There was no need to place a bridle or a towline string on the kite, since the passenger would both handle the steering and control the elevation.
After checking with Flying Claw and finding that the color of tail streamers didn’t matter, Loyal Wind chose a random assortment in all the colors of the rainbow. Once these were securely fastened in place, he went to help Nine Ducks with her kite. The older woman was grateful for his assistance in stretching the yellow fabric over the frame and fastening it in place.
“I can’t believe I’ll be flying,” Nine Ducks said. “I don’t know why I’m so astonished. I’ve done more remarkable things since I died, but now that I have a body again, I am loath to risk it.”
“At least we know where we’ll end up,” Loyal Wind said, “but I have no reason to doubt our young Tiger’s plans.”
Copper Gong, who was giving her yellow kite a tail of fluorescent orange and lime green streamers, snorted.
“If it was so easy, why hasn’t this been done for a thousand years? I hope Flying Claw’s master wasn’t deluded.”
Flying Claw overheard her, but rather than losing his temper as Loyal Wind feared he might, he came and hunkered next to Copper Gong, his own dark green, miniature kite in his hands. He’d made the tail lavender, Loyal Wind noticed, and wondered if he was the only one who realized the significance of this little gesture.
“Sadly,” Flying Claw said to Copper Gong, speaking so his voice would carry to them all, “these kites will not work in every situation. My master carefully studied the lifting power of various sorts of air. He was fascinated with how much power is contained in hot air. Moreover, to utilize the kite for flight, the passenger must be able not only to summon but to work with the wind. None but those with training in magic could do what we are about to do. A stored spell might summon the wind, but never control it with the flexibility we will need.”
Copper Gong had the grace to look ashamed.
“I’m sorry for doubting, Flying Claw.” She grinned, looking almost pretty without her habitually sour expression. “I guess Nine Ducks isn’t the only one who fears flying.”
Fear or not, within a few hours, all eight kites were completed: three yellow, one green, two red, and two white. Despite their basic similarity of form, each said something about its maker, whether in the color of the streamers or in some other flourish. Bent Bamboo had borrowed Des’s pen and drawn a grinning monkey face on the outer surface of his white kite. He had made the tails of his kite from bright yellow ribbons and now he wrote “The Flying Banana” beneath the monkey face.
“I have scrolls with the enlargement spell written out,” Flying Claw said, not deigning to comment on this silliness. “One apiece, so please take care. Riprap, I’d better read yours, since you don’t read Chinese.”
“I’m not in the least insulted,” Riprap assured him.
The members of their group separated, walking up and down the narrow “beach” between the wall of water and sea of fire so that they would not distract each other in their casting. When they were done, they all held kites slightly longer than themselves, and proportionately wide.
“Looks great,” Bend Bamboo said. “What do we do about the luggage?”
“I have made one more kite,” Flying Claw said, holding it up, “and will attach it to my own in a train. It will hold the baggage—or what each of us can not carry on our persons.”
“Can you handle two kites?” Nine Ducks asked, her concern evident.
“I can,” Flying Claw said. “My master and I experimented with this also, since flying in a warrior without weapons or armor would be of limited value.”
“We’ve gone through a good deal of the food,” Des said, “and some of the supplies. We can cache the rubberized footwear here, in case we need it on the way back. That will lighten our load.”
“We can use the shell of the Zao-Fish to hold what we must leave,” Gentle Smoke said. “The ch’i necessary to give it motion is exhausted, but the form will remain sound for some time to come.”
Rearranging packs, sorting through what was necessary and what could be left, took them through to twilight.
“I had hoped to depart today,” Flying Claw said, “but depending on the speed of our journey we may be forced to fly in darkness as we cross the sea of fire. No need to begin with that handicap.”
“Yeah,” Bent Bamboo said, hefting his kite and looking eye to eye with the monkey he’d drawn on its surface, “especially since I’m getting the idea we’re not going to be given a chance to practice.”
“No,” Flying Claw said. “I am afraid not.”
