Updraft

by Fran Wilde

  In what seemed like mere moments, Sellis nudged me awake with her foot. A new day had begun. I rose from my improvised bed, straightened my robes around me, and went to tend to her needs.

  * * *

  The smell of apples steamed in spices told me where the novices took their meals. My stomach growled, but my heart sank. Ezarit cooked those too.

  “They are my favorite,” a voice said near the entrance. Wik. Several children seated nearby whispered and pointed. A Singer in the room must have been rare.

  Sellis looked at him. “She cannot possibly keep up. She knows nothing about the city. Nothing about flying.”

  He nodded. “And you and I will help her discover that.”

  I opened my mouth to protest. I knew as much as anyone.

  Wik handed me three smooth bone bowls from a woven basket. “Get us some food. Sellis and I must speak.”

  When I returned, my stomach growling at the contents of the bowls, they’d claimed low stools. Their heads were bent together. I balked at joining them.

  But Wik noticed my glance and waved a hand in welcome. “You have no reason to fear me, Kirit. In fact, we have much to talk about.”

  I had yet to say anything, or to taste the apples, though sky knew I wanted them. He gestured to the bowl. Finally, he speared some on a fork and passed it to me. “Eat. You need your strength. Today will test you.”

  For what?

  Wik filled me in about “for what” very quickly while Sellis looked on with a sour expression. “You will begin your education. I am certain you will progress quickly and rise to the level of your peers before you know it.”

  Sellis snorted.

  What did that mean? I took the smallest bite of apple. Taste filled my mouth, the cinnamon rippling over my gums and making me want to eat the whole bowlful. I watched the Singer. Wondered what the battles were that had given him his marks.

  He saw me looking. Pointed to his cheek. To a spiral inside a circle. “My first turn in the Gyre,” he said. “A young man challenged for tier. I was sent to fight him.”

  I swallowed. This was how Wik took his Singer wings. My mother must have made a similar challenge and won. Not so, the young man Wik had fought.

  “Is tier such a hard thing for the city to give?”

  “You see?” Sellis threw up her hands in protest at my ignorance.

  “Sometimes,” Wik said. He smiled, a contrast to Sellis’s glare. He didn’t elaborate.

  Instead, he pointed again, to the pattern that wound around his left eye and over the breadth of his forehead. The mark, another Gyre fight won. “This one made me a member of the council. I fought an old Singer, Mariti, into retirement.” He saw my look. “It is our way. You must be willing to sacrifice everything for what you believe, Kirit.”

  “Willing to kill for it?”

  “Mariti did not die. He conceded. He still serves the city as a windbeater.”

  Concession? I hadn’t known that was possible in the Spire.

  “It is not a dishonor, among the Singers. Windbeater is a powerful role in the Spire.”

  Powerful as compared to what? Trading? Perhaps.

  Sellis smacked the edge of her bowl with her hand. “When Singers get old or hurt, they have a place to go. They don’t starve. They’re not left out to die. We’re not monsters.” Her expression finished the sentence: all these things happened in the towers.

  Was it the truth? I saw in her face that she believed it was. She turned away quickly so I couldn’t read anything more into her expression. I stored that knowledge for later consideration as I squinted at a small pattern by Wik’s earlobe. A knife. I explored his face with my eyes. A patch near his chin had been left unmarked. A small stretch of skin with no scrawls.

  “I wished to mark an excursion there,” he said. “But I took my wings instead.”

  My lips parted. “An excursion?”

  “Some leave the Spire,” Sellis growled, turning back towards us, “for the towers. I can’t believe you don’t know this. Tower folk are so—”

  Wik cut her off with a look. He flexed his hand on his knee. Took a breath. Sellis’s dissent seemed to be getting to him too.

  Between bites, I tried to figure out what made excursion so special. Singers left the Spire all the time. The words escaped before I even realized I’d spoken.

