by Fran Wilde
“I do not pretend to forgive the Singers their crimes,” I said. “But Elna is right. And we have greater problems right now. The council, the towers, must hear!”
Doran would not easily be dissuaded. He narrowed his eyes.
“Then you will need to fight to be heard over the council’s decision.”
Me. The fighter who’d already lost, Nat the game piece. Justice. Balance. Gravity. “If I must, in order to speak a truth to the city, I will fight. But how does adopting Singer rituals make us a better city?”
Doran was ready. “If it’s a question of the city’s safety, we do all that we must, without hesitation.” He turned to the waiting council. “Who will fight this brave young man?”
Ezarit was by my side, whispering, “Don’t do this.”
“He can’t tolerate dissent—but he wanted me to go to the Spire with Kirit. Why won’t he listen to me now?” Had my mentor had used me?
She shook her head. “You cannot be sure. It is possible he meant well, but now, given the opportunity, he is using the situation in the way he knows best. To build advantage. To keep moving forward. He is a trader at heart.”
That at least was true. “He won’t find anyone to fight for him. This is too far. He’ll have to concede.”
But she pointed. Already, several blackwings had stepped forward.
Doran lifted his hands. I held my breath. Would he concede? The look on his face said no. “The councilor is right. A fight to the death is Singer ways. In the tower we will do it differently. More civilized. A wingfight. One on one. But will you fight for those who have plotted rebellion while they were nursed in the towers? Who have colluded with fledges to weaken us at our very heart?”
Did he mean Dix? Blackwings shifted and muttered around us. But no, Doran pointed at Moc, then at Wik. “These Singers have been conspiring to siphon the city’s lifeblood from beneath us! I have proof.” He pointed to the sky, to the southwest. We looked to the sky, saw a large flier approaching. The bulky outline resolved into black wings, carrying a burden.
Had one of Doran’s guards discovered what was being done to the Spire on their own, or even found Kirit?
Beside me, Ezarit held her breath. But instead of Kirit, it was Dix who landed on the platform and dropped her burden: A larger container of heartbone. A pair of Singer wings.
Before Ezarit or Doran could speak, Dix held out her hands, towards both items. “The rebellious Singers have drained the life from the city!” she cried. “They are weakening the Spire to collapse it on the towers. They are why the city has been so unlucky!”
“Not true! You did these things! You were there!” Moc shouted before the blackwings silenced him.
Ceetcee lunged forward, but Beliak held her back.
“I saw her in the clouds, sabotaging the Spire! So did the fledges,” I shouted. “She’s the traitor. Bring me Lawsmarkers!”
No one moved to help me. Dix looked at us as if she pitied our ignorance. “I’m no traitor. I believe in the city and am willing to do what’s needed to help rebuild its order, its strength. Unlike some. Where do you stand, Doran?”
Doran bristled at the question, and at the attention focused on him by Dix. For a moment, he seemed trapped by her words. He finally shook his head slowly. “I cannot believe one of my own blackwings is a traitor—not without more proof than the word of a councilor who couldn’t even attend an important vote yesterday. What of you, Nat? Did you help Kirit Skyshouter escape before she could be called on to renounce the Singers?”
Dix coughed into her hand to hide a triumphant smile.
I shook my head. “We fell out of the wind!”
Around me, the towers laughed.
“Do you still demand your stay?” Doran said.
“I do! I will show the city what I found.”
He shrugged. Turned to the towers. “As the challenged, I accept,” Doran said. “Unfortunately, I cannot fight, due to a Spirefall injury. But I will name a flier who must fight in my stead.”
Not Macal, I thought. Please do not test his loyalties. Not Hiroli either. So many dangers here.
“I name Dix Laria, of the southern guard.” Doran’s voice rang out, and the repeaters carried his words to the balconies. A roar went up.
Dix. Didn’t Doran know she lied? How could he not know what happened so near his own tower?
“You are a loyal guard in service to the council, are you not?” Doran asked her. Confusion jarred my confidence. Were his words for show? Or was Doran’s bigger plan Dix?
