Fran Wilde - Updraft

“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 my 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.”