Updraft

by Fran Wilde

  The Magisters separated. Dix stalked towards Sidra, took her by the arm, and led her to another group. Nat’s.

  Where we stood, I could not hear their words. Nat’s hand gestures and how he tilted his head gave him away. He wasn’t pleased with the addition to his test group, but didn’t want to offend Sidra. He bowed ever so slightly to Dix. The other students began to speak as well. Something shifted. Dix stayed with the group while Magister Viit left it and walked towards us. Somehow, Nat and Macal had turned Sidra’s outburst into a way to spare me Dix’s attention. If true, either would make a fine trader. And I would owe them both enormous favors.

  At a signal from one of the Singers, Magister Calli led our group to the edge of the plinth. We looked south. We would need to beat a zigzag against the wind, retrieve a flag set on a distant tower this morning, and return. Other groups conferred, picked a first leader, and set out, going west, east, and towards the city center.

  You can do this, I reminded myself. Now that I had passed my solo flight, I felt a bit better. Still, anything could happen during Group. Crosswinds, a flock of whipperlings. A wingbreak. Skymouths. Especially with student fliers stressed from wingtesting.

  Nat’s group launched, with Sidra straining to get out in front. Group was all about flying with others in a tight scrum, and in close quarters. Important skills for heavily trafficked towers, and especially for traders, who sometimes need to carry heavier objects as teams.

  The group had likely already decided on leader order, but Sidra’s arrival had changed that too. She was positioning herself to lead the flight. I held my breath, waiting for Dix to discipline her, but she didn’t. They disappeared, headed east.

  I looked at my group. Who would take the lead among us? The city was watching.

  Groups worked best when leaders alternated; that I knew from both Florian and Ezarit. Sidra’s performance notwithstanding. Perhaps that was why everyone was hanging back. Beliak smiled, awkward. Ceetcee rocked on her heels. We’d be here all day.

  I stepped forward. “I’ll take first lead.” Would they follow me?

  Their response was a stretch of quiet. I’d botched it already. I scrambled to fix it. “And then Beliak?”

  Beliak nodded. “Then Ceetcee and then Aliati?” Both agreed. The volunteers readied themselves. Beliak and I exchanged nervous smiles.

  I called the first formation, based on the direction we were headed and the prevailing wind: “Chevron.” Magister Calli smiled. I’d made a good decision. We launched, wing to wing, coordinating and signaling wind shifts with whistles and shouts.

  We were a noisy crowd, all working together to find the fastest breezes on which to glide.

  We were also a fast group. By cooperating, we flew high. We soon overtook Sidra and Nat’s group, which was off course and struggling to keep up with her set path.

  I signaled Beliak to take lead after we’d made half the distance. He shifted our formation to dove—a raked arrow—since the wind had grown more variable. I fell back to his left point and took a moment to look around.

  Ezarit’s lenses were a blessing, especially since I’d adjusted them properly. I could see far with them, was less troubled by sun glare than my companions, and my eyes weren’t tearing from the wind.

  Below, small flights of patchwork wings followed us for a few towers and then turned back. I’d done the same as a younger flier. Without wingmarks, they could not follow us for long.

  We passed the farthest towers I’d been to, out of the northwest quadrant. I quieted as I realized the names of the towers I’d studied all my life went with shapes, twists of bone rising from the clouds just as Densira did.

  Here and there, bridges spanned the gaps between towers. As we flew closer to the Spire, more towers were connected by the long spans of sinew. Everywhere, ladders grappled tiers. On balconies and tower tops, families stood and waved. Densira families were doing the same for children of distant towers, welcoming them to the rest of the city.

  From my position next to Beliak, I spotted our banner on Varu’s top tier and signaled. Beliak acknowledged me with a whistle and signaled for us to land atop the tower before the final leg of the test.

  * * *

  Varu was lower than Densira by at least three tiers. The tower was so crowded that hammocks and sacks had to hang anchored from balconies. They’d broken War long ago, though Magister Florian said once that they hadn’t done more than plot and make a few raids on neighbors’ water and food. In return, Singers took Varu’s council, along with their families, to the Spire. They refused Varu any opportunity to rise.