“I am.” She bowed, then straightened and tugged at her wingstraps. Already preparing.
“Then you will fight to protect it.”
That look in her eye. She relished this. She knew now that I’d stolen her fledges, the heartbone, her platform. She would fight me, and it would be to the death, no matter what Doran said.
“Concede, Nat,” Ezarit whispered. “That one has been dangerous since the Singers rejected her when we were fledges. She’s so conflicted.”
I remembered Dix’s history with Ezarit, and how she’d disliked Kirit too, long ago. Remembered also her tone at the Grigrit gaming table. But how could I concede? I couldn’t give up and let this go. I’d win and make them listen. No. More than that. I would set right my mistake.
At an angle to the plinth, and slightly lower, Varu’s guards took the nets from the protesters and tied them into wingfighting tethers on the towers.
Dix and I met on the side of the council plinth and bowed to each other as challengers, and my heart began to beat in time with my memories of the Gyre.
I did not want to do this. And there was no other way.
Kaviks took to the air to share the news of a wingfight. I watched the frenzy, allowing my mind to focus on the birds, rather than what I was once again about to do. To fight a flight Magister for the right to speak to the city.
There were no windbeaters here, no one to throw rot gas in the wind to add to the challenge. There were no galleries or walls either. A wingfight was not intended to kill or maim. We were supposed to knock each other from the sky, not kill.
“The fight terms?” I asked. I doubted any terms would be obeyed, but I wanted the towers to hear them and judge Dix’s actions accordingly. Perhaps she would help make my point if she did betray the terms, and I still won.
“Best out of three,” Dix said, naming her terms as was her right, but grinning at me. I would have one chance, at best, to win decisively. Unlike the Gyre, a death during wingfight combat was rare, but that wouldn’t keep Dix from making a “tragic mistake” in order to win.
“Agreed,” I said. Doran half nodded. Dix and I walked together to the plinth’s edge, then leapt from it to go to our places at opposite ends of the speedily rigged wingfighting nets. As we flew, more tower citizens scrambled to gain vantage points near the nets. Several headed to Naza, where the shocked residents quickly moved furnishings to the backs of their quarters to create more seating. Ceetcee and Elna joined Beliak by the fledges. Ezarit stood near them.
The last time I’d done this, I’d lost. My mentor knew this. That Doran could demand it of me was one thing. How could I have agreed? I realized I’d known what Ezarit warned about: that Doran’s political skill and desire to win cut both ways. His ambition had once helped me, but I’d crossed him. If I lost now, Dix could continue her lies, and Doran could proceed with Conclave.
Circling above the wingfight nets, readying my knives, I made myself a vow. I would win this fight. I’d get more time for the Singers’ defense and the search for Kirit. I’d pushed for the vote, without understanding the consequences. Then Kirit had shown me the truth. I had to make it right.
The protesters settled at Varu and Naza to watch the wingfight. They cheered my name. Someone on Varu blew a horn, making a semblance of a wingfight call. The net was ready. Dix and I both saluted and turned to each other.
“Good luck, Brokenwings,” she said, which was not tradition.
“I would wish
you luck, Dix,” I said in the traditional way. “And windblessings on the city.”
“I’ll make my own luck,” she replied. With those words, I was made aware again that Dix had flown wingfights, and she was good. I’d seen her fight before last Allsuns, while Kirit still recovered. A match between Mondarath and Grigrit. She’d broken Aliati’s knife before the fight, a dirty move.
Dix finished her salute and dove for the net’s center, trying for the best position. I dove to meet her.
We clashed in the air. Dix’s wingtip dipped below mine, and she executed a spin that turned me sideways in a heartbeat’s time. A knife flashed and missed. Dizzied, I let air spill from my wings, and once again I could not right myself. I crashed to the net.
Varu’s horn blew one point, in Dix’s favor.
But I could still fly. My wings were whole. At the net’s edge, I spotted a feather rising on a nearby draft and leapt for it, slowly circling to put myself back on the fighting level, while I regained my breath. I tried to pull my mind away from the feeling of the fall. Dix had already regrouped and was preparing to dive again, waiting only for me to signal my readiness.
