Updraft

by Fran Wilde

  After a moment, he tapped my hand and whispered, “They sleep. Your first test, passed.”

  “Why keep so many, once you’ve caught them?”

  Wik didn’t answer at first. Then, “Why, indeed. You should ask Rumul. The problem isn’t that we are keeping them. Singers have always kept one or two for training.”

  I waited for him to continue. He remained silent.

  We stood at the center of the Spire’s secrets. Nat would have loved this. “Wik. Tell me.”

  “It has been decided.” His voice was firm. “We should go back up. Check on Ciel.” He tugged on my sleeve to draw me away, as if he regretted having revealed any of this.

  I did not wish to be left alone at the center of a skymouth pen in the depths of the Spire, surrounded by teeth and tentacle, maw and want. But I planted my feet more firmly, refusing to move. “Tell me now.”

  “Terrin lost his challenge. If he had won…” Wik’s voice drifted off. “We had hoped … But Rumul and the council demand silence, even among ourselves.” He tried to pull me towards the rope gate, to the exit at the pens’ net ceiling.

  I still refused to budge. This was information I needed. “How can I finish my training without understanding this?”

  He cleared his throat. Spoke in a hush. “Some skymouths are bred here, by Singers. And they have been, for a long time.”

  New skymouths, on purpose. My skin crawled as if I were covered in writhing tentacles. My hands pushed at Wik’s chest, as if I could have driven what he’d just said back inside of him. “Why would anyone want to make more?”

  “See for yourself,” Wik said. “Carefully. Few Singers realize they’ve gotten more than they bargained for.”

  I turned and clicked softly, not wanting to wake the huge beasts. The sound vibrations translated to large shapes, caught in pens around the Gyre. So many. More than the city could ever use for bridges.

  In a corner closest to us, I heard something different: a shape like a pile of worn cloth, but softer. Almost deflated. Those were skymouth shapes, no longer moving. Stacked neatly, ready to be turned into sinew and ink for the Singers.

  There was an order to the cages. A purpose that was the darkest side of the Singers. And Naton had helped them make this.

  I felt sick to my stomach. “You are farming them.” The realization took my breath away, and I stopped clicking. The nets went dark.

  “The skins are as caustic as the ink. We can only use the undersides of tentacles and the bladders, and only very carefully at that. The rest gets thrown down. Or fed to the others.”

  “Who does the work?”

  Wik turned his head up towards the windbeaters’ tiers. His profile was lit by the dawn just coming into the Spire, elaborate tattoos across his cheeks thrown into relief. Like a fine carving. I looked away, back into shadows.

  “Those windbeaters who are able see to most of it, led by a few Singers who can make sounds that the skymouths can hear and who wish to do the work. Terrin was one.”

  The sick, crawling feeling built.

  “But Terrin knew something he wanted to share with the city.” My voice was calm, but my mind raced. Skymouths. Nat wouldn’t have believed this if he’d seen it himself.

  As my thoughts jumbled, the skymouths began to stir again. Another rope dropped from the darkness above. The nets bounced as feet marched across the skymouth pens, quickly enough that the beasts inside began to stir angrily.

  Wik hummed to calm them as the gate opened. Then Rumul descended into the pens, crowding us amongst the nets.

  “Our acolyte is a quick study,” Rumul said, his voice soft and shadowed. “Sellis told me you’d gone to the windbeaters. I’m not shocked Civik’s daughter would end up on the forbidden tiers. I wanted to see your reaction for myself.”

  I remained silent. Afraid. Discovered on a forbidden tier. I could not fathom what he would do now.

  Rumul turned and grabbed me, putting his face close to mine. “Do you know why we keep them?”

  I shook my head, thinking fast. “Wik would not speak of it. I can only guess.”

  Rumul relaxed. Let me go. “Tell me.” His breath smelled of honey.

  “That you keep some alive for training. That you trade extra sinew with the towers for what the Spire needs.” It was not a bad answer.

  Rumul smiled and turned to Wik. “Well, Singer? Do we have another skymouth shouter?” His voice was softer now. He did not seem angry any longer. Why?

