Updraft Page 7

  Seven students had arrived so far from Densira. Six from Viit. Only two from Mondarath, and both looked nervous. Nine from Wirra.

  At a melodic laugh high above us, everyone looked up. Sidra descended, glorious in her wings, visible from any of the towers. Dojha, following her, looked less sure of her own new wings. The fifth warning sounded just as Dojha’s feet touched the plinth. She shook her head at Sidra’s back, but didn’t say anything.

  Florian cleared his throat and addressed his Densira class for the last time. “Welcome, flight,” he said formally. He smiled at Dikarit, but not at me. The cold dawn air ruffled the thinning hair on top of his head. “You are well prepared. Make Densira proud.”

  Three other flight groups gathered on the platform, tight knots around their Magisters. I imagined those teachers giving similar encouragement to their students.

  The Singers hummed a low, slow song: a variant on The Rise. Then the older Singer reminded us of the rules: no talking beyond what the test required, no leaving the plinth, no quarreling with the results. When they finished, the Magisters bowed to us and stepped away, looking for the first time at the chips they’d drawn.

  Each bone chip contained one of four tower symbols. If a Magister drew his or her own, he would hand it back.

  I hoped the Magister from Viit, Calli, would be our Laws tester. Ezarit knew her. She was a daughter of Liras Viit, the wingmaker. The Magister from Mondarath was so new even his students were strangers to him.

  “The old Mondarath Magister was taken by the skymouth,” Sidra whispered. No one shushed her.

  Magister Calli joined the two students from Mondarath. Her task this round would be short.

  Our Magister went to Wirra.

  And Magister Dix from Wirra went to Viit. I released a little air from my lungs. One hurdle passed.

  Mondarath’s Magister walked to our group. He seemed very young. Below us, no one on the towers would know yet, but when they learned of it, they would think us unlucky from the start. So many students, with such a young tester.

  When I looked at him more closely, I realized he was barely older than my cousin.

  “I am Magister Macal,” he said. “And you are my first flight test.”

  Sidra groaned, so softly that only the flight group could hear her, not the Magister.

  “Enough, Sid!” Dojha whispered.

  Macal began the test of Laws without any further discussion.

  He pointed at me, then drew a bone chip from the silk pouch and said, “Trade.”

  I was very lucky, then. I began to sing the first Law I’d learned, from my mother.

  Fair trade requires freedom, honesty, and speed.

  No goods will spoil when a tower is in need.

  I heard Sidra stifle a laugh when my voice soured, but I kept going.

  No trader lives with jealousy or greed.

  Or keeps tithes from Spire or Tower.

  When I finished, Macal nodded.

  Nat got Safe Passage, which he stumbled on.

  Sidra took Spire neatly. That was the easiest, and shortest, law.

  None enter the Spire, night or day, unless Singer-sworn, or Singer-born, all in gray.

  She held the note and ended with a flourish.

  Four more Laws passed. Then it was back to me. When the Magister pulled the chip, his brow wrinkled. He stumbled on the word. “Bethalial.” An archaic Law. Birdcrap.

  My mind searched for the opening phrase. I knew this. They observed it more in the south, and in the city center.

  In the Allmoons time of quiet, let no tower be disturbed.

  Let no things thrown down in sacrifice be salvaged or perturbed.

  A strange one. No one sacrificed things that weren’t broken anymore, even symbolically. Magister Florian had said once that some Laws were traditions from the past, but we must learn them still.

  Nat got War, which was dead simple.

  No tower will sabotage or war

  With neighbors near or far.

  We rise together or fall apart

  With clouds below, our judge.

  Only one tower had tested that Law since we came out of the clouds. The Singers hadn’t let them rise for generations. Ezarit said the towers to the west sometimes raided, but that was nothing overt.

  The Magister circled Densira’s flight group. Voices stammered and stalled, and some sang confidently too. At the plinth’s other corners, Laws filled the air and were carried away on the wind.

  Sidra received another frown from the Magister as his hand fumbled in the Laws bag. We could tell he’d never done this before. Most testers, Florian said once, could feel the Lawsmarks with their fingers and choose those we were required to know. Like Right-of-Way and Tithing. So far, we hadn’t had much luck.