  Our landing made a racket, silk wings flapping against wind curls that crossed the tower top. The bone roof was smooth and white, showing no new growth. Cleats and pulleys carved around its edge supported the nets below.

  Varu had put out a dried-vine basket for the wingtesters. It held figs and a sour-tasting juice. The new tastes reminded us how far we’d come from home.

  I removed my lenses to clean them and looked out from Varu to its neighbors. I saw the Spire clearly for the first time, rising from the city center. I’d studied it for the wingtest, but had never been so close.

  Taller than the rest of the city’s towers, the Spire differed in other ways as well. Where our tiers rose supported by a central core, a solid wall of white bone wrapped the Spire. Ezarit told me once that the Spire’s center was a wind-filled abyss. The Spire’s market-bridges, designed by artifexes like Nat’s father, hung suspended on pulleys in a ring around its wall. Behind the wall, the Spire held the Singers’ secrets close.

  From Varu’s roof, I spotted gray-robed Singers perched atop the Spire, on a flat expanse of bone that could hold hundreds. More Singers emerged from within, like smoke taken to wing.

  Beliak watched them too, as he chewed a fig. “One of my brothers was taken to the Spire, five years ago.” He frowned. “His name was Lurai.” He saw my look and hurried to clarify. “As a novice. Maybe he’s up there, watching us.”

  I swallowed, realizing Ezarit might speak this way about me if the Singer got what he wanted.

  Beliak opened his mouth to speak again, but Magister Calli signaled us to ready for the return flight. I offered Varu’s group banner to Beliak and Ceetcee, but they shook their heads. So I tied the banner into my robes. We flew before the wind this time; this was easier and more direct, but harder to spot turbulence. Ceetcee looked nervous.

  “We’ll work together,” Beliak said. “Try bee formation.” Ceetcee nodded. Magister Calli took note. I offered to serve as the tail of the bee, in charge of watching for shifts before they hit us. And for large birds of prey or skymouths.

  I’d discovered while cleaning Ezarit’s lenses that they had a special hasp with a bit of reflective glass inside. I flipped it back and forth, realizing it allowed a view of what was behind me, without my turning my head.

  As I showed my group how the hasp worked, Ceetcee smiled. “You are lucky, then, and will bring us the same.” She used the traditional way of accepting a favor. I would fly at the tail.

  I hoped she was right.

  We launched again, lighter for having reached the halfway mark of our final trial.

  The wind carried us around Varu, past the Spire, and back towards the northern quadrants.

  Ceetcee’s path had taken us too low for the crowded towers near the Spire. It was a mistake easily made by someone who’d grown up on the outer edges. A strong downdraft from the towers overlapped our gust and fouled our path. Beliak and I whistled a warning at the same time, but Ceetcee didn’t alter course soon enough. Our group’s progress slowed as she struggled to find a clear path.

  Ceetcee passed control to Aliati, flying nearby. Aliati had seemed quiet on the plinth, and at Varu too. But in the lead, her voice was confident and clear. She pushed us to a tighter formation, then sleeked us around several towers, climbing with each gust. Soon we soared at the towers’ peaks, chattering and whistling soft appreciation in the sunlight.

 
; Even the volunteers seemed well pleased with the turn of events. They flew at the center of our formation: two hunters and a guard.

  I kept one eye on the mirror and focused as best I could on keeping my wingtips pointed. The Magister fell back in formation, so she was just downwind of me.

  She was grinning. “Well traveled,” she shouted. I saw the testing plinth ahead and grinned too.

  We returned triumphant, my three new friends and I. We were flushed from the flight and windburned. Ceetcee had something in her eye, possibly one of her own long eyelashes. Aliati glowed with her success. Magister Calli walked towards the trade and craft guild leaders and relayed our trip with broad gestures. The tradesman turned my way and bowed. My heart lifted. I’d passed, and very well.

  Another group landed, with Magister Macal. They were missing a student. Grim news, but not a disaster. “Left him at the turnaround tower,” he announced. “Broke formation without signaling. Nearly took the group out.”

  We quieted our celebration.

