by Leigh, J.
Jathen complied reluctantly, but only because the dragons had begun picking up speed for the charm-engines’ kick-start. Each was equipped with a long cable clipped onto its harness for pulling the gondola. They had only a few seconds once the charm-engines started to unclip themselves so they wouldn’t be dragged along, and they did it each time in perfect formation, awing Jathen with their skill. Pallo had also been allowing him to assist in pulling the cables back into the gondola, a task involving leaning far over the side.
Inside, Jathen teased, “What’s the fuss about, Master Hatori?” He made his way through the cabin to the cushioned seats. “It’s not like you’d die if we all went hurtling to the ground.”
Jephue made a whimpering sound, which sent a shard of guilt through Jathen’s stomach.
“Shows what you know,” Hatori replied. “From this height, without Talent to slow the fall, no Clansman would walk away alive.”
“Really? Even an old codger like you? Your Clan body wouldn’t heal you?”
“No matter how old I get, my system can only heal within certain limits. If I fell from a two-story drop and got my arm snapped in half, it wouldn’t heal until it was reset. Or if a rib got lodged in my lung or heart, I’d bleed out internally, same as a human. Faster even, because with our bodies, all the blood rushes to the injury, but it won’t clot if there’s still something in the wound. Even worse if the sangcordis is pierced, for that’s what regulates the blood. If that organ is injured too badly, we are dead within minutes. Clan are stronger and faster than most, and we don’t age much past puberty, but we can die.” Grasping an overhead rope, he snorted. “Easily even, if one knows what he is doing.”
“Just from two stories?” Jathen peered over the window ledge, where the Nai’dol River was a thick blue ribbon glimpsed through patches of clouds.
“Hell, from this height, he’d be liquefied, same as you,” Pallotos called from the bridge deck.
“Look what you’ve started,” the charm master grumbled.
The dirigible lurched ahead, the engines kicking on with a high-pitched whir. Jephue let out a wail and grabbed Hatori, almost sending both of them teetering off the seat. The captain chuckled, and the whir receded to a more pleasantly manageable hum.
Glancing at Jathen from one of the many mirrors kept in the cockpit for rear and side viewing, Pallo said, “Best stop teasing them, Highness. I’d hate to upset the man who fitted Charmed Wind with her engines.”
Jathen was mildly surprised, as charm-engines, like most of the larger processor or converter charms, were usually the domain of charm engineers, Talents who went beyond the scope and skills of a charm master. “You built the engines, Master Hatori?”
“Aye, and I can sabotage ’em too, if you keep upsetting Jeph!”
Jathen snorted. “Not while we’re airborne, you won’t.” He joined Pallo in the cramped cockpit and leaned cautiously against the dash so as not to touch anything important. “Anything new on the docket for me today?”
Contrary to his jovial demeanor, Pallotos ran a very tight ship. He insisted everyone’s time be spent constructively, performing maintenance and assistance jobs. Rising each morning with the dawn, Jathen would help pack and load, tightening storage netting straps while the dragons happily gulped down whatever they’d fished from the river.
Once they were airborne and at full speed, the tasks were endless. In addition to gathering the cords, Jathen was responsible for checking and retying rigging knots, oiling spare harnesses and inspecting them for wear, washing bugs off windows, or most daring, passing water to the riders as their dragons flew in defensive patterns around the ship. The pace kept up until around noon, when Pallotos dropped the brake and the winged crew put down in a suitable clearing for an hour’s rest and lunch of salted meats and cheese. Sometimes, Pallotos would use the time to school Jathen on things like firing the slingshot and net launchers at “inbound hostiles,” which mostly consisted of obliging trees. The rest of the day was spent much the same as the morning, Charmed Wind jetting along until dusk, when Jathen would help unload before dinner.
Nighttime travel was not done, despite Master Chann’s protests about efficiency. The dragons needed rest, and Pallotos made a strong case to Jephue about nocturnal predators, which ended the discussion. Every evening was spent docked at one of the landing pads at cities along the Nai’dol River, in a busy inn with warm food and real beds, while the Clansman sat awake, clicking his watch open and closed.
