Cloudbound (9 page)

We bowed low to him in thanks, and he struggled to bow even lower in response. Then Kirit and I, with Moc wedged between us, walked to the tier's far edge. This side of Grigrit had a clear view of the cracked Spire and the northern towers beyond.

We were nearly away.

I was glad of it, though I didn't know why we had to take Moc with us. Doran's desire to hang on to the codex the night before had sparked my unease. Watching the tower citizens play Justice had fanned it. From the near-riot to small things like Liras's excitement over new inventions this morning, life in the southwest had grown more complex and dangerous than Doran had been willing to share. The wind had certainly turned against the Singers, but there was more to it, like a bad smell on a gust that hit for a moment, then disappeared.

Kirit was right: the contents of her satchel wouldn't be safe on Grigrit, or anywhere in the southwest. All of it needed to be in the council's hands, even the broken pieces.

But Moc? He was in a foul mood, and he'd be slow in the air.

Moc struggled to adjust his fledge wings. They were underpowered compared to what he'd been accustomed to in the Spire, but he'd had time to get used to them. If he'd applied himself. I felt selfish hoping he wouldn't slow us down too much. We couldn't afford to stop and rest on too many towers along the way.

Bone eaters, a dead tower. The riots. Postponing the vote.
We had to hurry now.

“We'll fly towards Bissel and use the crosswind to take us to Varu,” I said. Varu was where Ezarit was, and the other city council leaders besides Doran. “Perhaps, if Ciel has discharged her duties, we'll find her along the way.”

The relief that colored Moc's face was painful to see. There'd been many changes for everyone because of Spirefall. I'd heard the songs—the ones about Kirit and the ones laced with worries about the city's progress. What I hadn't heard last night were many complaints from most of the Singer fledges. They'd lost their home and been thrown from their routines. They'd gotten in trouble, surely. They'd survived. But they'd kept trying to fit in; Minlin and Nadoni were good examples. I felt a rush of pride for them, mixed with hope that if they could make it, the city could too. And perhaps Moc could find his way.

As for Kirit? I didn't know. I didn't want her to fall.

Moc, Kirit, and I judged the winds from the market-tier balcony. The midmorning sky was a rich blue. A few bits of cloud had risen high enough to bring dampness to the higher tiers. The tower glittered with condensers, both the polished bone kind and several with thin metal linings. The metal reflected the sun in sharp sparks. Innovations. Grigrit was very wealthy in those, indeed. In the north, collectors were lowered to condense water inside the clouds and then retrieved. It was hard work.

I could hear the thin gurgle of water in the bone spouts nearby. Moc swallowed thirstily.

We readied for the long glide around Grigrit, then past Bissel to Naza. Did Kirit know that Bissel was where the council kept Wik? The Singer who'd fought beside us at Spirefall had been her teacher, once. She hadn't asked after him, except to use his name in argument yesterday. We were in a hurry, but Bissel was right on the way. If Wik had been among my friends or family, I would have wanted to see him one last time.

“Do you want to stop at Bissel? To see Wik?” I asked.

She swallowed and I could see her eyes fill. Yes, she wanted to stop. “He came to visit me while I was sick. He stayed by my side. I knew he was quartered close by, but Doran said if I went to see him, the towers would think we were plotting. Yes. I would like to see him.”

Despite Doran's warning, it wasn't too difficult to stop for a moment. Making the offer had eased the gnawing sensation in my stomach; she should be able to see him before the vote. “We'll go.”

I scratched a bone-chip message to Densira—to Councilor Vant, to Elna, Ceetcee, and Beliak—letting them know I would fly first to Bissel, then to the council plinth. Kirit added a chip marked for Ezarit on Varu. With both chips tied to his left claw, Maalik launched and flew to the northwest.

I leapt first, heading northeast, letting the guards see Moc was escorted, as was appropriate for his age, if not his skills. Couldn't have him earning more Lawsmarkers.

He followed, wobbling and cursing like an adult. He dipped before circling back up to my level, breathing hard. I grimaced in the shadow of my wing. He would slow us down.

Kirit leapt last, joining us in the air as we completed a waiting circle in Grigrit's updraft. Then we flew wide around the Spire, headed for Bissel.

