the mountain’s molten heart: a dragon made of fire, with fire blazing in its eyes and dripping from its mouth. Maybe there had never been a fire dragon in Mount Ghaonnè, maybe the mountain had just broken on its own, but Trei remembered the wide and level sea of gray ash where Rounn should have stood and was bitterly glad that these Island dragons of wind and air were so different, bitterly envious that they were so different.
Trei blinked hard and stared up into the wind, trying to erase the image of the fire dragon with the beautiful reality of the dragons of air.
Rei grinned, clearly not noticing Trei’s moment of distracted grief. “No, novice, they don’t mind! Believe me, you use so small a fraction of the dragon magic surrounding the Islands that so long as you keep your distance, they’ll notice you no more than they notice gulls or fish eagles. But it’s not the dragons that concern us now,” Rei added firmly. “Look at the kajuraihi out there. Trei.” He touched Trei’s shoulder again, recalling his attention. “Look now at the kajuraihi out there, not the dragons. No, over there. See them? See how they’re lying on the air? How they catch the warmer air as it rises?”
Trei tore his gaze away from the dragons with some difficulty, peered through layers of crystalline air, and nodded uncertainly.
“Kajurai sight is confusing at first. But soon enough you’ll grow accustomed to it,” Rei assured both Trei and Ceirfei, “and after that you’ll forget you ever lacked dragon sight. Now come, let me show you how to lay out these wings. Let’s learn to do it properly, yes? Soon enough you’ll be doing this on your own.”
There were six sets of wings to lay out, each one wider than a man’s outstretched arms. They were like swans’ wings, only longer and narrower. The feathers at the tips were longer than Trei’s forearm. Those felt stiff and almost hard when Trei ran his hand across them, but the smaller feathers that made up the main body of the wing were softer. All the feathers were dyed a vivid red, except three on each wing, which were a metallic green.
“What are these … What birds do you use?” Trei asked Rei Kensenè.
Rei answered cheerfully, “We want white feathers that’ll take the dye, of course, or else feathers that come red. We use feathers from the sea eagle for nobility”—he showed Trei which feathers those were—“and here, feathers from the lammergeyer for fierceness and from the swan for steadfastness and loyalty. And we always use Quei feathers for a few of the secondaries, for luck; three on each wing, one for each God. You can see those aren’t dyed.”
Trei nodded.
Rei brushed his hand across the softer, smaller feathers underneath the wing. “Then here, look, we use white owl here in the underwing, for quiet flight but also for wisdom. Now, on the upper side, the scapulars are white heron, for patience, and sometimes macaw, for cleverness. And here, for these wing bars, we use albatross for endurance; see the black barring? For black wings, we’ll use black swan instead of white, and cormorant instead of heron, and raven instead of macaw.”
“But still Quei,” Ceirfei said, not a question.
“Oh, yes,” Rei agreed. “Always three Quei feathers on each wing.”
“But these longest feathers, here”—Ceirfei spread a hand across the longest of the primaries, at the tips of the wings—“these aren’t eagle or lammergeyer. Are they?”
“Oh, well,” Rei said vaguely, and ran a finger down one of those feathers. It was a clear, translucent kind of red, as though it had been spun out of garnets rather than simply dyed. “These are for the living magic. Without these, the wings would be just so many dead feathers.”
Ceirfei nodded thoughtfully. Trei cautiously touched one of these special feathers. Obviously they were dragon feathers, but Rei clearly didn’t intend to come right out and say so. There were about a dozen on each wing. Trei wondered how the dragon feathers were collected, and how long it took to get enough to make a set of wings.
“Now, these straps, you see how they’ll fit across your arms and chest. Lay them out like this, so they’re handy. Never lay out a set of wings and leave the straps tangled. Check nothing’s frayed. Any feathers worn? Check like this; see how you brush the feathers up to look at the ones below? Here’s the framework: is it sound? No, give it a good tug, no need to be shy. It’s whalebone: you can’t break it. Or if you can, it’s not safe to fly on. Like that, yes. Good. All right, Trei, do that set, please. Everyone else will be here soon enough. Ceirfei—yes, good.”