I tried to strategize on the wing. Dix, the last time she dove, had done so with a slight veer to the left. That was how she’d lured me in and flipped me so fast. I decided to try a Singer trick I’d seen Kirit use once. I dove and she followed, meeting me, wings locked and arms ready to grapple me and throw me from the air. I curved my wings hard and shot up over her head, then began a tuck and roll, to arrive behind her.
But Dix reached up at the last minute. She sliced through my footsling with her knife. My glide plane—that flat plank the body took when flying, arms in the wingstraps, feet supported from the footsling—broke into right angles and I spilled from the air, missing the net.
I could not control my fall. I heard a cry, and a shadow circled, diving like a hawk. Tea-stained wings blocked the sky. Ezarit hooked me and lifted me back to the council plinth. Her eyes were angry suns.
The tower rumbled again, and the horn blew. Two points, the match lost, though the towers’ cheers were muted. It seemed many disapproved of the outcome, both the cut footsling and my rescue.
Ezarit kept her grip hard on my shoulder once we landed. Dix, hearing the boos, flew away from the plinth, back towards the south. No matter. It had been my fight to win, and I had lost the fight. I had failed Kirit.
Ceetcee hurried to me, Elna at her side. With quick stitches, they repaired my footsling for safety’s sake. Elna’s skill as a seamstress had not been damaged by her blindness. She sewed by touch. Her breathing was labored. Angry.
I pulled Kirit’s satchel back over my shoulder and reached out to them both. “I am sorry,” I said.
“It won’t hold long,” Ceetcee said. “Clouds take Dix.”
Elna kept sewing, not bothering to look where her eyes could not see. “You tried. You gave the towers a chance to see what Conclave could mean, to reconsider. To see that Doran is compromised. That is what you needed to do.”
But a look around the council platform revealed what Elna could not see: councilors congratulating Doran. Stepping away from Ezarit. Siding with the winner. In the stretch of time it took to patch my footsling, Doran’s power in council doubled.
He shook hands and patted shoulders, then turned with a swish of his embroidered robes and approached me, holding out a conciliatory hand. Every muscle in my body tensed against taking it, but Ceetcee poked me with her needle and whispered, “Nat.”
Politics. Yes.
I shook his hand, expecting him to crush the bones of my fingers in his grip. Instead, he patted me on the back. “That was a tough lesson to learn, apprentice. But a more important one is coming. You wished to speak for the city, but can you be loyal to its decisions?”
I waited for Ceetcee’s needle to strike my foot again, but it did not come. Instead, she and Elna kept sewing, directing rough jabs at the cloth. I was on my own.
“How can you make this decision, knowing what Dix does? She enslaves fledges, Doran. And is killing the Spire. Did you know?” I met his eyes and held them. I could tell by now when Doran embellished in order to win someone to his side.
He met my gaze. “I will look into your claims. I promise.” His eyes were troubled, but he was not lying. He hadn’t known. “But you know what we must do now.”
Ceetcee bowed her head. I nodded, swallowing back the bitter taste in my mouth.
“The Conclave will proceed,” Doran shouted. The guards in the air repeated his words while the guards on the plinth turned to the Singers, checking their bindings, offering them muzz. All refused. Even Moc.
This time, none on the towers cheered.
12
SUNFALL
The sun rose higher above the council platform, and the city rumbled again. Doran stood near the Singers, waiting for the towers to calm. He paced and gestured to the guards to prepare to fly. “There is little time for this.”
Ezarit strode across the platform towards him. Her fierce gestures gave no doubt Doran and now Vant were being buffeted by her words. Hiroli trailed her. As soon as my footsling was repaired, I followed. By the time I caught up, Ezarit was fuming.
“Ezarit, please. This is a guard’s duty,” Doran was saying.
“To fly Conclave? No. This is a council duty. Council voted it. We will not let someone else carry that burden.” I heard echoes of Kirit’s words atop the Spire. You have no idea what you do. How horrible it is. These are people, Nat.
Vant threw up his hands. “A trick! A distraction.”
