Windrunner's Daughter

by Bryony Pearce

  Even Jay was silent. He stood with Colm’s hand on his shoulder, eyes burning into her cage as if he could break it open with the force of his stare. The important thing was that, for now, Colm had him under control.

  She realised that the Councillor was looking at her expectantly. “I said the beast will now confess.” He glared at her; his puppet failing to perform.

  Wren swallowed a mass of thorns that seemed to have lodged in her throat. Could she really do this to herself?

  Her mother’s face swum before her own; how could she not?

  Her voice though, had left her. Devastated at Wren’s betrayal of herself, or perhaps being the only part of her actually able to escape, it had fled. She tried to speak, but nothing came out; no words, only sounds: small squeaks that had her hanging her head in shame.

  “Speak.” The Councillor’s roar made her jump and as if in a dream she saw the guard raising his gun and pointing it towards her chain-linked brothers.

  Colm was stood by the curve of the house flying Jay’s red kite. His thin, serious face scrunched in concentration as he twitched his fingers and made the crimson square whirl in widening circles. Their father said it was the best way for a young Runner to get to know wind patterns. Still, when Colm saw his little sister watching, he helped her hold the string and showed her how to make the bright dot dance.

  As she fought the desire of the wind and exerted her own control over the fragile mote in its grasp, Wren’s chest expanded. Her feet wanted to fly off the porch and follow the kite into the air. It was at that moment she knew she wanted to be a Windrunner.

  “I-” shamefully her voice returned and she looked at the bars beneath her feet.

  “Louder.” The Councillor gestured towards the roof as if to tell her how far her story must reach and tears filled her eyes. She had to make the Vaikunthans hate her even more; force them to unite with the chained Runners in their horror. Her death alone had to be enough for them.

  She met as many eyes as she could, challenging them from her wooden cage, then settled, once more, on the hooded figure. Eyelessly he watched in the centre of the throng and it seemed easier to speak to a man who could not show her his disgust.

  “At first I didn’t realise what I was doing.”

  “Go on.” Erb leaned in like a toddler with a bedtime story he didn’t want to miss.

  “I-I’ve been flying for months. Stealing my brother’s wings and going out. I don’t care that it’s blasphemy. I just want to fly. And why shouldn’t I?” She grabbed the bars in sudden passion. “Why shouldn’t I be allowed to fly? I’ve heard every lesson, mended wings and repaired nets. Why shouldn’t I get to fly too? I’m good enough, better even than they are. But because I’m a girl -” She shook her head. “Because I’m a girl the most I can hope for is to be Sphere-Mistress when my mother is gone. Is that fair?” Her eyes went directly to Genna, who was standing with her mouth open. “Why shouldn’t girls get to be Runners if they want to?”

  It was Genna who broke the weighted silence. “Blasphemy,” she hissed. “Filth.” She patted her dress frantically as if looking for something to throw. When her hands came up empty she clenched them into fists. “You’ll pay, you …you …” She sputtered off, unable to find words harsh enough to complete her sentence.

  Wren looked away from the floundering Runner woman. “I-I first realised that it was me carrying the plague a few weeks ago. The Runners had stopped coming so I went back to a colony I’d visited. They were all dead. Everywhere I returned it was the same. Places I’d never been, people were fine, but places I’d visited, people were dead or dying. It had to be me.” Her voice cracked at the enormity of her lie, but she kept going, forced herself to tell the tale. “I didn’t care,” she shouted. “Why should I care about a bunch of … of Land-crawlers. I-I kept flying. It’s what I was meant to do.”

  Now the people shrieked for her blood. As if her words had smashed an invisible barrier they surged forward and Wren screamed, suddenly terrified for the Runners; certain they would be crushed.

  The hooded man stood still and allowed the crowd to surge around him, like a rock in a tide. She could sense the tension in him; he seemed to be waiting for something.

  A concussive blast shook the floor beneath Wren’s cage and the Runners were knocked sideways; they landed in a pile of men and chains.