The wings were heavier than they looked, and awkward to lift and lay straight. They had a tendency to fold up at the joints when lifted, and whenever they folded up, the straps tangled. Trei didn’t want to drag the tips of the feathers across the stone, and yet when he tried to lift the wings up so they wouldn’t drag, he found himself staggering under their weight and trying to see through scarlet waves of feathers.
“Not ready yet?” barked the novice-master’s rough voice, and Trei jumped.
“Nearly, Master Anerii,” Rei Kensenè answered, his tone easy. “Excuse our tardiness, please—I was showing the novices how the wings are structured.”
“Why, when you’ll merely have to repeat it all again for the rest?” The novice-master still sounded annoyed. “Get those last sets laid out properly. Don’t drop those wings, boy! Lay them down with some respect!”
Trei tried, wordlessly, to lower the wings he carried to the stone and smooth them into some kind of order. They didn’t look as tidily laid out as Rei’s set.… He couldn’t help noticing that Ceirfei’s set was laid out more neatly.
“Trei, is it?” the novice-master snapped. “You’ll learn to do better, I am certain.” His tone implied he suspected the opposite. “What are the parts of the wing, then, as you’ve been having lessons?”
Trei blinked, took a short breath, and identified the primaries, the secondaries, the underwing, the scapulars, and the wing bars. Then he risked a look up.
The novice-master was still looking annoyed … more annoyed, maybe, now that Trei had named all the parts of the wing correctly. Spread out in a loose semicircle beside him were the other five novices who had successfully made, Trei assumed, the climb to the top of the mountain. Rekei, the quarrelsome boy from the audition, was one of their number, the only boy other than Ceirfei he was sure he recognized.
“Those are the placements of the feathers, not the parts of the wing,” the novice-master snapped, recalling Trei’s attention with a jerk. “Where is the wrist? Which is the leading edge and which the trailing edge?”
Rei might not have had time to describe all that, but the leading edge and trailing edge were obvious, and this joint had to be the wrist.…
“Very well,” the novice-master said, still snapping. “Let us see if you know where those straps should lie. Put them on, boy. Go on.”
“Like so,” Rei Kensenè said quietly, coming forward to show Trei. “Here, these over your shoulders, like so, and then the buckles here and here. Yes, I know the wings are heavy. It’s hard for you young ones. Here … ah, Ceirfei … brace this wing, please. Just so, yes. And you, what’s your name? Genrai, yes.” Genrai was one of the Third City boys, Trei knew; though everyone was dressed now in gray and black, he thought all three of the other boys who’d succeeded in their auditions were Third City.
“All right, Genrai, brace the wing on this side,” Re
i was saying, still brisk and cheerful as ever. “Here. No, here; you don’t want to bend or crush the feathers. Good, that’s right.”
Anerii Pencara himself came forward to show the boys how to arrange the straps that wound around the arms and wrists. His touch on Trei’s arms was impersonal, with nothing of his disapproval translated to roughness. Trei felt the novice-master’s hostility anyway and tried not to flinch from it.
“We fly,” Master Anerii said, stepping back and gesturing broadly to the open balcony, “as the birds fly and as dragons fly: by instinct and natural gift. We learn to fly by flying. Go on, boy. As you’ve got your wings on, you may demonstrate for the rest.”
Rei said quickly, “Leap out and down, not up, and spread your arms with a snap.” He demonstrated, showing the sharp final flick of the wrist. “You won’t fall, but if you do, you’ll be caught. Understand?”
“Yes,” Trei said. He felt a little numb.
“Show us all how to do it,” said Ceirfei, giving Trei a brief, direct look.
