The Floating Islands

by Rachel Neumeier

  Ceirfei didn’t say anything, but only nodded. He came forward to sit down on the high marble steps of some fancy white First City tower.

  After a moment, Trei joined him. He said in a quieter voice, “I was fond of them, do you understand that? I thought they were fond of me. I liked Aunt Sosa. I think she was fond of Marrè. If Marrè had been there with me that summer—if she’d been there instead of me—”

  Ceirfei nodded again. “Then perhaps you’d both be in Sicuon. You’ve lost so much. I’m very sorry for your loss and your grief. I know you would never have traded your kin for the wind and the sky. But once you lost your father’s kin, I’m glad you came to your mother’s kin and to the sky. When we endure loss, the past reaches out to grip us from behind, but it’s not wrong to turn your face forward.”

  Trei listened to this in silence. He could not find any answer, but after a moment, he managed a small nod.

  “Trei … if you went flying on your own without leave, well, novices do things like that. Even if you were caught, the punishment would only be a whipping, or grounding at worst. But, Trei, leaving the novitiate without permission? The wingmaster could expel you for that.”

  At the moment, Trei wasn’t certain he cared.

  “You’d care in the morning,” Ceirfei said, watching his face. “So would I. We’d all hate it if you were gone. So I came after you, to tell you so.” He got to his feet, took a step back toward the kajurai precincts, looked at Trei in deliberate invitation. “Come back with me? If we slip in quietly, no one need know anything about this. Will you come?”

  Trei hesitated. He looked around, finding himself disoriented now amid the moonlight-drenched white towers of First City. Did he even know how to get back to the kajurai tower? Much less find Uncle Serfei’s house? He took a step after Ceirfei, then stopped. “Why did you come after me? You’re venturing out-of-bounds, too. The wingmaster could expel you for that, too.”

  Ceirfei shrugged. “I don’t think he would, though. And if we were caught, well, if he didn’t expel me, he could hardly expel you. That’s why we decided that Genrai would go look for you on the flight balcony and I’d come out here. And I did find you, so that worked well. Will you come back with me now?”

  If he didn’t, Trei knew, he’d wish he had in the morning. Ceirfei was right about that, too. He stood for a moment longer, looking around at the city. But then he turned back toward Ceirfei.

  However, after they found the kajurai tower and the stairway that led down toward the novitiate, and descended most of the way to the bottom of the stairs, Ceirfei paused, a hand on Trei’s arm to hold him back. Puzzled, Trei followed the direction of Ceirfei’s gaze. Then he swallowed. Two men waited for them below. Even from this distance, Trei immediately recognized the novice-master. He thought the other man was Wingmaster Taimenai himself.

  The wingmaster wore unornamented kajurai black and an expression of forbidding patience. Novice-master Anerii also wore black, but he had never looked less patient. In addition, he had a riding whip in his left hand, which he was tapping in a slow rhythm against the side of his boot. A whip like that, Trei found, was an even more fraught item in a country where there were so few horses.

  Ceirfei and Trei stepped together from the last stair, came out onto the balcony, stopped shoulder to shoulder, and waited.

  “As you have both been excellent students,” the novice-master said at last, “I am certain you are able flawlessly to recite the penalties for disobedience and venturing without leave into the city.” He pointed at Trei with the whip. “Well?”

  “Strokes of a whip, or denial of flying privileges, or expulsion from the kajurai novitiate,” Trei recited in a whisper. He tried not to glance at the whip the novice-master held. He’d never been beaten in his life, but he was very sure he would rather face the whip than be expelled. Earlier, when Ceirfei had reminded him of the possible penalties, he hadn’t thought he really cared about the possibility of expulsion. But that numbness had passed. He cared now. He knew he couldn’t bear it.

  “Have you any excuse to offer?”

  “No, Novice-master,” they answered together. Trei added at once, “But Ceirfei only left the novitiate because I—”

  “Enough,” ordered the novice-master. For a moment his cold stare pierced Trei. Then his attention shifted to Ceirfei. He frowned.

  Ceirfei met his eyes for a moment, then deliberately bowed his head.