  “Delequerriat,” Macal said after two false starts. Sidra’s mouth moved strangely. “Dele—” she began to say, but cut off before she started a song she could not finish. That was how my cousin had failed last year. I could see Sidra thinking. I didn’t know this one either, though it sounded familiar. Sidra was left gaping openmouthed, like a baby bird. The time for her answer passed, and Magister Macal turned from her to the group. “Delequerriat: The act of concealment, in plain sight, may only be used to turn wrong to right.”

  Macal moved on as Sidra’s face turned purple, matching her wings. Dojha took Sidra’s hand and squeezed. This couldn’t get much worse.

  It didn’t. The Magister pulled Tithing from his pouch, and Dojha passed it. We’d made it through Laws.

  Singer Wik handed a blue-dyed marker to each tester who’d passed. He gave Sidra a half marker, breaking it in front of her. He passed before me and gripped my marker with both hands. My eyes widened. I’d passed well. He wouldn’t dare. He handed it to me, and I quickly tied the thin chip to my wing.

  Wik and Macal passed on the plinth. The two exchanged a look I could not fathom. A greeting, it seemed, but fiercer. Macal grimaced and turned away.

  The craft representative unfurled a dyed silk and set it in the center of the plinth, anchoring it with thick madder-dyed chips against the wind. The City test. We all turned our backs. One by one, we were beckoned forward and given bone chips to place on each of the city’s fifty-eight towers, naming them and speaking of their qualities as we did.

  I heard Nat take deep breaths beside me, nervous.

  The towers rose in my mind, shaped by late-night conversations with my mother. Her tales of what she’d traded and where gave me a window on my city that few had.

  When my turn came, I placed the marker for Grigrit in the southwest. They made honey. My mother traded tea and silks to them to help the sick in the southeast quadrant. My cheeks colored as I thought of her. I placed the markers for the six towers she helped. Heard my voice forming the correct words, but my mind went elsewhere, wondering whether Ezarit was on her way home.

  One chip remained in my hand. I looked across the map, checking each in turn. Then I placed the final chip at the center of the city and completed the test with “The Spire is home of the Singers, who protect the city and hold it together for us.” Two Singers signaled approval, the woman with the silver streak in her hair and an older man, both covered with silver tattoos. On the other side of the map, Wik frowned. The Craft representative gave me a full marker dyed madder-red for City.

  When I returned to Densira’s corner, I secured that chip to my left wing, next to the Laws marker. Two tests down; two to go. The markers made a soft clatter at my shoulder as they swung on their ties.

  * * *

  Before the flight rounds began, Macal motioned to me. “You have offended someone?” he asked quickly, looking around to make sure he was not overheard.

  I raised my eyebrows but did not speak. My heart hammered in my chest.

  Macal continued. “A Singer has indicated he doesn’t think you are skilled enough to pass the flight tests. To a Magister who was upset by his words.”

  I knew it. The Singer was trying to sway the Magiste
rs, to make me fail. He thought I would have no place to turn but the Spire. Densira would turn away from my bad luck. Even my mother.

  “Who was upset?”

  “Me.”

  Macal was only a few years older, but his eyes were sure and clear. He didn’t like being played for a pawn.

  “Anyone else?”

  “I don’t know. When I refused to listen, the Singer said he had other prospects. Be careful.”

  If the Singer had any knowledge of my mother’s past, I knew exactly who else he’d try to sway. Magister Dix.

  The Magisters gathered to draw tower marks for Solo Flight. At that moment, my fear returned. Open sky. Vast and filled with teeth.

  If I wished to fly by my mother’s side, or to fly independent of her, I would be in this sky every day. I found the fear in my heart and grabbed it tight. Ripped it out and threw it down to the clouds. My mother could fly through a migration without wavering. I would do so as well.

  * * *

  The Laws and City tests gave me a chance to catch my breath atop the plinth and to soothe my shoulders from the ascent.

