I waited for him to continue. He remained silent.
We stood at the center of the Spire’s secrets. Nat would have loved this. “Wik. Tell me.”
“It has been decided.” His voice was firm. “We should go back up. Check on Ciel.” He tugged on my sleeve to draw me away, as if he regretted having revealed any of this.
I did not wish to be left alone at the center of a skymouth pen in the depths of the Spire, surrounded by teeth and tentacle, maw and want. But I planted my feet more firmly, refusing to move. “Tell me now.”
“Terrin lost his challenge. If he had won…” Wik’s voice drifted off. “We had hoped … But Rumul and the council demand silence, even among ourselves.” He tried to pull me towards the rope gate, to the exit at the pens’ net ceiling.
I still refused to budge. This was information I needed. “How can I finish my training without understanding this?”
He cleared his throat. Spoke in a hush. “Some skymouths are bred here, by Singers. And they have been, for a long time.”
New skymouths, on purpose. My skin crawled as if I were covered in writhing tentacles. My hands pushed at Wik’s chest, as if I could have driven what he’d just said back inside of him. “Why would anyone want to make more?”
“See for yourself,” Wik said. “Carefully. Few Singers realize they’ve gotten more than they bargained for.”
I turned and clicked softly, not wanting to wake the huge beasts. The sound vibrations translated to large shapes, caught in pens around the Gyre. So many. More than the city could ever use for bridges.
In a corner closest to us, I heard something different: a shape like a pile of worn cloth, but softer. Almost deflated. Those were skymouth shapes, no longer moving. Stacked neatly, ready to be turned into sinew and ink for the Singers.
There was an order to the cages. A purpose that was the darkest side of the Singers. And Naton had helped them make this.
I felt sick to my stomach. “You are farming them.” The realization took my breath away, and I stopped clicking. The nets went dark.
“The skins are as caustic as the ink. We can only use the undersides of tentacles and the bladders, and only very carefully at that. The rest gets thrown down. Or fed to the others.”
“Who does the work?”
Wik turned his head up towards the windbeaters’ tiers. His profile was lit by the dawn just coming into the Spire, elaborate tattoos across his cheeks thrown into relief. Like a fine carving. I looked away, back into shadows.
“Those windbeaters who are able see to most of it, led by a few Singers who can make sounds that the skymouths can hear and who wish to do the work. Terrin was one.”
The sick, crawling feeling built.
“But Terrin knew something he wanted to share with the city.” My voice was calm, but my mind raced. Skymouths. Nat wouldn’t have believed this if he’d seen it himself.
As my thoughts jumbled, the skymouths began to stir again. Another rope dropped from the darkness above. The nets bounced as feet marched across the skymouth pens, quickly enough that the beasts inside began to stir angrily.
Wik hummed to calm them as the gate opened. Then Rumul descended into the pens, crowding us amongst the nets.
“Our acolyte is a quick study,” Rumul said, his voice soft and shadowed. “Sellis told me you’d gone to the windbeaters. I’m not shocked Civik’s daughter would end up on the forbidden tiers. I wanted to see your reaction for myself.”
I remained silent. Afraid. Discovered on a forbidden tier. I could not fathom what he would do now.
Rumul turned and grabbed me, putting his face close to mine. “Do you know why we keep them?”
I shook my head, thinking fast. “Wik would not speak of it. I can only guess.”
Rumul relaxed. Let me go. “Tell me.” His breath smelled of honey.
“That you keep some alive for training. That you trade extra sinew with the towers for what the Spire needs.” It was not a bad answer.
Rumul smiled and turned to Wik. “Well, Singer? Do we have another skymouth shouter?” His voice was softer now. He did not seem angry any longer. Why?
Wik continued to echo, lulling the beasts around us to sleep. He nudged me, wanting me to answer for myself. My cheeks grew hot. “I am able to calm them, if that’s what you mean.”
“Good,” said Rumul. His relief was palpable in the dark. “It is what we had hoped. For that, and for your silence.”
Wik’s trust paired with Rumul’s approval should have steadied me, but I realized I was shaking. I did not like the head Singer. Nor these pens. Being trapped too close with both was worse than being trapped in the walls.
Rumul rose to his full height, his bald scalp brushing the rope ceiling of the pens. “You have done well these months, Kirit. You proved correct those Singers who believed in you. You were meant to be a Singer.”
“She’s still got much to learn, much to practice.” Wik was right. I was far from accomplished at the things I was learning.
Still, surrounded by the pens, I was driven to speak plainly.
“I do not want to live out my days down here.” In the dark. With skymouths.
“The council decides what best serves the city,” Wik said. “It is tradition.” He said it kindly, but I leaned forward in the enclosure, wanting to argue.
Rumul smiled. “The council has discussed Kirit’s case already. Your appeal to allow her down here started that. I’ve approved the request.” A dark look at Wik. “After the fact.”
Wik put a hand on my arm. Slowly, Kirit.
“She may be allowed to help us in the skies, for the good of the city.” Rumul’s voice began to soothe my worries.
I would have blue skies, not deep shadows. Tower guards who were glad to see me, not broken Singers. I would be a protector of the city, not a collector of bribes, gossip, and skymouth skins. Relief coursed through me. I could still escape the Spire’s bowels.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Wik’s hand tightened on my arm.
“In time,” he said again. “She’s not ready.”
Rumul ignored him and faced me. “Sellis tells me you are a strong Gyre fighter. That you have held her to a draw more than once.”
“Yes.” Recently, at least, though not always.
Wik yanked at my arm. I jerked it away, annoyed.
Rumul put a hand on my shoulder. The shadows obscured his face, but he tilted his head. He could have been smiling. “It is time, Kirit. You will challenge for your Singer wings. You will rise or fall to meet your fate.”
“What?” Wik said, too loudly.
I was as surprised as he.
But in that moment, I saw myself dressed in Singer gray, flying wherever I was needed, day or night. I looked at Wik, the tension of his jaw.
“I disagree,” Wik said. He tried to step between Rumul and me, but Rumul blocked him with a hand.
“A challenge has come from the towers. The council has determined that it is Kirit’s to defeat.” He looked directly at me. “Accept, and you will take the wings of your birthright. A true Singer.”
A last test, then. One I could pass. I was stronger and faster than any tower challenger. I had learned to fly the Gyre well and quickly. Still, Wik’s alarm made me hesitate. What was Rumul up to, overruling my assigned mentor? I hadn’t learned enough. I did not understand these twists and turns of Spire power.
“Kirit,” Wik said, louder than he’d spoken since we descended.
I straightened my spine, looked into the shadows of Rumul’s face. “I will challenge,” I said.