  “Novice-master Anerii,” Wingmaster Taimenai said abruptly. “If I may impose.”

  Master Anerii turned toward the wingmaster.

  “I recognize that I am trespassing upon your duty,” the wingmaster told him. “However, I will make this decision.” He studied the boys, his expression more forbidding than ever. “I shall hold, this once, the penalty of expulsion. Ten strokes apiece, well laid down. And grounding for a senneri. I will wield the whip myself. I will ask you to attend to your other duties, Master Anerii.”

  The novice-master, his mouth tight, turned on his heel and went out.

  “I would not complain to my—” Ceirfei began, clearly outraged.

  “Silence,” Wingmaster Taimenai ordered sharply. “Remove your shirt, Novice Ceirfei. Turn about and set your hands upon the wall.”

  The riding whip did not draw blood, but it left wicked welts. Ceirfei did not make a sound, but he could not quite keep from jerking as each blow fell. His breath hissed between his teeth. When it was finished, he was trembling. But he bowed properly to the wingmaster, though there were tears in his eyes.

  If I do as well, Trei thought, but the thought dissolved unfinished, all thought dissolved; the moment stretched out into an empty, waiting silence.

  For all he had braced himself, the whip’s first blow was a surprise; Trei jerked and gasped as much in shock as in pain. Indeed, at first he thought the pain not so much, but then he found it actually arrived slowly and then expanded hugely; it was still expanding as the second stroke arrived, and this time Trei did yelp, because, distracted by the unfolding pain of the first blow, he had somehow forgotten a second was on the way. He heard his own cry, though, and was ashamed. Ceirfei hadn’t made a sound. He clenched his teeth and endured the third stroke in silence, and the next, and the next, and then he lost count, only braced his arms against the wall and pressed his face against the stone … and then it was over.

  The wingmaster accepted Trei’s shaky bow with a curt nod. “I trust neither of you will give me occasion to repeat this exercise. Or reconsider more severe penalties.” He ran the whip through his hands, studying them. His expression was unreadable. “You are dismissed to the novitiate. Do you know your way from here?”

  They did, though it seemed longer than previously, and with a lot more stairs. Trei and Ceirfei both walked slowly and carefully. Everything hurt, Trei found; every step pulled at his back, and the brush of his shirt against the welts was worse.

  “He didn’t need to send the novice-master away—as though I would complain to my uncle!” Ceirfei said through his teeth once they were safely out in the hallway. He was furious.

  Trei had never seen Ceirfei angry before. It was a cold, rigid fury, exactly as Trei would have expected if he’d thought about it. He stopped, so that Ceirfei had to stop, too, to face him. Trei asked suddenly, not clearly knowing he was going to ask until the words were out between them: “Who are you? Who is your uncle?”

  For a moment Ceirfei only stared back at him. But at last he gave a self-deprecating shrug—which made him wince—and a wry smile. “Ah, well … my mother is Calaspara Naterensei.” And then, when Trei only looked baffled, he added, “The king’s sister.”

  Trei stared at him. He knew perfectly well that Ceirfei had liked having a companion who didn’t know his rank. His exalted rank. Trei had known Ceirfei’s rank must be exalted. But— “You’re a prince,” he said, trying to fix the idea in his mind.

  Ceirfei shrugged again, more carefully this time. “The least of princes. Don’t think too much of it, Trei.
There are four cousins and two brothers between me and the throne.”

  “Or you’d never have been allowed to audition,” Trei agreed. He understood that. “Still. A prince.” Trei tried to adjust to this notion. It was, in some ways, remarkably easy. He said after a moment, “That explains a lot about you.”

  A slow flush rose up Ceirfei’s neck and face. “It doesn’t really.”

  “Oh, yes, it does. Gods, no wonder the wingmaster wouldn’t let Novice-master Anerii whip you. One doesn’t trifle with princes.”

  “I know he had to punish us both! Does he think I don’t understand that? He should know I would never complain to my uncle!”

  “Ceirfei! How could he be sure? Of course the wingmaster should protect his people. What would you have done in his place?”