  Magister Macal returned to our corner. He’d drawn us again. Sidra groaned louder this time. Dojha didn’t shush her. This time, she took a half step away from her friend, while casting a glance at the Singers.

  Macal beckoned to Nat. He would test us in tower order, from lowest to highest. Fine with me. Nat looked like this was fine with him too.

  “See you all after Group,” he said, and jumped from the plinth to meet the Magister in the sky. He rose moments later on a good gust, and I watched his wings and the many-hued wings of the others carve the sky above the city. The sun caught the edges of their silks and made halos of color in my lenses.

  We leaned into the wind, watching the first testers return. One by one, they landed, Nat last of all, his face lit with triumph.

  My turn came. Despite my resolve, I felt ice-cold, my muscles suddenly tight. My fingers flexed on my wing grips. I tried to remember Florian’s words, his admonitions that I tuck tighter, reach farther. I had to be best at this, with the quadrant watching. I would not let them down again.

  Stepping off the edge of the plinth, I looked up and out, as we had been taught to do since our first flight. My wings were set to full. I caught a good gust. Macal flew beside me on the steady breeze. I suspected many eyes were turned on me from the towers and the plinth. The uptower students from Viit, Wirra, and Mondarath had already gone. I was one of the last to solo.

  The strange young Magister began his twists and turns, and I silently followed his pattern. I caught the rhythm of it and soon found myself lost in the dance that was flying the mottled gusts and drafts of the city. We lit on a balcony, once. We dove and climbed. Then he made a combination roll and dive, as one would do to avoid a crash in the sky. I swallowed and uttered a short prayer to the city, then tucked my head tight and forced myself forward and down.

  Wind roared in my ears. My stomach flipped, and I almost let go of my wings. I held on.

  Moments later, I was right side up and gasping. I nearly shouted in triumph. Macal smiled, then tucked his wings to half breadth and plummeted.

  I followed quickly, because I had to. The dive wind sheared at my lenses, plowed my cheeks back. So far down. The clouds roared towards us, hard and gray. How could he dive so fast? My wings began to shudder. What if they couldn’t take the strain? How would we rise back up? I wanted to shout, to protest.

  Was the Magister in league with the Singer? Nothing else made sense. No one dove this fast, not ever, not even in a wingfight. Terror built in my head, pressed against my teeth.

  And then Macal curved his wingtips enough to whip himself into a turn with almost as much exiting force. Though we’d studied it once, it was something I’d only heard of Singers doing, and only when they chased a skymouth. They attacked it from below. Now Macal was doing this, in a wingtest. He expected me to mimic him. Without warning.

  I tried to quash my anger and fear. If I was being set up to fail, then I would fail spectacularly.

  I pictured the wing seams and patches Liras Viit had only recently stitched bursting under the strain. Me tumbling past the towers. Don’t look down. If I was lucky, they would fish me from the air before I disappeared into the unknown horror of the clouds. I gritted my teeth and spread all ten fingers wide. The wingtips stretched as tiny battens reacted to the pressure. Then I forced my palm into the curve, fingertips pressing up and back in a painful arc. My body mimicked my hands. I didn’t have time to say a prayer or even whimper.

  The curve turned my wing into a foil, a rudder in the air. I was spun around and up.

  My heart pounded in my ears. My lenses fogged at their edges with the speed. As I leveled off, I couldn’t help it, I whooped loudly. We were well out of range of the plinth. Macal joined me in a short whoop as well.

  Above us, Florian soared past with a student from Wirra. He gave me what seemed like an encouraging nod.

  The last part of the test, climbing, was slow going from our depth. My shoulders ached once more, but I fought for each gust, seeking out Allmoons flags and winddrift to set my path.

  Then I was once again level with my mother’s tier in Densira. With its empty balcony. I had forgotten to look for Elna on my way back up.

  As we returned to the plinth, Macal smiled. “They cheer for you.”

  At first, I couldn’t hear anything but the wind. Macal had sharp ears.

  Finally, I heard the strange sound. Students nearest the edge of the plinth clapped and pointed at me. We must have looked like flecks against the clouds, we’d been down so far. How could they have known?