Breakfast the next morning used up the last of the presoaked meat.
“Fill your canteens,” Copper Gong reminded them, “and hang them where you can reach them.”
“Yes, Mama,” Bent Bamboo said, but he said it softly, aware even withoutthe steely gaze of reprimand Loyal Wind sent his way that Copper Gong was talking to cover her own nervousness.
“Put yourself within the shell of your kite,” Flying Claw said, demonstrating with his own. “Slide your arms through the shoulder straps and strap tight the chest harness. Make sure the belt at the waist is secured and doesn’t get in the way of anything else you’re going to want to reach. Once you’re in the air, it will be too late to adjust it.
“The kites have handholds and a footrest of sorts. If you need to steer, lean right or left. Press your weight down against your heels to pull the kite’s head up and rise; lean your upper body and curl your shoulders to descend. Minor motion, like reaching for something hanging on your belt, will not be enough to unbalance the kite, because most of your weight is centered on the harness. Everyone understand?”
Murmured agreement.
“Good. Now, earlier, I gave everyone a copy of a spell for raising the wind. Riprap, you’re going to use one of your amulets, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll go first to demonstrate. Des, are you set to launch my train?”
“Set,” Desperate Lee assured him, holding up one hand to show he already held the spare wind amulet.
“Good,” Flying Claw said. “You’ll be surprised how easy it will be for us to talk once we’re aloft. It’s very quiet up there. Even so, I suggest we stay within a loose formation—not so close that we tangle each other, but close enough to talk without our voices carrying too far.”
Much of this had been discussed the night before, but Loyal Wind appreciated that, as a good commander would, Flying Claw was providing a briefing.
“Any quest ions?”
“How do we pee?” Bent Bamboo said.
“Sadly, without much dignity,” Flying Claw said. “Gravity works as usual and the fire below should handle waste disposal. The good news is that if the distance involved is similar to that of the field of stone and the wall of water, we should cross by sometime tonight. Our winds will not need a rest, and will carry us much more quickly than we can walk.”
Loyal Wind noticed that all the women looked decidedly uncomfortable about the lack of comfort facilities, but none were complaining.
They are of the Twelve chosen to affiliate with the Earthly Branches, he thought proudly. I don’t doubt they had already considered this matter, and have made plans.
Bent Bamboo’s was the only question, so Flying Claw went to stand a few feet back from the sea of fire.
He bent his head and murmured the activating words for the spell stored on the piece of paper he held in his hand. There was a slight pause, then a wind that touched only the young Tiger and his immediate surroundings began to make itself known. When its intensity rose so that the fabric of the kite belled out, Flying Claw breathed a word of command and leapt up and out—over the fire.
For a horrible moment it seemed that he would fall into the seething red and orange mass. Then the wind caught and Flying Claw rose a good twenty feet above them.
“Now, Des!” came the firm, strong voice of command.
Des activated t
he second wind spell. The kite carrying the extra luggage rose to follow Flying Claw. Flying Claw adapted his loft so that both kites flew clear, then moved out from the shore a short distance.
“Ox!” he called. “Now!”
Summoned as her sign, not herself, Nine Ducks put her fear aside. She had followed Bent Bamboo’s example and borrowed someone’s pen. A long, triangular ox’s head, complete with a water buffalo’s curving horns, adorned the yellow fabric of her kite. The streamers of the tripartite tail were shades of light and dark green, like the grass that is the grazer’s favorite food.
The spell was spoken. As the wind gained strength, the old woman rose into the air nearly as gracefully as had the young man. She laughed in purest delight as she moved out to join Flying Claw.
“This is fun!” she exclaimed, slipping her feet onto the rest. “Come on, Loyal Wind.”
Loyal Wind had not felt trepidation until this moment, but now as he stood at the edge of the sea of fire, feeling the heat curling the hair of his beard, he wondered what it would be like to fall into that red-hot mass. Would he even know if he burned alive or would he crisp instantly?