Trei understood that Ceirfei didn’t mean Show us all how to fly, but Show us all how to be brave. He gave the First City boy a slight nod. Then he braced himself for the weight of the wings and shrugged carefully free of the other boys’ support. He turned, walked to the edge of the rail-less balcony—his arms drooped; it was hard to keep the tips of the wings from dragging across the stone. But he gritted his teeth, fought the weight, and finally stood poised for a moment on the edge. The warm sea wind came against his face, glittering with body and substance; he could see the many-layered currents of pressure and warmth beyond the curl of the nearby breeze. When he spread his arms, the feathers of his wings caught the wind with surprising force and he found himself lifted to stand on tiptoe, even found himself struggling, suddenly, to keep his feet on the balcony at all.
Behind him, Anerii Pencara said something brusque. Trei didn’t listen. He spread his arms wider. He could feel the feathers lift and open all down his wings and the wind shiver through them; the moving air rustled the long feathers at his wingtips and shoved hard against the softer feathers of the underwing. You won’t fall, Rei had said. Trei knew that this was true; he couldn’t even imagine falling, not really. He turned his wrists and spread his fingers, and felt his feathers shift and flare in response.
There was no need to leap after all; he only let himself tilt forward and fall. Only he didn’t fall, but slid down the wind. Now that he was no longer fighting to hold them up, the wings seemed weightless. A turn of his hands tilted their leading edges and he rose; a tilt of one palm sent him curving around in a smooth arc. The red stone of Milendri came back in front of him, a surprising distance away; Trei blinked at the force of wind rushing past his face and wondered if he was supposed to go back to the balcony. He couldn’t even see the balcony.… The curving spiral of his flight carried him around and up and he found himself with the wide sea and empty sky before him. A fierce, bright exultation filled him: his whole body felt weightless and strong. He wanted to fly higher and higher, to drive himself faster, to race the streaming clouds across the sky … to climb to the heights and fly with the dragons.… He looked for them, but they had gone elsewhere, or else so high even his kajurai eyes couldn’t make them out.
A kajurai came past him, circled, came back, and settled into a path barely a wing-length from Trei’s own wingtip. The man called, “Well done, youngster! Follow me!” and drew Trei a smooth line to follow, up and out, neither as high nor as fast as Trei wanted to go.
His teacher showed Trei how to drive himself upward with slow wingbeats, and how to slip into a rising column of warm air to rest, and how to spill air out from his wings to drop height, and how to stall midair and swing his legs down as if he was going to land. The easiest way to get your legs up again, Trei found, was actually to let yourself do a complete somersault in the air and then dive a little to pick up some speed. His instructor laughed the first time Trei did this and called, “Good, youngster!”
Trei found distant Islands good marks to use when trying to fly a straight course or judge his own height. The Island of Dragons from the audition, with its cloud-wreathed mountains and the thin ribbon of its floating bridge, came before him once. Dragons were visible to him now, curling around the tips of the mountain heights. Trei wanted to go that way, look more closely at those dragons. But his instructor led him away from that Island at once and began to show him how to land instead.
“Slow, slow. Settle gently,” called his instructor, demonstrating. “More gently than that, boy, or you’ll break an ankle when you actually land on solid rock! Let’s practice stalling. And a few less dramatic ways to recover from a stall—you won’t always have room to somersault!”
It seemed very soon that the instructor led Trei back toward Milendri.
“We’ll come in gently and aim to stall right at the edge of the balcony,” shouted the other kajurai. “Relax! Tuck your chin down before you hit! Let yourself run forward when you land, or if you fall, let yourself fall to your knees! It’s best to keep your wings up over your head, but don’t worry overmuch, do you hear? You’ll be tying a great many feathers into place, a few more are of no moment! Do you hear?”
“Yes!” Trei shouted back, wondering whether dragon feathers could break and, if they could, where you would get more. He reminded himself of the wings’ weight and how hard he’d have to fight to keep them up once he was on his feet. He told himself firmly to relax. Relax, stall out, let yourself run forward—don’t fall—if the novice-master was watching, he didn’t want to fall—or drag his wings on the stone—
“Concentrate on the moment!” called his instructor. “I’ll be right behind you! You’ve been doing fine! Trust your wings and your instincts and the Quei feathers, that’s what they’re for! Go on in! Tuck your chin down if you fall!”