  Wik continued to echo, lulling the beasts around us to sleep. He nudged me, wanting me to answer for myself. My cheeks grew hot. “I am able to calm them, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Good,” said Rumul. His relief was palpable in the dark. “It is what we had hoped. For that, and for your silence.”

  Wik’s trust paired with Rumul’s approval should have steadied me, but I realized I was shaking. I did not like the head Singer. Nor these pens. Being trapped too close with both was worse than being trapped in the walls.

  Rumul rose to his full height, his bald scalp brushing the rope ceiling of the pens. “You have done well these months, Kirit. You proved correct those Singers who believed in you. You were meant to be a Singer.”

  “She’s still got much to learn, much to practice.” Wik was right. I was far from accomplished at the things I was learning.

  Still, surrounded by the pens, I was driven to speak plainly.

  “I do not want to live out my days down here.” In the dark. With skymouths.

  “The council decides what best serves the city,” Wik said. “It is tradition.” He said it kindly, but I leaned forward in the enclosure, wanting to argue.

  Rumul smiled. “The council has discussed Kirit’s case already. Your appeal to allow her down here started that. I’ve approved the request.” A dark look at Wik. “After the fact.”

  Wik put a hand on my arm. Slowly, Kirit.

  “She may be allowed to help us in the skies, for the good of the city.” Rumul’s voice began to soothe my worries.

  I would have blue skies, not deep shadows. Tower guards who were glad to see me, not broken Singers. I would be a protector of the city, not a collector of bribes, gossip, and skymouth skins. Relief coursed through me. I could still escape the Spire’s bowels.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Wik’s hand tightened on my arm.

  “In time,” he said again. “She’s not ready.”

  Rumul ignored him and faced me. “Sellis tells me you are a strong Gyre fighter. That you have held her to a draw more than once.”

  “Yes.” Recently, at least, though not always.

  Wik yanked at my arm. I jerked it away, annoyed.

  Rumul put a hand on my shoulder. The shadows obscured his face, but he tilted his head. He could have been smiling. “It is time, Kirit. You will challenge for your Singer wings. You will rise or fall to meet your fate.”

  “What?” Wik said, too loudly.

  I was as surprised as he.

  But in that moment, I saw myself dressed in Singer gray, flying wherever I was needed, day or night. I looked at Wik, the tension of his jaw.

  “I disagree,” Wik said. He tried to step between Rumul and me, but Rumul blocked him with a hand.

  “A challenge has come from the towers. The council has determined that it is Kirit’s to defeat.” He looked directly at me. “Accept, and you will take the wings of your birthright. A true Singer.”

  A last test, then. One I could pass. I was stronger and faster than any tower challenger. I had learned to fly the Gyre well and quickly. Still, Wik’s alarm made me hesitate. What was Rumul up to, overruling my assigned mentor? I hadn’t learned enough. I did not understand these twists and turns of Spire power.

  “Kirit,” Wik said, louder than he’d spoken since we descended.

  I straightened my spine, looked into the shadows of Rumul’s face. “I will challenge,” I said.

  Wik made one last attempt. “Sellis should be the one to meet the tower challenger. She
has been training longer.”

  Rumul silenced him, holding up a single finger. “She and one more novitiate will challenge on the same day.”

  In the quiet, I spoke again. This time with force behind each word. “I am ready.”

  Challengers would receive several days to try to learn the Gyre, though no Singer would help them. I could practice, ask Wik and Sellis to help me.

  Rumul smiled. “Then you will defend the city from this challenge. Succeed and you will become a Singer.” He did not need to say again what would happen if I failed.

  Around us, an invisible weight shifted and rustled, waking.

  Rumul took my arm and led me from the pens with Wik following.

  As we emerged in the windbeaters’ tier, Rumul spoke again. “You will defend the city against your challenger today, Kirit Spire. Prepare yourself.”

  19

  NADIR

  High on the council tier, as the sun brightened the Spire, Singers dressed me in a white robe. They tightened my wingstraps and whispered encouragements. They poured me chicory.

