On Ginth, only one person greeted us. Vess’s older brother, by his age and looks. The tower’s gardens were spare, and the brother’s chest was not broad like the men of Narath. Instead, shoulders rounded, his cheeks sunken, he stood bowed around the emptiness of his stomach. To my knowledge, Vess had never spoken of Ginth.
“I barely remember Vess,” he said sadly. “Though we are grateful to the Singers for taking him. Two others starved in our tier that year.”
Sellis spoke of her friend without hesitation. “He has a beautiful voice. And has added much to the life of novices in the Spire.” She drew a breath. “But he was not strong enough to defend the city. He will continue to serve the Spire, but you will not see him again.”
Vess’s brother sadly accepted the broken wings. We did not sing with him: Vess was not dead.
“On your wings, Singers,” he said. He watched us depart. I ducked my head below my wings to look back at him growing smaller on the tower’s roof.
* * *
By the time we landed on Viit, the sun had crossed the top quadrants of the sky, and my shoulders were numb. Sellis didn’t complain, but I winced as I furled my wings. I carried only one extra pair of wings now, strapped to my chest, but the flights had been long.
Viit had prepared a meal of goose meat and apples for us, left out in large bone bowl, but no one waited to greet us on this rooftop. A bridge blessing required that they await us below, and on Densira. We ate in exhausted silence.
Flying the city was so different from what I’d thought it would be. It was lonely and quiet in the sky, with too many thoughts tugging at my attention. And attention was required to stay aloft on the city’s drafts and gusts. We’d flown above the city’s day-to-day traffic, and I’d watched the colorful wings weave in familiar patterns below, wanting to join them once more.
The bridge blessing was a simple ritual. When we had eaten, Sellis flew across to Densira without a word to me, and I descended to the Viit balcony where the sinew and rope spans had been anchored by one of Viit’s Spire-trained artifexes.
Bone hooks and eyes had been carved carefully around this tier and incorporated into the cable system to help distribute the load of the main cables. The cables wrapped the tower’s bone core, secured with a complex series of braids and tethers. Pulleys brought from Wirra allowed the bridge’s artifexes to tend it during wind shifts and periodic rebalancing. More support cables ran to tiers above and below.
Near the core, a surprised whisper. “Kirit! You live!” I looked up to find familiar eyes: Ceetcee. She wore the tools of a novice artifex on cords around her neck: bone hooks and cutters, a thick awl for splicing ropes.
She clasped my fingers in hers: the first time a non-Singer had touched me in half a year. I did not want to let go of her chapped hands, though she smelled of dried skymouth sinew and rope.
“Well met, Artifex Viit,” I greeted her formally, after a moment. Sellis waited on the other tower. I could not linger, no matter how much I wished to do so.
Ceetcee loosened her grip and stepped back too, then bowed. “Well met, Singer.”
Two more Viit artifexes stepped forward and bowed. I saw Beliak peeking around a spine in the tier. Of course. As a ropemaker, he would be here.
“You are welcome, Artifexes,” I replied, reminding everyone that the bridges were Singer-gifts to the towers. I added, “And gladly met.”
The artifexes showed me their work. It was a great honor to tie a bridge. It was also nerve-racking. If the bridge was tethered wrong, or if Singers and artifexes had miscalculated the balance of the towers, a tower’s core could be weakened. Its growth could be slowed.
Every tower resident learned bridge songs as fledges, whether they had a bridge or not. During my Spire training, I’d learned even more. I knew tension and binding songs. I’d seen how long-lived bridges were maintained and supported with new material, until a tower’s core became too wide to accommodate the bindings, and then the sinew fell or was cut away. I’d examined remnants and drawings of failed bridges, and those of bridges that had survived almost down to the clouds.
I hoped this bridge between Viit and Densira would last that long.
Singers whose focus was on bridge building and working with artifexes had attended and assisted the work on Viit and Densira. Our blessing was a formality. An honor for any young Singer, yes, and not just because of tradition. The first Singers to cross would test the bridge for all and take on the burden of risk. Our sacrifice for the good of the city.
The skies above the bridge were clear. I wondered if Singers waited beyond the towers, watching. I wondered if they would intervene if a bridge ever failed during a crossing. I suspected they would not. Tradition. Sacrifice.
The ties looked secure. The braiding, careful. The secondary cables taut but not straining.
Ceetcee and her superiors watched me carefully. Confident in their work.
Beneath the ties, the bone core felt cool to my touch. So different than the heartbone. I was supposed to look for discoloration or signs of strain. There were none. The release points that would allow the artifexes to widen the wrapping’s girth as the core expanded looked much like my wingstraps, but thicker and heavier. Viit’s and Densira’s artifexes had a lifetime of bridge tending ahead of them.
When I completed my inspection, Ceetcee helped me remove my wings. Her eyes were wide, but her hands held steady as she placed the silk and battens in my arms. We would hold our wings, showing respect for the work of the artifexes.
Across the span, at Densira, I knew Sellis had gone through the same steps. It was ritual.
“Singers risk everything for the city,” I sang, knowing Sellis had done this also. I saw her gray shape appear at the top of her end of the bridge. We mirrored each other, from across the towers, so that our feet would touch the knotwork and sinew of the bridge at the same time. Tradition.
I felt the towers watching as I began my slow walk down the bridge’s curve. The careful pattern of ties and woven fiber kneaded my feet in their soft gray wrappings. I did not use the handrails. My hands were full.
“Be well, Singer,” someone — I thought perhaps Beliak — whispered behind me.
The gap between Viit and Densira was wide. The two towers were hung with washing, with blackberry vines on Densira and small apple trees growing in buckets of guano and silage on Viit. When the bridge was opened, Elna would be able to cross almost unassisted, to see friends and take work in Viit, and even to cross from there to Wirra on a lower bridge if she wished. The bridge meant greater freedom for all of Densira, and new connections for Viit, as well.
The span creaked beneath my feet. The sound of new cables. As time passed, it would become more pliant, until the artifexes tightened it. Neither Sellis nor I sang as we crossed the new span. We were supposed to ponder the span and its broader purpose.
The bridges served a second purpose: the connections they made strengthened the towers. One of the Singers’ bridge building songs carried a dark reminder of what could happen if those towers did begin to grow apart: they could list, develop cracks, and worse. Bridges were occasionally awarded on the basis of those calculations, often conveniently timed for a novitiate’s rise to Singer. It wasn’t necessary for all towers to have bridges. After all, Densira had been growing fine without a bridge for a long time. A generation, I now realized. Naton and Ezarit. Their punishment.
A punishment I’d erased with my sacrifice.
Sellis had stopped to examine a series of knots on one of the vertical cables that kept the bridge from flipping or twisting in the wind. I waited for her, unable to move until she did. She took her time, knowing I could not continue to Densira until she let me.