  Shocked silence choked the air and then a second blast scattered the audience like seeds. They fell, screaming, tripping and clambering over one another. The figure Wren had been watching vanished among the panicked crowd.

  “Fire!” The word started quietly, barely discernible over the panicking crowd; then grew, as if blown into a gale. “Fire …”

  An alarm began to sound; a bright, blaring squeal that cut through the walls of the building like wings through a thermal.

  “The fuel tanks.” The Lister was yelling now. “There are more down there. This whole level could go up. Get out!”

  The Runners were abandoned by a retreating tide of people who, unsure which way to turn, started to pull towards their homes.

  Wren gripped the bars. “Let me out!” She shouted as Erb and the other Councillors ran from the stage. They ignored her. She supposed it made no difference to them. She was condemned to death anyway.

  Panic continued to rise in the audience like smoke and Wren stared as gold bloomed outside the windows; a flash of brightness that turned grey round the edges as the useless windbreaks caught and shrivelled into cinders.

  Vaikunthans stampeded for the exit. Through the open door, Web saw curls of ash falling like filthy snow, turning the morning to dusk and coating the straining sun.

  “What about the Runners?” She shook the bars of her cage, but there was no-one left with a key to their chains. The guards, the Lister and the Councillors had fled and the Runners were trapped, chained above the exploding fuel tanks. Only Orel remained unfettered, standing uncertainly on the platform near her cage.

  Wren rattled her bars to get his attention. “Get the Runners out, you idiot.”

  He goggled for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. Then he ran towards his family and started trying to loosen their chains. As if an order had been shouted, all the Runners started to heave at their posts.

  Wren watched, as though the intensity of her gaze would make a difference. Most of the Runners were still wearing their masks, so the smoke would not suffocate them, but how long did they have before the floor beneath them collapsed.

  A dull boom and another explosion made the walls shake. Dust rattled down from the rafters and made Wren cough.

  There was a beat of horror, as the Runners waited to see if they were dead or not. Then their efforts became frantic. Finally Adler roared in triumph and lifted his post high above his head. He was free. Quickly he unhooked his chain and ran to help Orel, rocking Genna’s stake as hard as he could.

  Another, a few down from Jay bellowed his success and Wren tightened her grip on her bars. The Runners were going to get away.

  Wren’s brothers were still chained, but Colm and Jay were working together with the red-head, shoving their mast between them, loosening its grip on the floor.

  “Wren.”

  The voice was so quiet that for a moment she thought she was imagining it.

  “Wren!”

  She doubled her focus on her brothers.

  “Wren, turn around.”

  Annoyed that her imagination was distracting her from Colm’s efforts, she turned. The hooded figure from the settlement was right behind her cage. His hood still covered his face and the cage threw fire-darkened shadow-stripes over his tunic. His hands lingered in the glow, reddened as if with blood. Death had come for her. How could she have imagined that they would all forget?

  He started to pat the fibres that held the cage together; he was trying to get in.

  “P-please.” Wren held her hands up, as if she could stop him hurting her. And the figur
e hesitated. Then he pushed his hood back.

  She gasped and if the bars hadn’t been there would have thrown herself forward. A weight disappeared from her shoulders. Raw was alive. He was trying to save her. “How did you -”

  “Quiet.” He crouched low to the ground and held her cage to stop it swinging. “We have to get you out of here.” His scars twisted as he glared at the cage. “I need a knife.”

  Wren shook her head. “I haven’t got one.”

  “I know,” he growled. His knuckles bunched. “I’ve an idea." He reached through the bars and grabbed her discarded breast band. "I’ll be back.”

  “Raw -” Wren stammered, but he had slipped away. Her cage, released from his hold, started to swing. Quickly she checked on the Runners. More were free and helping the others. None seemed to have noticed her visitor.

  Raw returned. This time he was holding a piece of metal with her flaming breast band tied around it to make a torch. “What’re you -?”