  I had been allowed several hours’ rest. It had not been nearly enough.

  “Be fast,” said the older, brass-haired woman. Viridi’s sister. “Don’t forget to look behind you. Above and below too.”

  I wished I had my father’s lenses, with their reflective mirror. I couldn’t find them in the morning when I’d rushed back to my alcove, and couldn’t remember where I’d seen them last.

  When they finished preparing me, Wik bent low and whispered in my ear, “Be careful.”

  I turned, eyebrows raised. He doubted me still?

  “This challenge comes sudden. That is not tradition. You should have much more training. And days to practice. Choose the weapon you know the best. Be careful.” He stepped away. Only for a moment did I feel his hand on mine, when he pulled it from me.

  “The challenger has chosen the bow as his weapon,” said a young woman at my side. Her brown eyes were hemmed with silver tattoos against her olive skin.

  She cleared her throat, pulling my focus to the workbench glittering with sharp edges. Glass knives with bone hilts. Bone blades. Spears. Hooks.

  I pointed, making my decision.

  The young woman had sun chancres across her dark face. She did not smile as she handed me my weapons of choice: knives. The worn bone hilts had comfortable grips wrapped in sticky raw spidersilk. The blades were new: each a glass tooth so sharp it nearly hummed.

  Rumul watched from the edge of the council’s balcony, Wik beside him. Sellis was nowhere to be seen.

  Moc pulled on my sleeve, suddenly beside me. “The windbeaters will help you. Look for strong gusts in the Gyre.”

  I looked down at him while the Singer strapped the triple sheath to my arm. “What did you give them?”

  He looked worried. “You need help, Kirit. You’re still learning. I had to give them your lenses. You haven’t been using them much.”

  “My lenses! Moc—”

  But the Singer securing my robes at the ankles hushed me. “The challenged should reflect in silence. It is tradition.”

  She finished binding my robes, and I walked quickly to Rumul and Wik. I let my wings unfurl, shimmering in the daylight. My footsling dragged behind me, making a skittering sound on the tier floor. Other Singers gave me a wide berth.

  Rumul held out a hand towards me, then gestured to the Gyre.

  “Your birthright, Kirit. You’ve proven that.”

  Rumul’s words shredded the doubt Wik’s worries had laid down. I could do this.

  Below us, a white-robed challenger waited. I couldn’t see them on the downtower balconies, but I knew that they must be close, if not already in the Gyre.

  “The challenger has demanded answers we cannot give. They have threatened to rouse the towers against the Spire. Worse”—Rumul paused and stared at me—“they’ve broken Laws in the past. You will stop them, for the city’s sake.”

  Behind us, Singers stood together, a wall of gray. “You must not fail.”

  Far below, the windbeaters readied their giant wings, their rot gas. The vents opened, and the Gyre gust swirled up until it reached me. I leapt into the maelstrom.

  * * *

  Singers watched from the galleries as I swept around the Gyre, seeking my prey. The challenger who had come so far and dared too much. The one who did not understand what Singers were willing to sacrifice.

  I locked my wings in position and took a knife from its sheath on my arm. The wind kept pace with every move I made, lifting me as I circled. The galleries rustled with whispers as I glimpsed a flash of white from the corner of my eye. The challenger, behind me. They must have clung to the wall below the council balcony until I leapt, then followed me out.

  Sneaky. Just as some claimed the Lawsbreaker would be. Just like the Lawsbreaker I had been. I could do a service for the Singers, ending this danger to the city. Prove myself. As soon as I got the challenger off my tail.

  An arrow arced wide past me, then clattered against the Gyre wall. Their aim was off. The enclosed space and strange winds gave me an advantage. Still, I swallowed hard and tightened my grip. Hurry, Kirit.

  The windbeaters’ drums quickened, and I heard the wind whistle through the galleries. There was a drop coming.

  Another arrow seared far too close, the fletching scraping my ear. The bone point missed its mark, but I was windbit already from the Gyre’s howl. The brush of the weapon stung my skin.

