Fran Wilde - Updraft

“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.”

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.