  Wik laughed. “Before they take their wings, before they are marked with tattoos, some Singers are allowed a special type of excursion. Especially the Spire-born. So we can understand the towers. Just as only a few are given to enclosure—the deep communication with the city that lets us know its needs.” He said this as if the words should make sense to me.

  At my confusion, Sellis gave an exaggerated sigh. “We should enroll her in the nests. With the infants.” She faced me. “You need years of training to become a proper Singer. Years. You can’t glide in here and—”

  Around us, other novices watched. The room had fallen very quiet.

  At a look from Wik, Sellis cleared her throat and held the dirty bowls towards me. She tilted her head and gestured with her chin. Move, acolyte. I found scourweed piled in a corner and scrubbed the bowls until they were no longer sticky and my hands were cut and bleeding again.

  When I finished, I rejoined them.

  Wik stood. “Let’s walk.” He folded his hands behind his back and paced away. Sellis and I hurried to catch him.

  “Tell me about excursion and enclosure.” If I was to learn, I’d need to get started somewhere.

  Sellis said, “Enclosure is for those who can listen to the sounds of the city.”

  “When it roars?” I shuddered, thinking about those days. And what happened after.

  She stared like I’d said the most dense thing possible. “The city speaks all the time. And we speak to it. The Singers who are enclosed tell us what the city wants. What it dreams for itself.”

  I realized that the pocket of bone where I’d been trapped until yesterday was not only my prison. The carvings were too beautiful. Too reverential. That was an enclosure.

  “Are there many who do this?”

  Sellis shivered. “Yes. But not forever. They take shifts.”

  “And excursion?”

  Wik blushed, confusing me. “Before we take a seat on the council, most Singers are permitted some time abroad. To ensure we do not become too disconnected with our cousins in the rest of the city.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “To live among the citizens. In the towers.”

  He nodded.

  “In secret?”

  Wik stilled, like a hunting bird. He watched me as his lips parted in the briefest possible, most silent response, a breath of a word. “Sometimes.”

  The thought of Singers prowling invisibly among us made me shiver. I did not know why. It felt safer to think of Singers as gray-robed guardians.

  I stayed silent while Wik fidgeted with fuzz on his robe. He wanted to tell me more—this controlled, powerful young man who’d ruined my life wanted to say things to me, I could feel it. But what? And why?

  I remembered Ezarit talking about conversations as ways to trade—“They want to share with you. You need to find the right question that gets them to share more than they intend.”

  Fine. I mulled the questions I had. I thought about what Wik had already told me. I looked at him and waited until the right question rose to the surface of my mind.

  Before it had a chance to do so, Sellis spoke. Her voice was scornful. “Your father nearly didn’t return from his excursion. Imagine. Falling for the towers.”

  “It happens, Sellis.” Wik cut her off.

  That was interesting. “When can I meet him?”

  Sellis snorted. “You would need your wings.”

  The look in Wik’s eyes said I must ask no more. I considered shifting the discussion to Naton instead. At least I could finish Nat’s journey for him. But Wik had a question for me instead.

  “Do you know why we need you, Kirit?”

  I shook m
y head. “But if I must enclose myself to listen to the city, I am certain I will lose my mind. That isn’t it, is it?”

  For once, Sellis was silent. Her face betrayed her: this was something she did not know. She looked to Wik, hoping to learn too.

  Wik continued to pace the tier, the two of us hustling to keep up with him. “Several shouters are already too old to fly. We need your voice,” he began.

  Sellis snorted again.

  “You need training, a great deal of it. This is a skill that you can learn quickly, I hope. Few enough have this ability, and many cannot learn it.”

  That shut Sellis up.

  She tilted her head suddenly, as if she’d heard something I could not. “Rumul requires me.”

  Robes swishing behind her, she was gone without another word.

  Wik remained. He slowed his pace.

  “She does not like me,” I said.

  Wik nodded in agreement.

  “You and Sellis are not friends either,” I ventured again. He didn’t react. “Were you born in the Spire too?”

  He chuckled. “I was. My mother serves on the council.”

  “And Rumul?”