  * * *

  Nat’s group appeared in the distance, beating their way back against the wind. They, too, had all their number. An occasional speck broke the deep blue horizon line. Birds. Sidra still held lead, and the following wind drove her hoarse voice ahead of the formation.

  They were just a few towers away from the plinth when a crosswind hit. I squinted and could almost see it. A squall of air and a rising cloud, a small one. At first I was glad. The gardens needed rain.

  But the squall destabilized Sidra’s formation. One of the hunters fought for balance in the gust. He was blown sideways, towards Nat.

  Nat missed a shouted warning from Dix. The hunter knocked him off course. He tumbled right into the squall, one of his wings broken.

  I cried out as he careened away from the city.

  The wind spun him round, the one wing acting as a blade, his body a rotor. Nat’s legs kicked out, but he fell like a leaf from a garden, twisting down below the plinth.

  Magisters and Singers leapt from the plinth, flying fast, kicking out with their tailskirts, gliding the drafts to get to him. The latter set their wings, pulled from their finger harnesses, and reached arms lined with silver tattoos towards him like prayers.

  I knelt at the plinth’s edge, Beliak and Aliati on either side. We peered over. “Please no,” I whispered. Not Nat.

  The Singers outpaced the Magisters. Even Macal could not keep up. Singer Wik reached Nat first and caught him by the winghooks. Nat’s spin dragged them both down. Beliak made a choking sound, and I grabbed Aliati’s arm with numb fingers. Then the Singer’s broad wings stopped their fall. When they rose, Nat dangled limply, out cold from the spin. The Singer’s left arm bulged with the strain of lifting him, until he removed a rope harness from his waist with his right hand, then double-glided Nat back to us, suspended like a child.

  The other Singer rescued another student from the group, and Magister Dix struggled to right the rest of the flight. The group limped back to the plinth and made tangled, exhausted landings.

  Singer Wik dumped Nat in a puddle on the plinth’s woven surface.

  “This one didn’t watch the others,” Dix said, as if she wasn’t certain anyone should have rescued him. “Naton’s boy.”

  There was a hush from the Magisters. Finally, Florian, our Magister, bent to Nat and shook him awake.

  Nat retched and grabbed at the air, his face flushed and angry.

  “You’re all right,” Florian said roughly. “You were rescued like a fledge, but you’re fine now.”

  Nat retched again. He’d failed Group. He wouldn’t pass the wingtest this year. But he climbed to his feet. The plinth bounced as he took a step. One wing hung crooked from its strap. The other, battens split, silk torn, drooped against his shoulder.

  But he had lived. He had not fallen through the clouds. I reached for his hand, and he jumped at my touch, then held tight.

  The volunteer who had careened into Nat, the hunter from Mondarath, had plummeted fast and hard. The Singer who had gone after him returned empty-handed. He landed, ashen faced, then pointed up and intoned, “Jador Mondarath fell in service to the city. Look up to watch his soul pass above. We do not look down in mourning.”

  More loss for that tower.

  The blessing ended, and students and Magisters gathered into tower groups one last time. Dikarit stood off to the side, having passed without trouble. Sidra stood, panting, her face ashen. Dojha and I juggled relief and joy with sorrow. Nat, still gripping my hand, turned away from us, eyes on his feet.

  A brass-haired Singer intoned a benediction. The last words from The Rise: We all fly together. Even in death. “Go in service to the city,” she said.

  Singer Wik spoke after her. “Wingmarks will be distributed at tomorrow’s wingfights, before Allmoons.”

  Magisters and students raised confused questions. This broke tradition. Wingmarks were exchanged for the four test marks now, not tomorrow.

  The Singers did not explain. They repeated the change. The guild members murmured “Singer’s right.” As if that explained things.

  “Must be because of the fall,” Aliati said. Her face was marked with tears. Her tower, her hunter.

  “I encourage you who receive wingmarks tomorrow to respect the city’s Laws, and those of you who have not passed to try again,” the older Singer said, then turned and jumped from the plinth without waiting for a response. Her dove-gray wings momentarily blocked the sun as she soared back to the Spire.

  Singer Wik and the third Singer followed without a word to anyone.