But Loyal Wind could not show hesitation, not with battle joined and before him. Perhaps a little louder than need be, Loyal Wind spoke the words to activate his share of the west wind and felt himself rise. Nine Ducks was right . . . rising into the air like this, feeling the gentle tug of the kite against his back, was fun.
One after the other, the rest of the group lofted into the dull violet, heatseared sky over the sea of fire.
“Now we will rise to an elevation where the heat will still lift us, but not be so uncomfortable,” Flying Claw said. “Copper Gong, you take point, as we discussed last night. I will take my train onto the farthest right flank; Loyal Wind will cover the farthest left.”
Everyone fell into their assigned places with relative ease. Des and Riprap were immediately behind and to the sides of Copper Gong. Behind them,extending the triangle, were Nine Ducks and Gentle Smoke. In this way, the two from the Land of the Burning—the only true mortals among them and the least accustomed to working magic in difficult situations—were framed by experienced spell casters. Bent Bamboo took rear guard, directly behind Copper Gong but two or so human lengths behind.
Or that was the plan. The reality was less organized, with awkward flyers bobbing in and out, kite tails occasionally tangling and needing to be tugged free. Intimidated by the promise of punishment for failure offered by the red and orange and occasionally yellow flames that flowed beneath them, everyone was very careful. Soon enough their desired order had been achieved.
Looking down from up here, you could forget and think that those burning coals were a field of exotic flowers, Loyal Wind thought, if it weren’t for the heat that touches the skin even here.
He discovered he rather liked flying. As Flying Claw had promised, the kites were astonishingly quiet. Only the caress of his personal wind reminded Loyal Wind how swiftly they were moving. Wind did not roar in his ears, because his speed was that of the wind. There was no thud of horse hooves, no jingle of harness or bridle. The only constant sound was the slight hum of the wind playing against the fabric of his kite, and this was as much felt as heard.
The conversation of his fellows broke the silence for a time. Then even that dropped away, for the uninterrupted vista of burning sea below and dull violet sky did not inspire idle chatter.
Loyal Wind was starting to drowse—not precisely falling asleep, but letting himself fall into the sort of alert trance that every soldier learns while standing guard—when he was startled from his reverie by a whoop and chortle from Bent Bamboo.
Although Bent Bamboo had proven himself quite a good companion, reliable when needed, still he remained a Monkey. Apparently, to drive away boredom, the Monkey had decided to test the limits of his kite.
“Look at me!” Bent Bamboo shouted, ignoring the fact that to do so most of their company would need to turn out of formation and risk tangling with each other. “I can do flips! This is really fling!”
And flip he did—not just gliding along, covering the maximum amount of distance in the minimum amount of time as they had planned, but dipping and soaring, wobbling the sides of his kite in a fashion that made the ribbons fastened to the tips cavort in a strange, aerial ballet.
Loyal Wind dropped slightly back so he could watch, utterly appalled by this lack of discipline, uncertain whether he should force the Monkey back into formation or wait for this—hopefully short-lived—spasm to wear off.
Bent Bamboo began slowly turning himself over in a somersault, investigating the limits between the motions that permitted the kite to rise and fall.
He was halfway into a turn when disaster hit.
In his effort to turn completely head over heels, Bent Bamboo had forgotten that what gave him the power of flight were not wings, but instead a kite. When Bent Bamboo turned his kite so that his head pointed straight down, rather than at an angle to the wind, that wind, magical although it was, could not drive the kite.
Bent Bamboo began to plummet toward the sea of burning coals, his delighted laughter transforming into a scream of raw terror.
Loyal Wind assessed the situation in less than a breath.
Flying Claw was the most experienced of their number, but he was hobbled by the kite train that carried their baggage. Even if he cut the train loose, valuable seconds would be wasted. The others were farther away. A few, Copper Gong and Gentle Smoke in particular, had been doing their best to ignore the Monkey’s antics.
Probably hoped, Loyal Wind thought, angling his kite so that he could enter a controlled dive, that they could discourage him by seeming uninterested. Since when has that ever worked with a Monkey?
