Taller than the rest of the city’s towers, the Spire differed in other ways as well. Where our tiers rose supported by a central core, a solid wall of white bone wrapped the Spire. Ezarit told me once that the Spire’s center was a wind-filled abyss. The Spire’s market-bridges, designed by artifexes like Nat’s father, hung suspended on pulleys in a ring around its wall. Behind the wall, the Spire held the Singers’ secrets close.
From Varu’s roof, I spotted gray-robed Singers perched atop the Spire, on a flat expanse of bone that could hold hundreds. More Singers emerged from within, like smoke taken to wing.
Beliak watched them too, as he chewed a fig. “One of my brothers was taken to the Spire, five years ago.” He frowned. “His name was Lurai.” He saw my look and hurried to clarify. “As a novice. Maybe he’s up there, watching us.”
I swallowed, realizing Ezarit might speak this way about me if the Singer got what he wanted.
Beliak opened his mouth to speak again, but Magister Calli signaled us to ready for the return flight. I offered Varu’s group banner to Beliak and Ceetcee, but they shook their heads. So I tied the banner into my robes. We flew before the wind this time; this was easier and more direct, but harder to spot turbulence. Ceetcee looked nervous.
“We’ll work together,” Beliak said. “Try bee formation.” Ceetcee nodded. Magister Calli took note. I offered to serve as the tail of the bee, in charge of watching for shifts before they hit us. And for large birds of prey or skymouths.
I’d discovered while cleaning Ezarit’s lenses that they had a special hasp with a bit of reflective glass inside. I flipped it back and forth, realizing it allowed a view of what was behind me, without my turning my head.
As I showed my group how the hasp worked, Ceetcee smiled. “You are lucky, then, and will bring us the same.” She used the traditional way of accepting a favor. I would fly at the tail.
I hoped she was right.
We launched again, lighter for having reached the halfway mark of our final trial.
The wind carried us around Varu, past the Spire, and back towards the northern quadrants.
Ceetcee’s path had taken us too low for the crowded towers near the Spire. It was a mistake easily made by someone who’d grown up on the outer edges. A strong downdraft from the towers overlapped our gust and fouled our path. Beliak and I whistled a warning at the same time, but Ceetcee didn’t alter course soon enough. Our group’s progress slowed as she struggled to find a clear path.
Ceetcee passed control to Aliati, flying nearby. Aliati had seemed quiet on the plinth, and at Varu too. But in the lead, her voice was confident and clear. She pushed us to a tighter formation, then sleeked us around several towers, climbing with each gust. Soon we soared at the towers’ peaks, chattering and whistling soft appreciation in the sunlight.
Even the volunteers seemed well pleased with the turn of events. They flew at the center of our formation: two hunters and a guard.
I kept one eye on the mirror and focused as best I could on keeping my wingtips pointed. The Magister fell back in formation, so she was just downwind of me.
She was grinning. “Well traveled,” she shouted. I saw the testing plinth ahead and grinned too.
We returned triumphant, my three new friends and I. We were flushed from the flight and windburned. Ceetcee had something in her eye, possibly one of her own long eyelashes. Aliati glowed with her success. Magister Calli walked towards the trade and craft guild leaders and relayed our trip with broad gestures. The tradesman turned my way and bowed. My heart lifted. I’d passed, and very well.
Another group landed, with Magister Macal. They were missing a student. Grim news, but not a disaster. “Left him at the turnaround tower,” he announced. “Broke formation without signaling. Nearly took the group out.”
We quieted our celebration.
* * *
Nat’s group appeared in the distance, beating their way back against the wind. They, too, had all their number. An occasional speck broke the deep blue horizon line. Birds. Sidra still held lead, and the following wind drove her hoarse voice ahead of the formation.
They were just a few towers away from the plinth when a crosswind hit. I squinted and could almost see it. A squall of air and a rising cloud, a small one. At first I was glad. The gardens needed rain.
But the squall destabilized Sidra’s formation. One of the hunters fought for balance in the gust. He was blown sideways, towards Nat.
Nat missed a shouted warning from Dix. The hunter knocked him off course. He tumbled right into the squall, one of his wings broken.
I cried out as he careened away from the city.
The wind spun him round, the one wing acting as a blade, his body a rotor. Nat’s legs kicked out, but he fell like a leaf from a garden, twisting down below the plinth.
Magisters and Singers leapt from the plinth, flying fast, kicking out with their tailskirts, gliding the drafts to get to him. The latter set their wings, pulled from their finger harnesses, and reached arms lined with silver tattoos towards him like prayers.
I knelt at the plinth’s edge, Beliak and Aliati on either side. We peered over. “Please no,” I whispered. Not Nat.
The Singers outpaced the Magisters. Even Macal could not keep up. Singer Wik reached Nat first and caught him by the winghooks. Nat’s spin dragged them both down. Beliak made a choking sound, and I grabbed Aliati’s arm with numb fingers. Then the Singer’s broad wings stopped their fall. When they rose, Nat dangled limply, out cold from the spin. The Singer’s left arm bulged with the strain of lifting him, until he removed a rope harness from his waist with his right hand, then double-glided Nat back to us, suspended like a child.
The other Singer rescued another student from the group, and Magister Dix struggled to right the rest of the flight. The group limped back to the plinth and made tangled, exhausted landings.
Singer Wik dumped Nat in a puddle on the plinth’s woven surface.
“This one didn’t watch the others,” Dix said, as if she wasn’t certain anyone should have rescued him. “Naton’s boy.”
There was a hush from the Magisters. Finally, Florian, our Magister, bent to Nat and shook him awake.
Nat retched and grabbed at the air, his face flushed and angry.
“You’re all right,” Florian said roughly. “You were rescued like a fledge, but you’re fine now.”
Nat retched again. He’d failed Group. He wouldn’t pass the wingtest this year. But he climbed to his feet. The plinth bounced as he took a step. One wing hung crooked from its strap. The other, battens split, silk torn, drooped against his shoulder.
But he had lived. He had not fallen through the clouds. I reached for his hand, and he jumped at my touch, then held tight.
The volunteer who had careened into Nat, the hunter from Mondarath, had plummeted fast and hard. The Singer who had gone after him returned empty-handed. He landed, ashen faced, then pointed up and intoned, “Jador Mondarath fell in service to the city. Look up to watch his soul pass above. We do not look down in mourning.”
More loss for that tower.
The blessing ended, and students and Magisters gathered into tower groups one last time. Dikarit stood off to the side, having passed without trouble. Sidra stood, panting, her face ashen. Dojha and I juggled relief and joy with sorrow. Nat, still gripping my hand, turned away from us, eyes on his feet.
A brass-haired Singer intoned a benediction. The last words from The Rise: We all fly together. Even in death. “Go in service to the city,” she said.
Singer Wik spoke after her. “Wingmarks will be distributed at tomorrow’s wingfights, before Allmoons.”