  Ceirfei stopped, looking startled. And, after a moment, embarrassed. “Well. The same, I suppose.”

  “Of course you would.” Trei hesitated. “I see why you knew they wouldn’t expel you. But you knew … as you say, you knew they’d have to punish us both, if we were caught. So … thank you for coming after me.”

  Ceirfei shrugged. He didn’t say, That’s what friends do, because that would be trite, nor did he say, That’s what princes do, because that would be pretentious. But Trei knew he meant that shrug to stand for both statements. Just knowing that made some of the sick feeling finally die away.

  Trei, feeling suddenly embarrassed, turned away abruptly, walked forward, and opened the door to the novitiate’s dining hall … then met the stares of the other boys with as much composure as he could manage.

  Rekei sprang up and hurried over, then hovered, looking anxious. Genrai got more slowly to his feet and told Ceirfei apologetically, “Somebody came by to tell us there would be examinations tomorrow and found us scattered all over the novitiate, and, well …”

  “It’s well enough,” Ceirfei assured him. He moved slowly toward a chair by the long table. “We got nothing worse than grounding.”

  “They said you’d be whipped!” Tokabii exclaimed. “Even though—” Genrai caught the younger boy’s arm and gave him a shake, but Tokabii pulled away, looking stubborn. “Oh, stop it, Genrai, I’m not a baby!”

  “You’re a brat!” snapped Rekei, pulling out a chair for Trei. “Everyone knows grounding’s worse than whipping!”

  Kojran began, “You only say that because you’ve never—”

  “Enough!” said Genrai, so forcefully that all three of the younger boys stared at him and fell silent after all.

  Ceirfei settled gingerly into the chair, but he gave Genrai a little nod. “If you kept everyone else out of trouble, then that was well done, and all you could do. Thank you.”

  Genrai visibly resisted responding with a deferential nod in return. Instead, he said, “Several of the second-ranked kajuraihi brought these.” He indicated the little pots of salve on the table. “For the, um, welts. Rei Kensenè said it’s a rare novice who never needs it, but usually just for flying without leave. He said, well, never mind. You can probably imagine.”

  Trei could. But the salve did help wonderfully: it went on cold, stung like fire—tears came to Trei’s eyes, forcing him to duck his head and blink rapidly—but then both the sting and much of the hot ache faded together.

  “Rei said—” Genrai began. But then he looked up, startled, as the door opened once more.

  “Novice Trei.” Wingmaster Taimenai stood in the doorway. Where his expression was usually dispassionate and sometimes stern, now he looked truly grim. His tone was flat, unreadable. “I must ask you to attend me at once.”

  For a long moment, Trei found himself unable to move. The wingmaster’s grimness terrified him. He was going to be dismissed—someone had decided a half-Tolounnese novice shouldn’t be tolerated after all, especially if he was going to break important rules—or else—or else—Trei couldn’t think of anything else that seemed likely. He felt numb. He was aware, dimly, of somebody putting a hand under his elbow to help him to his feet. The wingmaster himself took Trei by the shoulder and guided him through the door, along a short hallway, up a long stair, and at last into a plainly furnished office with a balcony that looked out over the sea.

  Wingmaster Taimenai gestured Trei toward a plain chair that stood before the large desk, but he did not sit himself. He knelt in front of Trei, gripped Trei by the arms, and looked searchingly into his face. “Trei—” he began, and stopped.

  Trei stared into the wingmaster’s face, so close to his own, and waited. His mouth had gone dry, his hands cold. He could feel his own heartbeat, thready and rapid, in his throat, but he couldn’t feel the arms of the chair under his own hands. In a moment the wingmaster would say—he would say—

  What he said, with a terrible gentleness, was: “Trei, I fear I must give you difficult news about your family.”

  6

  Grief had turned Araenè to stone by the time Trei found her. She didn’t notice his arrival. She was tucked away in the shadows behind her largest wardrobe. Her room’s shutters were closed; Araenè had refused to let Cimè open them. She felt that it was wrong of the sun to blaze with light and warmth when everything should be dark and cold; it seemed impossible that the whole world should not echo with her loss. So she sat in the shadows, her arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees, her back against the wall, and ignored the light.