“We’ll divert from the river soon, though.” Pallotos pointed out the route in his atlas and indicated the compass built into the dashboard. Jathen had yet to learn how to pilot Charmed Wind, but he hoped Pallo’s continued tutelage in navigation was a good sign he would. “Right now, we’re bearing almost due west, but soon we’ll turn southwest, then south along the Cathiny Mountains to where we can cross over the lower peaks at the range’s tail. You up for throwing on a harness and checking outside before we get the start cords? The starboard wing sail is dragging again. I’m worried those steering cables have a tree branch tangled in them.”
“Sure.” Of all the things he’d been charged with, donning a harness, latching to a guideline, and scaling the outside of the dirigible’s balloon was Jathen’s favorite. Secretly grateful that cables always seemed to need untangling or some random debris needed prying free, he headed outside.
Pallo’s voice called over the exterior loudspeaker, “How do the steering cables look?”
Jathen saw that the cables were untangled, and he leaned farther out, to give the “No” hand signal in view of the cockpit mirrors.
“Look up in the wing joints, then.”
Climbing higher, Jathen spotted a dead bird caught in the wing sails. Eww. He dislodged it barehanded. Next time, I’ll remember my gloves. Holding the white-and-black-speckled corpse for the captain to see, he climbed down, carrying it by one foot with two of his fingers. Once below the charm-engines, he tossed the body away. He returned, unlatched himself, and then helped with pulling in the start cords. Still clad in the harness, he kept seeing the bird drop, its body spinning to earth.
On a whim, Jathen hooked his body harness to the start cord and leapt out of the gondola. Jephue’s shriek followed him through the weightlessness of freefall before the sharp jerk of the cable pulled taut, then… bliss. Wind and engines roaring in his ears, and dangling a good dragon’s length and a half below Charmed Wind, he was tugged along through the air, finally flying—not the same as in his vision, but almost as good, almost right, and more than worth it.
Pain bit into his chest and underarms as the leather harness was wrenched sharply upward. Steadily and quickly, Hatori hauled Jathen back inside the gondola, where he received a harsh scolding from the Clansman, accompanied by sobbing and hugging from Jephue, both of which led him to swear never to do such again.
“Of course he won’t.” Pallotos laughed. “It’s not worth it. Because of the wind, you can hardly see anything, and you get really cold after a few minutes.” Winking, he told Jathen, “I did the same thing my first time on a dirigible. Goggles and a heavy coat will do the trick, but you have to make sure you can get pulled up fast in case of an emergency. Sadly, I don’t think our charm master is quite inclined to do that again.”
“Damn straight, boy.” Master Hatori gave Jathen a relatively gentle whack across the back of his head. “That was reckless and stupid.”
“I’m sorry. I just sort of had to.”
“Hatched-blood is a blessing and a curse,” Pallotos said. “Still, that stunt has earned you some down time from exterior work for a bit, I think.”
Jathen started to protest, but the riders’ dragons began to chirp urgently.
Practically diving for the cockpit, Pallotos snagged the loudspeaker and yelled, “High-speed positions!”
Jathen ran to the window and watched a
s the four flyers swept in and latched onto the gondola, claws wrapping around the steel handrails. A dark shadow fell across the dirigible.
“Spirit in heaven,” Jathen murmured.
The single most massive dragon he’d ever seen—or ever imagined—flew alongside them, dwarfing their balloon entirely. Covered in scales a speckled gray and blue, the creature blended perfectly with the cloudy sky. Its head was the same length as Layla, and the penetrating silver and gold eye was larger than Jathen’s torso. The sword-sized pupil watched intently as they drifted by, then Pallotos flattened the wing sails, and the dirigible shot forward. The beast trumpeted, a deep rumble that shook their transport, and gave chase. Jephue squealed, but Jathen saw it would not catch them. Though it made seven or eight heavy wing beats, Charmed Wind pulled well ahead. The great dragon trumpeted again and, with a flick of its tail, glided away to the east.
