Fran Wilde - Updraft

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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.

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 towers 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.