  Cimè found her there. “Your cousin’s come,” she told Araenè, speaking gently. “You should get up. Brush your hair, wash your face, put on a clean dress.… Araenè? Can you hear me? Your cousin’s here.…”

  Araenè heard her as she heard the sound of monkeys calling or birds singing or the wind rattling the shutters: as sound without meaning. She did not respond. She did not even remember that she might respond. She was only faintly aware of Cimè’s retreat.

  There were voices in the hall … meaningless, but Araenè dimly wished the sounds would go away. She shut her eyes firmly and pressed her forehead against her knees, trying to listen only to the silence within her own heart.

  She was aware, dimly, of someone coming to stand in front of her. She knew, dimly, that this was Trei. He moved to sit next to her, his back against the wall, his shoulder touching hers. He didn’t say anything. Araenè was grateful for his silence.

  After a while, Trei went away. But then he came back. He sat next to Araenè again, took her hand firmly, and put a cup of steaming chocolate into it. The smell was rich and dark. She hadn’t been aware that she was hungry. She had forgotten that she wasn’t actually stone. The scent of the chocolate made her remember. She sipped it slowly.

  Trei took the cup out of her hand when it was empty, replacing it with a soft roll. The roll was filled with cheese and onions, not at all the right thing to follow a cup of chocolate. The cheese wasn’t salty enough, and the onions weren’t properly caramelized, but Araenè ate the roll anyway. Then she ate another one, this one filled with spicy lamb. It was much better than the first. It seemed so wrong to even notice anything as trivial as the mix of spices in a lamb-stuffed roll, but she couldn’t help it. Then she sat and stared at her hands and tried not to think about anything.

  “The grief doesn’t go away,” Trei said after a while. “But you … get used to it, you know? It’s like carrying a heavy stone, one that’s really too heavy for you: you learn to settle the weight properly, and then you get used to it, and then sometimes you can forget you’re carrying it.”

  “Does it get lighter? Do you ever put it down?” Araenè asked him.

  “I don’t know.” Trei put an arm around her shoulders.

  Araenè leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t understand.”

  “I’d never have wanted you to.”

  “It was just a summer cough.…”

  “They said it started that way.”

  “It didn’t … If we’d only known … The fever came on so fast, Trei! I sent for a physician, but he didn’t come fast enough—”

 
“Shh. I know. It’s not your fault.” Trei’s grip tightened around her shoulders. “Nobody knew at first how hard the fever would take hold. How could anybody know?”

  No one had known how serious the illness was until the fever’s first victims died. After that, the physicians understood how fast they’d need to move, how aggressively they’d need to treat the illness. Every physician in the city had exhausted himself in that effort. Eventually, after losing a lot of people, they’d begun saving more victims than they lost. Cimè had told her that. Araenè didn’t care. She would have traded all the lives saved for just two that were gone. She bowed her face against her knees, shuddering.

  “You need to act like you’re still alive yourself,” Trei advised. “It’s a pretense at first. If you pretend as hard as you can, you’ll come to half believe it yourself.”

  “I know,” Araenè whispered. “I did pretend. When people came. The physician, and then the magistrate. Then the death handler, and then the king’s tax collector …”

  “I know,” Trei said. “You did everything perfectly. Then you let go. Now you need to pick up some of the pieces again.”

  This sounded impossible to Araenè.

  “You don’t need to hold them all,” Trei added. “Just start with one.” He got to his feet and reached down for Araenè’s hands, pulling her up as well. She staggered, and he gave her a close look, adding, “The very first thing is for you to fix me something to eat.”

  It was the best thing he could have asked for. And he knew it, too, as Araenè realized perfectly well. But she was glad to lose herself in preparing a complicated pastry she’d invented. Each round of dough had to be rolled out thin, then fried in hot oil, then brushed with clarified butter infused with lavender, then dusted with fine sugar mixed with ground vanilla, and finally assembled in layers with a compote of walnuts and lavender honey. Araenè set the finished confection on the table, scattered dried lavender flowers across the platter, sat down at her customary place, and burst into tears.