“Did you see those wings?” Jathen stuck his head out the window as the dirigible slowed and the riders detached to resume flying sweeps. “They had to be sixteen, maybe eighteen points!” He whistled. “That was a southern giant, right?”
“Aye,” Pallo said. “And a big one too, though not the largest I’ve seen. He was flying high, and someone I know was distracting me. That’s why we missed seeing him sooner. Got to keep a better eye out. They’ll usually leave Charmed Wind alone, but they’ll try to eat the dragons if they get a chance to isolate them, riders or no.”
Jathen swallowed hard. The ferocity of nature seemed different when he was in it versus ordering roasted dragon meat on a tray brought to his room.
Hatori grinned slyly, as if privy to his thoughts. “That is why you don’t go jumping off of airships, boy.”
Much to Jathen’s deep disappointment, Pallotos was stern in enforcing his punishment. With his idle time increased, Jathen took to skimming the pages of his atlas as well as the illustrated sketches in Lost in the Landscape, matching them to the views below. That was better than reading Ja’han’s dauntingly small script or trying to practice Lu’shun with Jephue, whose constant quaking, moaning, and latching onto anyone in reach made that task difficult.
Jathen adored the planned civilization, the cultivation and attention to detail where farmers planted their fields in intricate patterns, alternating crops for color to dazzle the eyes of aerial travelers. Little was in bloom, so the effect was diluted, but he could still discern the intended rows: swirls and abstract geometric shapes of green and brown.
However, the true enticement was the cities. Each one sparkled like an oasis of metal and glass in a wasteland of slumbering foliage. Jathen tried his hand at sketching the myriad patterns. His drawings were a sad waste of Thee’s present, but the members of the crew were polite enough to nod appreciatively.
“I don’t think it’s as terrible as you say,” Pallotos commented. “But then, you’ve had time to study and learn what is good, I suppose. You’ve a better hand at it than I.”
“Time, study, and mediocre skill are things I’d gladly trade in exchange for riding this ship forever.” Jathen put the sketch aside. “You lead a charmed life, Pallo. No pun intended.”
“Only because of my goodwill and underappreciated Ability.” Hatori fought a battle against some frayed wiring on the brake panel. He was perched atop the port-side charm-engine, leaning forward as far as his guideline would allow. “Without me, you’d be meandering along with the whim of the wind.”
Hatori spent most of his mornings alternating between doing maintenance and arguing good-naturedly with Pallo over international politics, their flight plan, or their schedule. With Jathen, he discussed history and Tazu Nation politics, and he argued with Jephue about everything else. During the height of the days, Hatori Clan-napped through afternoons like a cat with his wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes. “Thank Spirit for the silence,” Jephue would mutter.
Hatori didn’t seem to breathe when resting. When Jathen noticed it the first time, he poked the charm master, partly out of concern, but mostly to sate his curiosity. Hatori’s talk about Clan fragility had Jathen intrigued as to what was fact and what was rumor, especially the accounts of Clan becoming “as the dead” during sleep. Jathen’s prodding was met with a quick slap on the wrist, dispelling that particular myth quite thoroughly.
“Leave him be,” Pallotos scolded. “If he doesn’t get at least his few hours of sleep every day, he’ll need to Feed more and risk stretching it out too long.”
“How long can he go without drinking blood?”
“Call it Feeding,” Jephue said. “Don’t say the other. It’s in bad taste. Like the V-word. Or claiming they are not alive.”
“Sorry.”
Jephue nodded, dirty-blond bangs limply plastered against his clammy brow. “Hatori is older and a Talent, so he can manage as long as five days before there is an issue. But if he’s been exerting himself, he’ll need it sooner. Ideally, he should Feed twice a day while we’re traveling like this, but I know him. He’ll push it out to every other day.”
“What exactly is an issue?”