Trei bit his lip and tried to make the smoothest, easiest approach possible. He arched his wings to stall as he approached the edge of the balcony—it was coming up surprisingly fast—his legs swung down as he slowed toward stalling speed—if he stalled too soon, he’d fall, there wasn’t room to recover, not this close to the cliffs—the impulse to close his eyes and clench his teeth was almost overwhelming—he landed on the balcony hard enough to jar not just his ankles and knees, but also, it seemed, every bone he owned all the way up his spine. His teeth snapped together hard, and his wings suddenly weighed as though every feather was made of lead. He didn’t have to let himself fall: he landed on his knees hard enough to bruise. His arms, flinging instinctively forward, raked the primary and most of the secondary feathers hard across the stone. Beside him, his instructor came down with graceful precision and took two steps to catch his balance; Trei found it hard to imagine he’d ever manage to land so neatly.
“A clumsy landing, novice,” Master Anerii said somewhere above Trei.
Trei, his arms trembling, found himself too exhausted to get up or even move to help his instructor undo the wings’ straps. His chest and back ached, and his stomach.… In fact, he ached all over. Trei tried to get to his feet, stifled a groan, and let himself fall back to sitting.
“That’s normal,” the instructor told him, glancing at Trei with a smile. He’d laid out the wings on the chamber floor and was looking them over with a critical eye. He was an old man, at least ten years older than Uncle Serfei, with a short grizzled beard and a network of fine lines around his crystalline fliers’ eyes, but he gave Trei a companionable nod. “And you’ll be stiffer still tomorrow morning; there’s nothing like the first week of flying for sore muscles! Now, these aren’t too badly broken up, for a first landing. You did very well, youngster. Did you bite your tongue when you landed?”
Trei shook his head. His neck seemed to creak when he moved his head.
“Good; that’s a wicked way to learn to tuck your chin. Which you will recall, next landing? Yes? I think so. My name’s Hiraisi. Hiraisi Tegana, but you’ll find we put little emphasis on family names, among ourselves.”
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“Yes, sir,” Trei whispered. It even hurt to speak.
“You’ll do, Trei,” Hiraisi said, and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Need a hand to straighten up?”
Trei shook his head again, though carefully, eased himself back to lean against the wall, and watched the other boys come in. They all looked intense and nervous as they came down to the balcony. Their clumsy landings made Trei wince, painfully aware he’d looked just as inept, but at least no one missed the balcony or broke an ankle. Although Rekei stalled out a little early and only his instructor’s firm boot on his back shoved him forward far enough to make the balcony: a frightening sight. Rekei’s instructor, unable to land properly after that rescue, somersaulted backward, twisted in midair, snapped his wings wide, and fell smoothly away from the balcony.
“Worse than clumsy, and dangerous for your instructor,” Master Anerii said witheringly to Rekei. “Err the other way next time, boy, you hear?”
Of all the novices, only Ceirfei Feneirè and the oldest of the Third City boys—Genrai—managed to stay on their feet when they landed, and only Ceirfei didn’t drag at least one wingtip on the balcony stone. Trei found himself grinning wryly: if someone could manage a graceful landing his first time, of course it would be Ceirfei.
“An acceptable performance,” the novice-master informed them once all the boys were sitting in a ragged semicircle on the balcony. “For a first flight, generally acceptable. You will now rest and eat. At sixth bell, Rei will show you how to mend these wings. You won’t fly again until they’re repaired, so that will give you reason to learn proper repair techniques quickly.” He smiled thinly at their groans. “No complaints. You’ll be too stiff to fly for a day or three anyway. Ceirfei, Genrai, you’ll help the others mend their wings, since yours need less work.”
Genrai ducked his head, looking embarrassed rather than pleased to be singled out.
“You are dismissed. You will find your noon meal waiting in the novitiate. Sixth bell, remember. You are expected to be prompt.”
The Floating Islands Page 9