  By arching my back, I angled my wingtips and slowed my glide. The challenger hurtled over me, into my wind shadow. I angled away as the challenger dropped like garbage, spinning out of control.

  As they fought to find a stronger gust, I moved in above. Looked for the best place to slash the challenger’s wings. To end this quickly. To succeed and gain my birthright.

  I raised the knife. It glittered from the sun and spun as it split the air.

  The challenger turned fast. Shadow and wing, strong arms bent hard to the elbow hooks. Fingers wrapped tight around a bow.

  We nearly collided.

  Dark curls. Angry eyes.

  I spun away at the last minute. Knowing the Gyre helped keep me from dropping us both into the pits.

  But it was far too late. I’d seen his face. Knew the shape of it from just one glance.

  Black hair; those eyes. His earnest look turned gaunt and scarred.

  Nat lived.

  He had challenged the Singers? He’d threatened the city?

  I searched for a gust to take me higher so I could think. Not him. Not this. I found none. The windbeaters stirred the gusts to drive us together again.

  Wing against shadow. Arrow against knife. Untried Singer against her challenger. Me to my best friend. Kirit to Nat.

  My fight dissolved, crippled by relief at seeing Nat alive. But he, righted now, and flying fast, nocked another arrow.

  Perhaps he hadn’t realized who he fought. He wouldn’t shoot, would he?

  I banked fast, trying to reach him. Sheathed my knife. The galleries groaned in protest.

  Nat’s wings dipped and wobbled. He didn’t know how to fly the Gyre. He was tiring fast as well. But he held his bow horizontal. Drew back the arrow. He looked up to aim as we circled.

  When his eyes met mine, his hand wavered. I saw his mouth start to form my name. Then he clamped his lips shut. His fingers tightened on the bow.

  Ducking my head and bending my knees slightly, I dropped fast. The arrow hummed past me, disappearing into the Gyre’s shadows.

  I took hold of the wing grips and twisted into a sharp turn. The windbeaters saw my maneuver and stirred up gusts to add more force. I rocketed past Nat and circled above him again, locking my wings in fighting position.

  My fingers brushed the next knife hilt. How could I even consider it? Elna would have two fallen men.

  One of those men was currently shooting at me. Trying to kill me to win a challenge.

  The galleries erupted with stamping feet
to match the windbeaters’ drums.

  What did I want? To be a Singer, I had to defeat him. To be Kirit, I could not.

  I took a deep breath and swerved to avoid him. Shouted as loud as I could over the roar of the Gyre.

  “Nat! What are you doing?”

  He drew another arrow from his sleeve quiver.

  “I thought you were dead!” I could not stop myself.

  “You might as well be,” he answered. “A Singer!” The way he said it warped across the wind. To me, the word sounded more like “murderer.”

  He found a fast-moving gust and tried to rise above me.

  I ducked beneath him and cut off his wind. When he wobbled and started to fall, I dodged out of the way. One last chance. We flew side by side for a moment, my right wing grazing the gallery wall.

  “You don’t have to do this. I have so much to tell you.” If I could get him to drop his weapon and concede the challenge, then perhaps everything would be all right. The Singers would punish him, but he might live.

  Though they would certainly punish me.

  “I know enough. Your Singers lie, Kirit. They killed Naton for their lies!” He started to pull away, then leaned towards me instead, trying to drive me into the galleries and crush me.

  “Your father stole secrets! He broke Laws!” I angled my wingtip until it slipped beneath his. White silk shuddering, battens shrieking. I held him there, then rolled hard, flipping his wing up in the process.

  He tottered, dropping the arrow. I flew away straight.

  “Maybe some Laws need breaking,” he shouted after me, righting himself. “What secrets did my father die for?” He pulled another arrow from his quiver. He only had a few left.

  The Singers in the tiers around us rose to their feet, angrily gesturing. On my next turn, I saw Rumul far above, looking down. His face still as bone. The realization hit me. He’d planned this.

  He wanted to test me, to see if I was a true Singer. As my father had been tested.

  I wove and dipped so that Nat could not aim. My throat ached from the exertion of talking while flying the Gyre.