  Our flight groups lingered on the plinth, confused. The test didn’t feel over. I began to worry that the Singers would declare no one had passed, but then I thought about my flight and grew calmer. I’d passed. I knew it. Traditions had been broken, all formality lost, but I’d passed. I caught Beliak’s eye, then Ceetcee’s. Waved to them as their groups headed back to Wirra and Viit.

  When I realized that Nat had dropped my hand and walked to the plinth’s southern edge, my heart sank. So caught up in my own worries. Shame on me. I joined him as he peered over the edge, then at the Spire in the distance.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Bad luck,” his voice rasped. He unbuckled his left wing, broken beyond repair, and slid the strap from his shoulder. He hung it over the edge of the plinth and dropped it.

  My heart ached for him. “Next Allsuns, Nat. You will pass.”

  Florian waved us back to the plinth’s northern side, and I pulled Nat after me. We would fly back to the tower of our youth together.

  Using winghooks, Florian carried Nat. Nat cringed with shame. His remaining wing was secured to the Magister’s chest.

  They glided away from the test plinth. Sidra sulked behind them, muttering to Dojha. My cousin and I followed, trying to read the changes on the horizon.

  I would take my old wings to Viit and trade whatever else I could find to have them make Nat a new wing. I smiled sadly. That would help. But Nat wouldn’t have wings for this year’s Allmoons. He wouldn’t be able to fly in the wingfights or join a hunt.

  Meantime, Singer Wik would return to talk with me. But I would have my wingmark by then. I hoped that would be enough to carry me far from the Singers’ reach.

  Ahead of me, Sidra grew more strident and incensed. Not my fault, I heard. Dix will regret this.

  I felt a twinge of empathy for her, and even worse for Nat. They’d have to repeat the wingtest. Sidra’s family would be embarrassed, though they wouldn’t have as many difficulties as Nat and Elna would. Sidra would have to live by her father’s rules for longer. Knowing Councilman Vant, that could be why she was raging now.

  Sidra caught me looking at her and glared back at me. Embarrassed, I distracted myself by thinking of more ways to help Nat get back in the air. Ways to avoid going near the Spire until I was a well-off trader in my own right. My barely formed plans shredded like clouds when I spotted a figure waving from our balcony.


  Ezarit. Home. Her lenses pressed my cheeks as I smiled. Then they fogged as the seal broke with my skin when I frowned. She’d almost made it in time. Perhaps she had seen some of the group flight. Perhaps she saw Nat’s fall.

  If Ezarit had been home in the morning, she would have seen my dive. She would have told me what it looked like. We could have shared impressions, like a team, like the group I’d just worked with. Like the people who’d helped her deliver the medicines to the southeast.

  Instead, she’d flown one way, and I’d flown another. So much sky had opened up between us. The skymouth and the Singer, the wingtest and Nat’s fall filled the space.

  I glided the distance to Densira, and Ezarit’s form grew clearer. She’d put her glass beads back in her hair. The top of the tower danced with light to welcome me home. But silence waited there too, taut like a net.

  With a wave from Magister Florian, I broke from the group and went to her.

  7

  HORIZON

  She met me on the balcony and caught me like a child come in from a first flight. Swung me round. She held me at arm’s length.

  “You’ve grown. How is it that you are still growing?”

  I hadn’t grown. It had only been a few days since she left. It had been forever.

  Why was she greeting me as if nothing had happened? I grew stiff in her arms, fidgeted like a trapped bird.

  Her eyes were soft and golden, fringed with long lashes. On her wind-chapped face, her cheekbones bloomed madder and rose.

  She touched the chips I’d tied to my wings. Her face fell into worry. “No wingmark? They must be debating results.” Her lips moved as she counted four full chips: Laws, City, Solo, Group. “But you passed!”

  I nodded. I had so much to say, my lips were sealed by the pressure of it all. And against speaking any of it. I smiled at her and let my eyes speak instead.

  “I know how you feel,” she said. “When I passed the wingtest…” She looked into the distance, thinking. “I was so over the sun about it. Higher than anyone. My mother would have been so proud, then.” She returned to me, saw me. “Just as I am.”