  “He respects my opinion, and my mother’s. She saw you fly at wingtest. She argued your case.”

  “The woman with the silver patch of hair?”

  Wik gave me a look, but didn’t continue. I tried a different line of questioning. “What happened to my father?”

  Wik cleared his throat, but kept quiet. His discipline, especially with what he said and did not say, was clearly well practiced. But without his saying another word, I knew. I knew everything and still nothing at all.

  “He didn’t want to give up Ezarit.”

  “It nearly cost him everything to return to the Spire. He was enclosed until he could hear the city again. Then he had to fight a challenger in the Gyre, and he was gravely wounded.” Wik increased his pace, until he walked ahead of me.

  Could a Singer fall in love? That was not the right question to ask, not now. I caught up to him.

  “Why didn’t they throw him down?” Suddenly I wanted to know everything.

  “Why? Because his challenger spared him. And he is useful. Much like you.”

  “He was spared and is a windbeater? He’s like the Singer you challenged? Mariti?”

  Wik answered slowly. “I cannot discuss it further.” Some sound I could not hear caught his ears. “Time for your class.” He was obviously relieved.

  Wik was a puzzle. We walked the novice tier, drawing the attention and whispers of younger students. What to make of him?

  “Singers and their secrets and machinations, Wik. How do you bear it?”

  He stopped and looked at me. “We.”

  I was suddenly aware of my arms and legs sticking far beyond the sleeves and hem of my robe. My skin went goose pimpled. “We. How do we bear it?”

  He pointed to a large alcove. We’d walked halfway around the tier. “It is our sacrifice for the city. We will talk later,” he added before he turned and headed towards the ladders.

  A Magister standing inside the alcove watched me, her eyebrows raised. I looked past her to the youngest of the novices, all wearing robes like mine. They stared back at me. One near the back squelched a giggle: Ciel.

  * * *

  I ducked into the alcove, where the tallest student’s head was level with my waist. The room was dim compared to those above, but still ornately carved. Silk cushions lined the floor, and bone benches banked the outer wall.

  The Magister spoke slowly, as if I might not comprehend. “Our new novice. You will sit and learn the songs as best you can at your…” She paused and looked down her nose at me. “Age.”

  She seemed only a few years older than me. Her skin did not show the wind wear that Rumul’s did.

  “I know the songs, Magister.” I spoke quietly, hoping to gain a stay, or a quick escape.

  “Silence,” she said, and her words sounded like a thunderclap in the hush of the Spire.

  I thought of my success with Laws and City at the wingtest and sputtered. I knew everything the city had required of me. Wik must have lied to the Spire as well, in order to ruin my test. I would show them. I jutted my chin higher and waited, standing, while the rest of the class found seats on bone benches and on the floor.

  The Magister frowned. “Very well. Sing for us. Show us what you know.”

  Fine. I would. I thought of what to sing. A song to show I knew Laws? A history?

  The only thing that came to mind was The Rise. A children’s song. I could not sing that here. I beat the idea back and clutched at Laws. At anything. No words came.

  Eventually, as children stared and whispered, I gave up and began The Rise.

  “The clouds paled as we wound up and up,” I sang, ignoring the gasps. Good, let them know me and my terrible voice.

  “The city rises on wings of Singer

  and Trader and Crafter,

  Rises to sun and wind, all together,

  Never looking down.”

  As I began the second verse, the Magister waved at me. “Stop. You are worse than I thought. And with our most treasured song.”

  The class of children had collapsed around me in fits of silent laughter. My face flushed red. What had I done wrong? My voice. They were laughing at my voice. I was fierce when I began; now I was only ashamed.

  “Moc.” The Magister crooked her finger. From behind a taller boy, Moc peered out with an apologetic look at me. “Lead your flightmates, please.”

  Moc’s voice was a tremulous quaver, but his friends joined in, and the sound of young voices filled the room. Theirs was a boisterous retelling of The Rise—but not a version I’d ever heard before. This Rise told of danger, of dying, and of tower fighting tower. This Rise was not beautiful. It put music and memory to fear bred of long privations. It was a warning, wrapped in familiar notes.