“If we order it, we must carry it out,” Ezarit said, calm and deliberately. “You too.”
Doran held up a hand before Vant, now gray faced, could argue. “The councilor is right. Each of us will carry a Singer, and the guards will help if they are needed. We’ll draw markers.” Hiroli picked Moc. Doran and a guard, Wik. Ezarit, the elder Singer. I had Viridi. Others moved to their charges as well. Macal, his jaw drawn tight, stood behind another Singer councilor.
The wind snapped at our robes, our still-furled wings. My stomach curdled. I thought of my father, his Treason Lawsmarkers dragging him down, falling through the clouds so long ago. Someone had carried him to the city’s edge. Someone had let him go. Today I would be that someone. How could I go through with it? My fists balled, and I pressed them to my temples, trying to think of a way out of this.
Wik leaned forward and whispered, “Now you understand.”
“Quiet!” a guard shouted.
I searched the crowd until I found Beliak. “Take the fledges somewhere out of harm’s way.” Beliak and Ceetcee, with Elna between them, herded the fledges to the plinth’s edge, trying to move them away before the Conclave began.
“Councilor,” Viridi whispered to me and Wik, “you do your duty.” She wore a white robe decked with Lawsmarkers. This close, I could see the tattoos on her face and arms: knives, bows, several I couldn’t make out.
Those five words choked me. “This is wrong.”
“It is tradition,” Viridi said, and no more.
Motion on the platform: the fledges leaping for Varu, the nearest tower, with my family readying to follow.
Elna turned and shouted at Doran and Ezarit. At me. “This cannot be undone.”
Ceetcee kept her back to the councilors and Singers, her shoulders heaving. She didn’t look at me.
Beliak raised his hand to me, then looked at it strangely as a shadow passed across his fingertips. He turned his face to the sky, and his frown darkened.
My gaze tracked his. A shadow now eclipsed all of us, but all I could see overhead was blue sky.
Ezarit looked up as well, confused. Wary. “Skymouth?” She reached for a knife. I, for my missing arrows.
The elder Singer from Grigrit laughed. “Would serve you all right.” A guard silenced him as more people began to point, both on the platform and in the towers.
Ezarit gazed up as more of the plinth fell under full shadow.
The glass beads in her hair dimmed.
A foul smell hit me. Rot gas. And something else. Another smell, fainter.
“Move! Doran shouted. “Everyone, get in the air!”
I unfurled my wings and saw Hiroli doing the same. Beliak took Elna in his arms and leapt from the tower. Ceetcee followed.
Instead of leaping to safety, many councilors stared at the sky.
Small suns began to fall onto the platform, catching the oil-proofed surface and setting it alight.
Smoke rose, curling around and defining the edges of a small shape above us. A curve of blue-silver shimmered in the air.
A floating plinth, suspended from skymouth husks. Maybe the very one we’d allowed to get away from us that morning at Bissel.
“Run!” I shouted to anyone who would listen. “Fly!” I grabbed for Moc, but Hiroli had him. Pushed a guard towards Wik. “Grab him and fly!”
In the smoke, the small plinth passing above us appeared to be lined in skymouth hides. Invisible, except when silhouetted against sky and smoke. Above it, the outlines of four inflated skymouth husks bobbed.
From the safety of the invisible plinth, gray-winged figures hurled flaming balls of rot gas down on the council. Gray wings. Blue robes.
“Singers!” Vant yelled. The guards on the council plinth, wings blue and green and black, took to the air to fight them. The councilor from Wirra shouted, “How many are there?” A southeastern junior councilor yelled, “They’re trying to free the others!”
Singers?
Doran roared above the tumult, “Who has been hiding them?”
One attacker leaned to throw the rot gas clear of the plinth. He stared at me for a moment—dark eyes, face free of silver marks—then dropped his bone-chip-weighted ball of flame.
The rot gas hovered in the air over the council, trapped by the wind until the plinth began to burn in earnest. Flames licked sky. Strips of silk and tendon began to fall away. The rot gas itself caught fire. Screams and coughing cut through building walls of smoke.