  “Get back.”

  Wren scuttled to the other side of the cage and held her throbbing head.

  Another explosion. Genna’s scream echoed to the rafters and Wren’s cage swung wildly. A fissure appeared in the centre of the floor: a patch of darkness with a glowing centre, it began to radiate cracks like black fingers. They spread towards the Runners with the sound of crackling metal and splintering stone.

  “They’ve got to get out!” Wren cried.

  “They will.” Raw held his torch to a bunch of rope at one corner of her cage. It resisted for a moment before finally bursting into flame. He moved the torch around the side, burning as he went. When the fibres turned to tatters, thick black smoke filled the air in front of her, chemically toxic. It obscured her view of the struggling Runners, but she could hear the floor continuing to fracture.

  Popping and hissing. Through the smoke, Wren saw spurts of flame, reaching through the fractured floor. “The fire’s reached the Power Cells!” Raw shouted. He stepped back and pulled the hooded tunic from his head. Underneath he wore his ordinary clothes, still showing damp patches from the river.

  He turned to toss his disguise and Wren saw his back. Her hand tightened over her halfie. His shirt was shredded and stiff with drying blood. The skin beneath was torn so badly in some places that she could see bone.

  That was how he got out of the cave - he had dragged himself through the tunnel under the wall.

  “Raw!” She reached through the bars, but he jerked away from her and started to pull at the rope rags. With a few tugs, they disintegrated. Then he grabbed the bars on either side of the broken seam and started to tear the cage apart.

  The bars moved beneath her feet. Dazed, Wren tumbled into his arms. He pulled her close. “It’s going to be OK.” He spoke into the filthy mess coating her hair. “Let’s get out of here before they see us.”

  “I-I can’t go.” Wren wrestled free of his arms.

  “What?” Raw’s green eyes caught the flame.

  “I made a promise - my life for theirs.” Wren gestured towards the Runners. “If I escape, the Vaikunthans will kill my brothers and take back the cure.” She tried to find Colm and Jay through the clearing smoke. “I have to stay.”

  “No.” Raw tried to pull her away.

  Wren resisted. “I can’t let them die.”

  “And I won’t let you die.”

  They glared at each other until a glowing shred of ash landed on Raw’s cheek. He cuffed it off with a wince. “More fuel tanks could go up any second.” His eyes glittered and he looked at her. “What if you never escaped from your cage?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If this place goes up, no-one will know if you were inside or not. They’ll assume you died in the explosion.”

  Realisation dawned and Wren nodded. As if that first piece of ash had been a signal, a sleet of sparkling charcoal blew in through the windows. Raw slapped at her hands as they were coated. “We have to go.”

  “What about Colm and Jay? I’m not leaving them.”

  Raw spun her to face him.

  “What don’t you understand? If the Runners catch you they’ll tear you apart.” He sneered. “They’re as angry with you as the settlers. They need to think you’re dead too.”

  “But my brothers -”

  Raw shook the torch. “Colm might kill you himself. And if he doesn’t – do you want them to die defending you? We have to go.”

  Wren’s eyes filled with tears. “They’re not free yet. The floor …”

  Heat from the burning floor burned her cheeks and the tube to her halfie felt soft, as if it was melting.

  “I’ll get your brothers out.” Raw shoved at her. “Go and get your wings. I’ll follow.” He didn’t stop to watch her go, but simply ran to her brothers, his back bleeding through the tattered remains of his shirt.

  Despite Raw’s warning, Wren lingered. If he thought the Runners would be angry with her, what would they do to Raw once Colm recognised him? He was risking his life.

  Colm and Jay stared at Raw as if he had sprouted from the floor, then Jay growled his recognition and grabbed Raw’s arm. Colm pulled his fist back. But before his punch could land, a cinder singed his hair. Colm slapped it out, then dragged Jay from Raw with a shake of his head. They needed Raw’s strength.