Once he got his wings under control, Moc chattered between us. I flattened my own wings, spilling wind so that he could keep up.

“Can we watch the wingfights at Mondarath after we go to council? I heard they're letting Singers play. Macal, for one.” He'd asked Kirit, but I answered.

Macal was Wik's brother and Moc's cousin. “Macal's a tower Magister, and a councilman. He's flown numerous wingfights.”
And he'd renounced his Singer connections.

“Sure, and if they let one Spire-born play, maybe more can fly.”

To fly, to fight. I understood that impulse.

I saw Moc's desire clearly now. But Macal had chosen tower over Spire long ago. Most of the city hadn't realized he'd been Spire-born, until Spirefall. Still some spoke of him as if he'd stayed Singer. Mondarath had discussed removing him from the wingfights. How deep did the city's anger go?

My thumb brushed the old message chip's carved surface. That connection to the past helped my thinking. Would Moc and Kirit be any safer in the north than they were at Grigrit?

Kirit read the silence as skillfully as she read the wind. “Maybe later, Moc?” She whistled to me as a caution. But Moc continued, his voice ringing high above the wind, “Macal can use his Singer skills in wingfights now that people know. That's what I want to see. An actual wingfight outside the Gyre.”

“Those skills belong to the towers now,” Kirit reminded Moc. “Don't call them Singer skills.”

Moc wobbled as the gust we rode guttered and then strengthened. He wasn't watching for wind shifts as he should. “Pay attention,” Kirit scolded. He tipped a wing and flew ahead of us, frustrated, and we let him go.

The curve of Moc's wings wavered against the blue sky, and I began to calculate how he might adjust them for more control.

Which was why I didn't see anything when the wind disappeared from beneath us.

 

6

A HOLE IN THE WIND

My wing's silk spans guttered loudly and bellied in their battens. My ears popped as I flipped and spun. I dropped from the sky, Kirit falling beside me.

Flailing, searching for a breeze. Finding nothing. My gorge rising. Falling. I was falling again.

The clouds rushed up to catch me.

My wings were still locked, but nothing supported them. I panicked, my feet kicking wildly, which only made me spin faster. The clouds seemed to open like an eye, the sky and the towers flipped upside down, became teeth in a giant mouth, and we fell towards it, too afraid to scream.

In a glance on my next spin, I saw Moc falling above us, flailing. I could no longer see Kirit. I couldn't control my wings in the air.

My breath and my heartbeat grew loud in my ears. I'd fallen before, broken wings twisted around me, the sky blocked by splintered battens and torn silk. Falls were always filled with noise caused by wind whipping past. Now all went silent. The wind didn't roar as I fell through it. Each inhalation grew more difficult. I tried to recover by unlocking my wings and forcing them to a hard curve. I fought for any breeze. Spreading my ankles as wide as I could in my footsling, I hoped for more lift, a bigger foil for any available air.

Kirit flipped back into view, gasping for breath, almost crashing into me. For a moment, she struggled beside me, face ashen, lips purple. It felt as if a windgate had opened, as in my nightmares, and once again sucked all the air out of the Gyre, and me with it. But we were in open skies, not the Spire. Confused, I grappled the air between us too late, just as Kirit had once reached for me and missed. Then I tumbled away.

Nothing slowed our descent.

City and sky rolled white and blue around me. Moc screamed, breaking the silent void. I shouted for help with what little breath I had. Tiers rushed past, and the clouds grew close. Below me, then above me, a swirling void within the white pulled at me. The clouds rose over us.

I couldn't see Kirit again. My heart felt like it was about to fly from my chest, and I'd always been falling. I would always fall. What would Beliak and Ceetcee think happened? Doran?

My mother. My family.

Elna's heart would break. Two more she loved, lost to the clouds. I couldn't let that be the last thing she knew. Nor Ceetcee and Beliak, when we'd begun to form a life together. I wouldn't leave any of them like this. I flipped in the void, fought gravity. Tried to rise with every muscle. Every breath.

The light grew dim, then brighter, then dim again. My hair whipped around my head and spilled across my face. My new hunters' wings creaked ominously. I fell past the shadows of broken bone long hidden from the city; past gray tower trunks I'd known well above the clouds that here were strangers.