  I had little time to wonder who this Magister was and how he knew to fly that way when I landed. My flightmates whooped and slapped me on the back.

  “You came up so far, so fast!” Dikarit clapped me on the shoulder. Dix, overhearing, shushed him, shushed everyone.

  Singer Wik crossed the plinth and loomed over Dikarit. “You will keep to the tradition of silence and decorum,” he said. Then he handed Macal the green Solo markers to distribute, and shot him an extra-searing glance. He turned on his heel, the battens of his furled wings rattling, and strode away without a look at me.

  I’d passed. Something else had happened as well out there in the sky. Macal’s stunt had set me apart from others who’d been trying only to pass. I had exceeded the test. I looked at Macal as he paced the length of the plinth. He winked. He’d known what he was doing all along.

  The city’s sounds were distant up here, but I imagined I could hear Elna clapping as I tied my Flight marker to my wings. My fingers trembled with exhilaration. What would Ezarit say about that level of flying? The best in the class?

  Four students sat on the plinth now. They had failed Solo, or partial-marked several sections, and were not allowed to continue.

  The students who remained prepared for the final part of the wingtest, Group. A flight with strangers, without a Magister in the lead.

  Guards and hunters alighted on the plinth to join our towers. Nat noticed, of course. He puffed out his chest ever so slightly, ready to impress them.

  6

  FALL

  The Singers placed each tower’s student markers in a silk bag. They drew groups for us, and I was grateful for the blind selection. It made the process difficult for even them to meddle with. My chip was drawn for the south corner. I walked across the plinth, still breathing hard from my flight, and looked around at my cohort. Four students, one from each tower, and three volunteers.

  They looked back at me, taking note of my patched wings and hand-me-down flying gear. I wondered if they’d heard about me. Kirit Lawsbreaker and the skymouth. I kept my chin up.

  After a long silence, one boy said his name softly. “Beliak Viit.” The silence rose again, and Beliak fought it off. “After Allmoons, I will train as a ropemaker. What of the rest of you?”

  Not a big flying trade, ropework, but Beliak would likely shift tow
ers to apprentice. He needed to get full marks. Viit didn’t keep many of its own unless they specialized in wings, dyes, and clothing, or mechanicals like Elna’s bone hook. It traded for the rest of what it needed.

  The girl from Wirra smiled shyly. “Ceetcee. I work in the gardens, but I wish to train as a bridge artifex, like my father.”

  Wirra’s specialty was woven structures, like the wingtest plinth and bridges. Ceetcee could apprentice at home, as I hoped to do.

  Ceetcee fingered her wing traces nervously. Perhaps she needed to impress someone as much as I did.

  A girl much smaller than the rest of us said, “Aliati Mondarath.” She didn’t mention a profession. Mondarath traded herbs and beverages. Including what the Singer used to revive me after I shouted down the skymouth.

  “I am sorry for your tower’s troubles, Aliati,” Beliak said.

  “And I yours,” Aliati returned to him.

  We were all very formal. Very cautious.

  “Kirit Densira,” I said. “I will be a trader.”

  My group looked at their footwraps. Especially the volunteers. Yes, they’d heard of me. Then Beliak met my eyes and smiled. “Welcome.” Aliati and Ceetcee followed suit.

  The Magisters gathered to draw groups. The whispers on the plinth fell silent. Dix pulled her hand from the silk bag, looked at what she held, then turned to grin at us, at me.

  My luck disappeared like a lost breeze.

  Behind our group, another knot of students and volunteers erupted in laughter. Nat’s group. A third group was silent until someone screeched. Sidra.

  “You can’t be serious! I won’t.”

  I turned my head enough to see what she was protesting, without attracting attention from the Singers or Dix. Sidra pointed at Macal. “Not one more time.”

  I expected to see the Magisters stifle her protests. Magister Florian often did so when Sidra kicked up a fuss in flight. Instead, they regrouped and conferred. Macal said something that made everyone nod except Dix. Sidra swished her wings.

  In other years, someone would have been flown home, someone might have fallen by now. Sure, a few testers had washed out. But no one protested a group assignment.