  With Raw’s help it took only a few more bursts of effort for her brothers to haul the post that was trapping them, free from the weakening floor. Wren backed towards the far door as Raw threw the stake to one side.

  Then another of the fuel tanks exploded. This concussion felt almost soft. Like a rubber hammer to her chest it slammed into her and Wren was thrown backwards off the platform, to land against a door with a thud, her head ringing.

  When the smoke cleared she gasped. There was an enormous hole where the stage had been. Fire raged inches from her feet and her cage had been completely incinerated. If Raw hadn’t got her out …

  She heard Jay cry her name.

  Wren leaped to her feet, but he wasn’t looking at her; his eyes were fixed on the place where her cage had been.

  Wren’s mouth shaped words, desperate to tell Jay that she was all right, but this was what Raw had wanted: his best case scenario. If everyone thought she was dead, no-one would be trying to kill her; not the religious colonists and not the rule-oriented Runners.

  As the fire burned higher, Wren fell through the door and began to run deeper into the Council building. She had to find her wings.

  Chapter twenty-three

  The corridor was windowless and smoke free. But Wren knew the floor beneath her could vanish at any moment. She had to get moving. Her wings were in a room near the main entrance, but she was disoriented.

  Picking a direction at random, she started to run. Dizzily she focused on at her feet flashing beneath her. Each time her toes hit the ground, her sore legs protested and her whole body shook with tiredness. Not knowing if she was even heading the right way, she slowed to a limping jog.

  Anxious voices sounded ahead. Heart racing, Wren sought a place to hide, but the corridor stretched without blemish until it curved out of sight. She skidded to a stop, preparing to run back the other way and the voices faded.

  Carefully Wren continued along the corridor. Not far ahead she saw what had been hidden by the curve of the wall – an old shuttle door. Now she had a choice: continue down the corridor, or follow the voices. Would the doorway lead to her wings, or her death?

  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. She dug her nails into her palms and stared up and down the passage as if a sign would somehow appear.

  There were people behind the door, which made it a dangerous choice. But if she stuck to the corridor and someone else decided to take the same route, she would have nowhere to conceal herself.

  She should at least open the door and see what was behind.

  Holding her breath, she placed her hand on the mechanism as if to find a pulse, then leane
d in close. No sound tickled her ears. She leaned her forehead on the still cool metal, still hoping somehow for a sign, and her body sagged. She was so very tired. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, she was on her knees, one arm resting on the frame.

  She shook her head and her ears felt full of water. Then her chest tightened and her lungs contracted. A feather light irritation grew harsher until it ripped through her throat and she had to cough.

  One cough wasn’t enough; she bent over her knees in a vicious fit that made her ribs ache. She must have swallowed the chemical smoke from the ropes.

  Wren blinked. She had to stop coughing, or someone would hear. She fumbled her sleeve inside-out, the only way to find a clean spot, and stuffed it into her mouth, muffling her barking.

  Finally her fit petered to nothing and she dragged herself to her feet. She needed to move on. Her mother was waiting. She listened at the door for three more long breaths then opened it.

  For a moment she thought her eyesight had been affected by her coughing, because the walls of the passage before her shimmered and shifted like shadows on a screen. Then she saw the smoke rolling in through narrow windows above her head.

  She pressed her forearm harder over her mouth and stepped forward. The door slid closed behind her, but she ignored the thud. The floor of the corridor felt hot even through her boots, but it looked familiar. She edged further in. To her left was the Lister’s study, with its door to the street, which meant the storeroom had to be on her right.

  Heart racing, she turned and relief made her stagger: she had found her wings. With renewed energy she ran through the archway. Inside, her chest tightened anew at the way the precious items had been treated. The sharp tang of urine cut through even Wren’s own stink and close up she could see dangerously bent struts on the wings at the bottom of the pile.

  Her fingers twitched with an impulse to just grab a pair and Run, but she knew she had to get her own. Not only were her wings trainers, and therefore unsuitable for any of the full grown Runners who would soon be leaving the arena, but they were her wings.