Fran Wilde - Updraft

Wik’s face turned stony. He was unused to being questioned by his charges.

Sellis shifted from one foot to the other, then sat down beside me.

I returned Wik’s gaze. “If we may not talk to them because we are not yet Singers, then you must ask them why.”

Wik groaned. When we still refused to move, he went to wake and interrogate a windbeater, one he said he could trust.

As he walked away, Sellis stared at me, her eyes wide. “Novices don’t question Singers.” She didn’t look at all comfortable with what we’d done. But she wasn’t scolding me.

“We’ll get an answer, at least.” I hoped I was right.

“It wasn’t personal,” Wik whispered when he returned. “They couldn’t know who would fly those wings.”

“Rumul needs to know.” Sellis rose, picked up her nightwings, and hurried to the ladders.

Wik watched her go, but I kept my eyes on him. “Why?”

“A few windbeaters have become open to trading favors, though it is not often done,” Wik said. “In return for gossip from uptower. Your father, for one.”

“And trying to murder Singers?”

“Rarely. They are trying to influence something.” He seemed unfazed, which made me want to shake him. I balled my fists and focused on breathing while he continued, “I can’t tell who is behind this. I will find out.”

Influence. Meddling. That was what Singers called someone almost dying. I was not comforted, but I let Wik nudge me back uptower while I continued to ponder.

My father traded in gossip.

I could find a way to use that.

The next afternoon, the dining alcove rumbled with gossip, but not the kind that my father would need. A windbeater had fallen, tragically, into the Gyre.

“Who?” I asked Sellis.

“An old crone who thought she’d outsmart the council,” she replied. Her chin was up; her confidence had returned. Her hands were folded neatly on the table. She’d downed her meal with relish.

A crone. Not my father. Still, retribution came fast in the Spire. I vowed silently that this would not be my fate.

In the days after, as we continued to train, we saw windbeaters below, practicing wind shifts, as usual. The situation seemed to have settled. But I could not convince Sellis to let me go downtower again. She went so far as to post Lurai by my alcove. It was an honor, she said. An acolyte.

My refusal to obey Wik had alarmed someone, and Sellis was making sure I didn’t venture anywhere on my own. I waited for any chance to go back down to the windbeaters’ tier, but I was never alone.

We worked on Singer skills, checking our wings well each time. We studied advanced echoing. Sellis and I flew blindfolded. Wik and I practiced skymouth calls atop the tower and on the wing.

We fought more now, testing the younger novices or being tested ourselves against older, just-turned Singers. Bone-knife cuts and bruises from the walls of the Gyre laced my arms, legs, and face like Singer tattoos. Sellis was equally marked.

Some days, the wind patterns were too strong, too complex for us. I bent a batten when I crashed into a gallery. Skidded onto the tier. Sellis fell so far that she had to climb back up on the ladders outside the Gyre.

She was skittish when she finally made it back to our tier.

“I almost fell beyond the windbeaters. That’s forbidden. They caught me with a hook.”

“What did you see?” I asked.

“They are preparing rot gas below.” At my confusion, she added, “The windbeaters throw flaming balls of it into the Gyre during a challenge if it’s going too slow.”

We began to hear new rumors in the dining alcove, murmurs of arguments in council, of Rumul yelling at someone in his alcove.

Even Moc didn’t know what was happening. “Something big,” he said, peering over the edge of the Gyre.

Windbeaters gathered by the vents below, practicing new patterns with their huge silk wings.

The Spire’s quiet passages clotted with groups of gray-robed Singers who talked almost silently and scattered when approached. I tried to find Wik, or Rumul, but they spent their days on the council tier. By the next morning, Sellis did not appear at breakfast.

“Ciel”—I caught the girl as she sped along the passage—“what has happened now?”

She wordlessly pointed to the Gyre, just as the gusts within rose to a howl. There was so much wind, pushed and funneled through the Spire’s abyss so fast, that things not tied down near the balconies began to be pulled into the funnel. A few pieces of silk flew out through the apex. Singers and novices alike ran to grab precious objects and secrete them away.

Rumul appeared on the council gallery, and everyone stopped and turned to look. He spoke, and the wind carried his voice throughout the Spire.

“There has been a challenge. Singer Terrin wishes to address the city. The council has disagreed. He has issued the challenge.”

“Singer’s burden,” the groupings of gray-winged Singers said.

“He will fight for this right, and by fighting, earn his voice, or lose his wings, or forfeit his life.”

“Singer’s right,” the Spire responded. The deep tones of the group’s unified voice echoed across the tiers, through the galleries.

Sellis descended a ladder, eyes gleaming. She shouted, “Come on!” to me as she moved fast to find a good view in the galleries.

I followed in her wake, feeling rising excitement overcome the dread that had gripped the Spire for days. This was how Rumul had earned his tattoos. So many fights, like scars crossing his face. This was what my mother had done. And how my father became a windbeater. This was how, someday, I might earn my Singer wings. By fighting in the Gyre.

With everyone else, I turned and let the Gyre wind whip at my face.

* * *

The challenger had traded his gray robes for white. His wings were Singer’s wings, a lustrous gray. From where we sat, we could see Terrin had belted his straps double tight. He held a bone knife high in salute to his fellow Singers.

“In defense of the city,” Rumul shouted, “I will fight him.”

Beside me, Sellis gasped. Far above, Terrin looked paler than before. The rumble from the top tier grew so loud it sounded like the start of a city roar from the wrong direction.

Before anyone could move to stop him, Rumul dropped from the balcony, wings spread. He drew a worn, though still deadly sharp, bone knife from an arm sheath. He tossed it in the air from one hand to the other as he swept around the Gyre.

Terrin checked his straps and leapt, his wings spread full.

The two circled each other, sensing which gusts were powerful enough to lift them up and around. They worked the wind, full of pointed determination.

“I will speak,” Terrin shouted. Then he dove, only to shoot up another gust and tear at Rumul’s foot, as Rumul passed by.

“Terrin will try to drop Rumul at first opportunity,” Sellis said. She paused, swallowed hard, and added, “It’ll be his only opportunity.”

To me, the challenge seemed much like wingfights at Densira. The fight was smaller: only two men struggled to knock each other out of the Spire, dead or alive. But here, the stakes were higher: the winner spoke for the city, the loser was forever silenced.

“One may win without killing an opponent,” Sellis whispered. Her eyes were lamp-bright, and she leaned side to side as Rumul turned. She knew his battle glides, apparently, very well. “He trained me,” she explained. “As Wik and I have trained you.”

I nodded, still not sure enough of the situation to speak. Asking a muzz-dumb question at this point — when Sellis had just begun to confide in me instead of reminding me how little I truly knew — seemed unwise. I let her continue talking, as it seemed to ease her nerves.