There was no time, not even to listen to the shouts from the others. Loyal Wind spoke to the wind that drove his kite, telling it that stability could be sacrificed for speed. He shifted his weight, driving the kite down toward the sea of fire, toward the Monkey.
Bent Bamboo had stopped screaming and was wrestling with his kite, trying to return it to its proper orientation. His success was limited, but he had succeeded in breaking the speed of his fall. Now instead of plummeting arrow like, the kite drifted downward as a leaf would on a breeze.
But the yellow and white kite was still falling. The heat below was increasing. Sweat dripped from Loyal Wind’s face, stinging his eyes, running into his mouth, tickling his skin, the irritations changing with every shift of orientation he made. He did not pause to wipe it away, even when the sweat caused his vision to intermittently blur.
Loyal Wind swept in as close to Bent Bamboo and his foundering vessel as he dared. Releasing one of the handholds of his own kite, feeling every move he made shift his weight, the Horse reached out with his right hand and grasped some of the trailing, bright yellow ribbons of one of the Monkey-kite’s tails.
Shifting his weight left to compensate for the drag, Loyal Wind took a tight hold. The sweat coursing over him made the ribbons slick and hard to grasp.
Now Loyal Wind ordered the wind to give him as much lift as possible.
Yes, Brother Wind came the faintest of whispers, so faint that Loyal Wind was uncertain he had heard it.
The force lifting his kite increased, enough to stop Bent Bamboo’s fall.
But there was not sufficient force for them to rise, not with Bent Bamboo’s kite confined to its awkward angle by Loyal Wind’s hold on the tail.
He was trying to figure out what to do next when Des spoke from slightly above and to the opposite side of Bent Bamboo’s kite.
“Bent Bamboo, balance yourself carefully. I can just get a hold on this other tail.”
A soft curse. A smell that took Loyal Wind a moment to place. Burning hair.
He shook his head to free his face from some of the sweat and looked down. They were far closer than he had realized to the sea of fire. Perhaps within a few yards.
Then they were rising as Des and his kit
e took up some of the burden. Once they were a good twenty feet above the fire—although still too close for comfort—Gentle Smoke and Nine Ducks joined them. Working in very careful concert, they helped Bent Bamboo right his kite so that the wind could once again give it proper lift.
As they rose in unison into the somber violet sky, Loyal Wind felt his sweat drying. When separated into their formation, he saw that the end of Des’s long braid had been burnt crisp.
So close, Loyal Wind thought. Too damn close.
When he managed a swallow from his water flask, the water was as hot as a cup of tea and tasted of sour leather.
It was the best drink he’d ever had.
In the days following her introduction to Oak Gall, Brenda met several other of the sidhe folk. None of them were at all what she had expected.
Wasp was prettier than Oak Gall, a sharp-featured, vaguely womanlike creature with wings like a wasp’s and a temper to match. When she thought Brenda was being stupid—which was frequently—she spat tiny mud balls at her. Brenda thought it was fortunate that Wasp wasn’t much more than six inches long, otherwise her missiles would do more than sting.
Because no one ever seemed to notice her, Wasp most often spelled Parnell when the seeming young man couldn’t be with Brenda. Brenda had gotten used to feeling those little mud balls hit her at the weirdest times.
Nettle was taller than Wasp and slimmer than Oak Gall, but, like his fellows, he only resembled something human if Brenda stretched her imagination. He was covered in fine hair that shaded between pale green and paler yellow. Sometimes he wore a tunic made from what looked like two multilobed leaves, and a cap that resembled an elongated oval seed pod. Sometimes he didn’t bother with attire, and then Brenda did her best to not look to see if he was more like a man or more like a gangly plant.
Both, she decided. Oak Gall, Wasp, and Nettle look like both. I wonder, does Parnell look like a plant, when he’s not looking like a human? Is he a tree, maybe? A sort of male dryad. That would explain why his blood is white, like sap. Didn’t the druids worship trees? And weren’t the sidhe sort of associated with old gods?
Five Odd Honors Page 24
