Rendor scanned the peaks, trying to spot the zenith. Broken clouds obscured his view. Behind him, Bottling was breathing hard to keep from blacking out. He tapped the glass of his many gauges, worried. Donnar sat with steely calm, scanning his nervous crew. When a sudden gust rocked the Avatar, he barely flinched.
“Report the watch,” he called.
Rendor squinted hard, trying to squeeze back his nausea. Outside he saw the rocks rising still above them. “Higher.”
Minutes passed. Bottling shivered over his bucket. Stringfellow gulped down nervous breaths… four, five, six. Even Donnar had turned blue. Rendor felt his hands and face starting to swell.
“Higher,” he gasped.
He swayed on his feet, fighting for balance. He saw a picture of Fiona in his mind, still alive. Still beautiful, like his daughter. In his frock coat ticked his pocket watch, the only keepsake he hadn’t thrown overboard. He fixed on it, imagining its perfect movement, concentrating on its steadiness.
He tried to speak but couldn’t. He clawed at the net to support his wobbly legs. Behind him he heard someone fall from his chair. Donnar shouted for a report.
Higher, thought Rendor desperately. Just a little higher…
His eyes turned skyward, staring at the sun. The wind blew hard and the clouds slowly parted, and a glimpse of the mountaintop appeared. Rendor stuck his frozen face against the net in disbelief, blinking through its crisscrossed ropes. Past the mist and ice-covered rocks, far below the churning clouds, he saw a flash of green.
“Ahead,” he gasped, clinging to the tarp. “Stringfellow…”
Before he could finish, Rendor fainted.
JORIAN’S LIGHTNING
EACH MORNING FIONA AWOKE in Pandera, she fought to stay asleep just a little bit longer. The comfortable bed of straw and the peace of the valley gave her a happiness she hadn’t known since her parents were alive, and her dreams were sweet with images of meadows and tall, protective mountains. Under Nessa’s care she had healed quickly, her bumps and bruises soothed by the unhurried days. As the wife of a Chieftain, Nessa’s responsibilities were many, but she always found time to involve Fiona, teaching her to hay the beds and mend cloth and to make the traditional bread each dawn.
Fiona, who was accustomed to having servants cook her food, found an undiscovered talent for bread-making. She loved the way flour powdered her hands and the way the dough felt as it rose, like the soft belly of a baby. Mostly, though, she loved the closeness she felt to Nessa. To Fiona, Nessa wasn’t just a centaur. She was also a strikingly beautiful woman, the kind Fiona had always wished to be. The kind her mother had been. Even covered in flour, Nessa was beautiful.
This morning, as Fiona struggled to open her eyes, she reminded herself of her bread-baking duty. Nessa would be expecting her. She dressed quickly, washed in a basin, and proceeded outside to the cooking hearth where Nessa was already kneading dough. A handful of others had gathered to help, mostly young males and females. Fiona knew them all by name now. They greeted her excitedly, still amused about having a human in their village.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Fiona as she sidled up to Nessa. “I overslept again.”
Nessa, who never got angry, merely grinned. “Don’t get your hands dirty,” she said. “You won’t be helping us this morning.”
“Huh?”
A shadow fell over Fiona’s shoulder. She turned to see Jorian towering over her.
“Today you’re coming with me,” the chieftain announced.
Fiona looked up, confused. “I am?”
“Don’t be afraid of him,” laughed Nessa. “It’s time.”
“Time for what?” asked Fiona.
“For you to learn how to defend yourself,” said Jorian. His dark, humorless face didn’t even crack a smile. He reached into a leather sack hanging from his torso. “I made you this.”
The young centaurs gasped when they saw Jorian’s gift—a bow, roughly half Fiona’s size, made of shiny, knotty wood. A string of sinew stretched between its ends, giving it a taut bend. Fiona took the bow, surprised by the present.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I don’t know how to shoot a bow.”
“You didn’t know how to bake bread, either,” Nessa reminded her.
“I will teach you,” said Jorian. He patted his own bow, a much longer weapon looped over his shoulder. “Come.”
Jorian led Fiona to the outskirts of the village, then beyond the shallow wall surrounding it. Fiona followed a few paces behind, confused but trusting. They climbed a gentle hill where the wildflowers rose to Fiona’s knees. Jorian looked about, satisfied with the place. The sunlight shadowed his muscular arms. Fiona caught herself staring. The bow felt wobbly in her hand.
“You see the eagle?” said Jorian suddenly, his face turned skyward. Fiona snapped out of her daydream.
“What?”
Jorian pointed into the sun. “An eagle—do you see?”
Fiona squinted, catching a glimpse of the great bird wheeling high above the valley. “I do!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen any birds flying so high here. Merceron says they’re afraid to fly. He says the Skylords have forbidden it.”
“Birds are safe here,” said Jorian. His smile was proud, almost arrogant. “I rule Pandera, not the Skylords.” He looked down at Fiona. “Raise your bow.”
Fiona hesitated. “Jorian, I really appreciate you making this for me, but—”
“Listen to me, Little Queen—the birds know they can fly here. They know that I will fight for them. And I will fight for you if the Skylords come, and you will fight with me. Female or male, it doesn’t matter. All centaurs know how to use a bow. Now, raise your weapon.”
Fiona nodded, shaken by his words. She raised the bow up as she imagined she should, stretching out her arm. “Like this?”
Jorian crouched behind her, sizing up her stance. “Be comfortable. Keep your back straight but not stiff. I strung your bow lightly, but it will still kick back at you.” He wrapped his arms around her, gently manipulating her. “That tree is your target,” he told her, choosing the closest pine. “Stand in line with it, both feet.”
Fiona did as he directed, trying to find a comfortable stance. “Back straight,” she repeated. “All right.”
“Now your draw arm,” said Jorian. “Elbow up. Everything in line with the target.”
This was a bit more awkward. Fiona imagined drawing back the string, keeping all her gangly limbs as straight as possible. She closed one eye and targeted the tree. “Now an arrow?”
Jorian dipped into the quiver at his side. Instead of pulling out one of the long arrows for his own bow, he chose a smaller one. “You should always nock an arrow at the same spot on your string every time,” he said. “Lay the arrow in the rest…”
Fiona set the arrow onto the little bump in the bow. “Okay.”
“Now nock it in the string.”
“Okay.”
She started drawing back. Jorian stopped her, adjusting her fingers with his own, then told her to continue. Fiona slowly pulled back the arrow, trying to keep form.
“Push with your bow arm and pull with your draw arm,” said Jorian. “That’s it… good and straight.”
Fiona felt the tautness of the bow, the arrow’s eagerness to fly.