“Again, it varies.” Still gripping the overhead straps tight enough to whiten his knuckles, Jephue seemed better when talking. Though, given his hair had not yet suffered for new styles, Jathen wasn’t entirely certain Jephue’s fear was really so dire. “If way too long, they will lose their wits. Hatori described it to me once as similar to drowning. Feeling as if pulled under, they will grasp at anyone or anything they can put their hands on to prevent themselves from going down. Unfortunately, they usually drag those people or things with them into the depths.”
A shiver ran down Jathen’s spine. “So the legends of bloodlust are true.”
“More a blood panic than a bloodlust, and it doesn’t happen often. There are warnings: fatigue even when they’ve slept, loss of appetite for normal food, lightheadedness, double vision, and muscle cramps.” Jephue shifted, gripping the strap with his other hand. “If they hit the point of cramping, they only have a few minutes in which to Feed. After that, they’ll panic then Feed until full no matter how many people or animals they have to drain.”
Jathen swallowed hard, eyeing Hatori warily. “I’ll remember that.”
“It never gets that far,” Jephue added. “With this one, it’s like clockwork. I just have to watch for when he gets slightly grumpier, and then I remind him.”
“Slightly grumpier? Spirit, Jephue! How on the continent can you tell?” Jathen felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and turned to see Hatori looking up at him.
“I’m napping, boy,” Hatori said, wagging a finger at him. “Shush.”
Jathen became accustomed to the Clansman’s odd sleeping patterns and unseen crimson meals, as well as the long days and gorgeous views. At night, before collapsing into sleep, he’d run his fingers over newly calloused hands and marvel over his body’s ability to adapt, grow strong, and overcome.
Even if it is the body of a moot.
Chapter 12
Tyrn flew past.
Their shadows glided over the pages of Jathen’s book as he read beside the gondola window. Still under the punishment of staying mostly inside during flights and desperate to stave off boredom, he’d made his peace with Cyaone D. Ja’han, whose tightly looping handwriting might have had no business being recreated in print, but the author did indeed have a way with words. Having grown up in Tar’citadel, the technically half-Tazu daughter of a moot had written upon first visiting the Tazu Nation: “There are no mere straight lines or simple function in Tazu architecture. It is all organic and flowing, reminiscent of the ever-changing earth.” Feeling kinship, Jathen turned the pages of Lost in the Landscape, savoring the descriptions of the homeland he was departing.
Disturbed by a wheeze, Jathen glanced up at the napping entanglement of Hatori and Jephue on the narrow seat across from him. Jephue’s soft snoring was evidence
he was managing better thanks to the pressure-points remedy a traveling houlen had bestowed upon them during one of the evening stops. They’d been lucky, as such specialists were hard to come by outside of Tar’citadel, but gratitude and top remedies alone were not enough to truly cure the man of his self-imposed misery. Jathen glanced over at the cuprite stone wrapped neatly in silver wire. Nor a vertigo-defusing charm from a charm master.
Another shadow crossed Jathen’s book, accompanied by the loud warning trumpet of a tyrn. Jathen looked out the window and saw a male with iron-black scales and a white scar running from collarbone to muzzle, just skimming under a green-blue right eye. Charmed Wind was surrounded by about fifteen tyrn, all sporting the colors of the homeland guard.
Scarface roared over the wind, “By order of Lord Faustith Overith Bustamiss, regent of the Bronzith province, you are hereby ordered to put down!”
“Hmm, what’s this then?” Hatori murmured. He came and stood beside Jathen. “Take your time getting down, Pallo. I want to fetch something from the back.”
“Aye aye,” Pallo responded.
As the brake panels came down, Hatori returned with his amber-topped sword cane, which he thumbed during the descent. The nervous twitch continued after they disembarked. “Stay here with Jeph, Jathen,” he said. “We’ll handle it.”
Spying their riders landing nearby, Jathen slipped over to them. “Why did they order us to land?”
“Security point,” one of Pallo’s boys responded.
Even after so many days of travel, Jathen still had a terrible time recalling which son was which. The subtle differences between the siblings’ faces were almost impossible to discern. The two Lubreean riders fared no better, and as Jathen was still unable to pronounce their names, they were reduced in his mind to One and Two.