  In the Spire, even the songs were different.

  Nat would have loved to know about this. As for me, I realized Sellis was right: I was worse than a fledge. If I was to get my wings back, I would need to learn fast.

  By the time we broke for the evening meal, I had committed several verses to memory. My stomach growled as we walked to the common dining hall. Moc and Ciel took long strides on each side of me.

  “We’ll help you remember,” Ciel said. “We’ll practice with you.”

  “Don’t you sleep?”

  Moc shook his head and grinned. “We learn a lot when everyone’s sleeping.”

  And they did help me—on that day, and on many days after.

  In the dining alcove, the twins seemed to know everyone. They filled their bowls with the day’s meal—peas, or potatoes, or spiced bird—and began chattering with other novices before they’d set their meals down on the long bone tables. I was swept up in their conversations and barely needed to speak myself. Often, I found that we sat near Sellis, who was surly but not outwardly rude.

  The children of the Spire swirled around us, eating, talking with both hands and mouths full. They were much like children of any tower. And yet they knew things the rest of the city did not. I wished for the first time that I could have grown up here, that I’d been taught what had really happened, instead of a merely a pretty song filled with lies about the city I loved. There was power in the knowing.

  * * *

  The moon waned and filled, then waned again. I mended Sellis’s robes, badly at first, then better. Cleaned buckets and her cell.

  My throat went raw from singing with the children.

  Many evenings, Wik came to test my shouts and to instruct me further.

  “There aren’t many of us,” he said.

  I caught his meaning. “You are a skymouth shouter, too.”

  “Yes, but not naturally. I had to train, and I’m still never certain—” He swallowed before continuing. “Whether it is enough to stop the next one. It has been, so far. I am lucky.”

  He taught me to aim my voice, by stand
ing across the Gyre until I could shout at him in any wind. He made me do breathing exercises to strengthen my diaphragm and lengthen my shouts. “So you don’t black out again,” he said.

  He frustrated me with his criticisms. “You are not trying hard enough. Your voice doesn’t have the right timbre, as it did at Densira. You must try harder.”

  The harder I tried, the more I was unable to recall what shouting at the skymouth had sounded like, or felt like, and the more I was convinced that I was unable to manage it on demand. What good was I to the Singers if I could not control my voice?

  “It’s no good, Wik.” My voice rasped from the exercises.

  “We will find another way,” he said. “I must ask the council for permission.” He refused to elaborate.

  Meantime, we walked the Spire and practiced. Wik and Sellis and I. For Sellis lurked these lessons, and sometimes tried to accomplish the same types of shouts that Wik and I were practicing. Her frustration built when Wik shook his head at her attempts, but she kept trying.

  “Most Singers can’t, Sellis,” he said. “It’s all right to not be perfect at something.”

  “There are many things I haven’t perfected—yet,” she said, frowning.

  The lower tiers we walked through were as richly carved with city and Singer history as the oubliette had been carved with fears and monsters. As we walked, I noticed that at least one place—sometimes less than two hands wide—on each Spire tier had been left bare. We passed Singers paused by those walls, hands laid gently against those uncarved stretches of bone. Their eyes closed as if listening. I wished to understand what they heard, but when I reached out to a wall, Sellis swatted at my hand. “You may not. Not yet.”

  On the other side of the passage, beyond the steep drop, Singers and older novices flew the Gyre’s swirling winds.

  I wanted to regain my wings so that I might fly with them.

  Sellis saw me watching. “Not yet.” She found me more carvings to study. “Soon,” Sellis encouraged me as she rousted me from the floor to clean her bucket and her bowl. “Soon,” the Magister said as I scrubbed the carvings on the upper tiers clean of grime. “Soon,” Wik promised, before asking me to shout for three minutes; my voice turned to gravel.

  But I flew the Gyre in my dreams, before the galleries, up to the council balcony, and out through the apex into the blue sky.