Useless wings! They churned the void without effect. My footsling tangled around my feet. My body spun, momentum pushing me into a new tumble that left me gasping and unsure which direction was up. All was white and gray and shadow. At the edges of my eyes, darkness began to close in. Now I could see no towers in any direction. Only cloud and my own flapping robes and wings. Pressure built in my ears.

I imagined a tangle of ropes stretched across the cloudlight like an old bridge. I thought I saw shadows in the distance.

My feet caught—or were caught by—something rough and damp. Soggy sinew and fiber wrapped one ankle and trapped the other leg at the calf. I could almost breathe, but all smelled of mildew and damp. Gravity pulled on me, stretching me painfully as it fought to keep me. And then my body jerked, my neck and shoulders snapping hard.

Was I dead?
The netting spun, wrapping me, wings and all. I felt a breeze against my cheeks. Wind. I snapped hungrily at the clearer air.

Was I alive?
I'd fallen through the clouds. I was supposed to be dead.

The netting had a familiar scent, heavy in the nostrils. Like muzz. My vision wavered. Did I hear laughter?

“Grab the fledge and the Skyshouter. Clouds take this one,” the air whispered.

I'd seen small birds pretend to be dead when a larger bird hunted them. I sank as deep into the net as I could and acted as if the muzz had taken me.

The netting bounced and wobbled as someone landed near me, then took off.

Silently, I sang The Rise in my head, then other songs Tobiat had taught us, starting with “The Terror of the Clouds,” fighting off muzz-sleep the whole time.

They crack the bones

They eat the stars

They carry—

Once again the song's words slipped away, lost.

Another wobble on the net, and then turbulence. Shouting. Kirit's voice. Kirit trying to fight. The sound of tearing wingsilk. I fought to roll over in the sticky net. Failed. I reached fingertips—all I could move—to my quiver. Empty.

My arrows had spilled in my fall. My bow tangled in the net, pinning me. If I moved too fast to free it, I'd follow the arrows into the void.

“Go after her! We need her and what she's carrying. Can't have gotten far with that rip in her wing.” A familiar voice? The wind? The muzz muddled my thoughts. Kirit had fought her way free. That much I knew.

The netting bounced again as another flier—the last? I hoped so—launched.

They thought Kirit had the codex, not me. We'd never traded bags back. I'd lost her, and Moc; I could at least protect the codex. I lay still, my right hand gripping my father's carved chip. How long was long enough to lie here? How would I find Moc? Was Kirit hurt? My mind waded through the effects of the muzz, fighting sleep with questions, anger. I bit the soft inside of my lip, hard, shocking myself awake with the pain. Eventually, I could think again.

I struggled, working the sticky net loose enough to reach my bow and untangle it from the sticky ropes. Waved the arc of bone and tendon above and beside me, getting my bearings in the dim light. If I'd practiced echoing instead of singing for the past seasons and could echo as well as Kirit or Moc now, I might not have been so blind here.

Still, using the bow and with my eyes growing accustomed to what light there was, I gained a sense of my situation. I lay on my back in a flat net. Nothing above me but shifting clouds. The sticky net held me tight. I had to get free, to find the laughter's source. To find my companions. I set the bow back over my shoulder, turning instead to the short-handled glass-tooth knife the council had given me after Spirefall. Reached to the side and prayed for contact.

The knife caught the netting. I felt fibers begin to split beneath its edge. I sawed, my shoulder muscles protesting the angle. Finally, the net broke and I fell again.

But this time I fell into the wind.

I let myself drop into the clouds, hoping I wouldn't hit anything. Half furled my wings. Above me, the net's remains sagged: a hole where I'd been, but the rest spanned the gap between two thick tower trunks.

The wind rushed past my ears as I fell away.

When I'd built up enough velocity, I spread my wings and let them fill. Then I arched my back and dragged hard at the wing grips. I'd escaped the wind shadow, if that's what had caused our fall. And the net. I could avoid crashing cloudblind into the tower if luck stayed with me. Half a hunter's work was luck and patience. Even if I'd spent the last months arguing Laws in council, I would always be a hunter at heart.