Fran Wilde - Updraft

Rumul held out a hand towards me, then gestured to the Gyre.

“Your birthright, Kirit. You’ve proven that.”

Rumul’s words shredded the doubt Wik’s worries had laid down. I could do this.

Below us, a white-robed challenger waited. I couldn’t see them on the downtower balconies, but I knew that they must be close, if not already in the Gyre.

“The challenger has demanded answers we cannot give. They have threatened to rouse the towers against the Spire. Worse”—Rumul paused and stared at me—“they’ve broken Laws in the past. You will stop them, for the city’s sake.”

Behind us, Singers stood together, a wall of gray. “You must not fail.”

Far below, the windbeaters readied their giant wings, their rot gas. The vents opened, and the Gyre gust swirled up until it reached me. I leapt into the maelstrom.

* * *

Singers watched from the galleries as I swept around the Gyre, seeking my prey. The challenger who had come so far and dared too much. The one who did not understand what Singers were willing to sacrifice.

I locked my wings in position and took a knife from its sheath on my arm. The wind kept pace with every move I made, lifting me as I circled. The galleries rustled with whispers as I glimpsed a flash of white from the corner of my eye. The challenger, behind me. They must have clung to the wall below the council balcony until I leapt, then followed me out.

Sneaky. Just as some claimed the Lawsbreaker would be. Just like the Lawsbreaker I had been. I could do a service for the Singers, ending this danger to the city. Prove myself. As soon as I got the challenger off my tail.

An arrow arced wide past me, then clattered against the Gyre wall. Their aim was off. The enclosed space and strange winds gave me an advantage. Still, I swallowed hard and tightened my grip. Hurry, Kirit.

The windbeaters’ drums quickened, and I heard the wind whistle through the galleries. There was a drop coming.

Another arrow seared far too close, the fletching scraping my ear. The bone point missed its mark, but I was windbit already from the Gyre’s howl. The brush of the weapon stung my skin.

By arching my back, I angled my wingtips and slowed my glide. The challenger hurtled over me, into my wind shadow. I angled away as the challenger dropped like garbage, spinning out of control.

As they fought to find a stronger gust, I moved in above. Looked for the best place to slash the challenger’s wings. To end this quickly. To succeed and gain my birthright.

I raised the knife. It glittered from the sun and spun as it split the air.

The challenger turned fast. Shadow and wing, strong arms bent hard to the elbow hooks. Fingers wrapped tight around a bow.

We nearly collided.

Dark curls. Angry eyes.

I spun away at the last minute. Knowing the Gyre helped keep me from dropping us both into the pits.

But it was far too late. I’d seen his face. Knew the shape of it from just one glance.

Black hair; those eyes. His earnest look turned gaunt and scarred.

Nat lived.

He had challenged the Singers? He’d threatened the city?

I searched for a gust to take me higher so I could think. Not him. Not this. I found none. The windbeaters stirred the gusts to drive us together again.

Wing against shadow. Arrow against knife. Untried Singer against her challenger. Me to my best friend. Kirit to Nat.

My fight dissolved, crippled by relief at seeing Nat alive. But he, righted now, and flying fast, nocked another arrow.

Perhaps he hadn’t realized who he fought. He wouldn’t shoot, would he?

I banked fast, trying to reach him. Sheathed my knife. The galleries groaned in protest.

Nat’s wings dipped and wobbled. He didn’t know how to fly the Gyre. He was tiring fast as well. But he held his bow horizontal. Drew back the arrow. He looked up to aim as we circled.

When his eyes met mine, his hand wavered. I saw his mouth start to form my name. Then he clamped his lips shut. His fingers tightened on the bow.

Ducking my head and bending my knees slightly, I dropped fast. The arrow hummed past me, disappearing into the Gyre’s shadows.

I took hold of the wing grips and twisted into a sharp turn. The windbeaters saw my maneuver and stirred up gusts to add more force. I rocketed past Nat and circled above him again, locking my wings in fighting position.

My fingers brushed the next knife hilt. How could I even consider it? Elna would have two fallen men.

One of those men was currently shooting at me. Trying to kill me to win a challenge.

The galleries erupted with stamping feet to match the windbeaters’ drums.

What did I want? To be a Singer, I had to defeat him. To be Kirit, I could not.

I took a deep breath and swerved to avoid him. Shouted as loud as I could over the roar of the Gyre.

“Nat! What are you doing?”

He drew another arrow from his sleeve quiver.

“I thought you were dead!” I could not stop myself.

“You might as well be,” he answered. “A Singer!” The way he said it warped across the wind. To me, the word sounded more like “murderer.”

He found a fast-moving gust and tried to rise above me.

I ducked beneath him and cut off his wind. When he wobbled and started to fall, I dodged out of the way. One last chance. We flew side by side for a moment, my right wing grazing the gallery wall.

“You don’t have to do this. I have so much to tell you.” If I could get him to drop his weapon and concede the challenge, then perhaps everything would be all right. The Singers would punish him, but he might live.

Though they would certainly punish me.

“I know enough. Your Singers lie, Kirit. They killed Naton for their lies!” He started to pull away, then leaned towards me instead, trying to drive me into the galleries and crush me.

“Your father stole secrets! He broke Laws!” I angled my wingtip until it slipped beneath his. White silk shuddering, battens shrieking. I held him there, then rolled hard, flipping his wing up in the process.

He tottered, dropping the arrow. I flew away straight.

“Maybe some Laws need breaking,” he shouted after me, righting himself. “What secrets did my father die for?” He pulled another arrow from his quiver. He only had a few left.

The Singers in the tiers around us rose to their feet, angrily gesturing. On my next turn, I saw Rumul far above, looking down. His face still as bone. The realization hit me. He’d planned this.

He wanted to test me, to see if I was a true Singer. As my father had been tested.

I wove and dipped so that Nat could not aim. My throat ached from the exertion of talking while flying the Gyre.

The windbeaters accelerated their beats. Somewhere below, my father was among them. Civik, who betrayed Naton. The gusts grew more fierce than I’d ever experienced in the Gyre. The wind yanked at my hair, tearing it free. Nat’s black curls formed a tangled nimbus around his head.

They’d promised him answers if he won. What could I promise? A quick death, without falling forever. Or I could lose. I could banish myself to the Spire’s depths by conceding. They would keep me alive, but I’d never see sky again.

If Nat won, they had to answer his questions, but he did not know the right questions to ask. I did. If he conceded, perhaps then I could ask more questions. Change things.

We flew opposing courses now, sweeping past each other in tighter spirals. He looked for advantage. I sought a way out.

My first friend. My best friend. Why are you doing this? My initial relief at seeing him alive had become anger.

“You don’t know the truth, Nat! You have to give this up.”

“No.” The word was a sob. “You can’t win. Singers can’t win.”