The Floating Islands (6 page)

“The benefit of rank,” Rekei muttered under his breath. His friend Kai gave him a quelling glance. Ceirfei himself merely inclined his head to the wingmaster and walked toward the floating pathway of stepping-stones. He paused for an instant when he stepped onto the first one, however, looking startled. But then he drew a visible breath, lifted his hands a little out from his sides, and took the long step from the first stone to the next.

“I don’t think there’s a steadying magic on that bridge,” a boy nearby whispered to a friend. Trei had reached the same conclusion. He felt slightly ill. Maybe there were boats below the bridge, ready to rescue anyone who fell? But then, the wingmaster had said that about risk. Trei wanted to go to the edge and look over, see if there were boats down there. But that would let everyone see he was frightened. He didn’t move.

“Rekei Horirè,” said the wingmaster, and Rekei twitched, hesitated, gave a sharp nod, clapped his friend Kai on the arm, and walked toward the bridge. Ceirfei had only reached the middle of the span.

“Tenarii Hanerè,” the wingmaster said, and one of the other Second City boys stiffened, looked once quickly to either side, received an encouraging shove from a friend, and went toward the bridge. Far out over the sea, Ceirfei was hardly visible.

After that, Wingmaster Taimenai called Kai’s name, and then that of another Second City boy, and then the names of the rest of the boys one after another, Third City after Second City. He did not call Trei’s name. After the first Third City boy was called, Trei understood that he would be called last—if at all. He knew he flushed when he realized this, but his hands felt cold. He fixed his gaze on the first stone of the bridge and said nothing. It took a long time for all the other boys to cross the bridge. Third bell rang, and later fourth. Trei wanted to sit down. Pride, or maybe vanity, kept him on his feet. More than just on his feet: immobile, and blank-faced. His eyes burned. But he wouldn’t show that to these men.

“Trei enna Shiberren,” the wingmaster said at last.

Trei did not move toward the bridge. He lifted his gaze to the wingmaster’s face and waited.

“Or Trei Naseida?” asked the wingmaster. His crystalline kajurai eyes held Trei’s. His expression, perhaps because of those strange eyes, was unreadable.

Trei opened his mouth, closed it again, and swallowed. He said at last, “Both. Sir.”

“You think you can claim both names?”

But the wingmaster’s tone, Trei thought, held neither anger nor disbelief; really nothing worse than dry curiosity. “Yes,” he said. “Sir.”

“Tolounnese boys don’t need wings,” the master of novices, Anerii Pencara, said abruptly.
His
tone was harsh, decisive. “Or eyes that can see the wind.” He advanced the few steps required, reaching out to grasp Trei’s chin and force his face upward, staring down into his eyes. “From Rounn, are you?”

Trei had fought not to flinch from the novice-master’s unfriendly grip, but now he deliberately jerked himself loose and backed up. He bit his lip with the effort not to stumble, stiff after making himself stand still so long. He didn’t try to argue with the man’s all-too-obvious opinion, but only repeated, “Yes, sir.”

One of the younger kajuraihi, Rei Kensenè, said mildly, “If he’s not Islander enough, I think we’ll find out.” He gave the distant Island a meaningful glance.

The master of novices gave the young flier an annoyed stare. Rei Kensenè returned his look with perfect equanimity and said to Trei, “Your father gave you an Island name, did he?”

“My parents named me after my mother’s grandfather. My father always said I took after my mother,” Trei said firmly.

“We were all grieved to hear about the Rounn disaster,” the young kajurai murmured. “But did you have no other relatives to go to, youngster? Tolounnese relatives?”

Trei met his eyes, then turned his head to stare at the master of novices. He made his tone flat and cold. “I went to them.
They
thought I wasn’t Tolounnese enough.”

Wingmaster Taimenai held up one hand, halting Anerii Pencara’s forceful response to this before the novice-master could fairly begin it. “And so you came to your mother’s kin here. Understandable. But why do you want wings?” the wingmaster asked, neutral as ever.

“I …” Trei swallowed. “I knew the first time I saw kajuraihi, sir. They came down and looked at the ship I was on. I knew then. They say here I’m sky-mad, wind-mad. There wouldn’t be terms for it, would there, if boys didn’t sometimes feel this way?”

“Not Tolounnese boys,” Anerii Pencara said harshly.

The wingmaster held up a hand again, glancing sternly at the other man. He said to Trei, “It’s a long way across the bridge, and as Rei points out, you may find something to do on the other island. And you’ll need to be finished with it by dusk. So you’d best go quickly.”

Finished by dusk. That was the first time anybody had said so. And the wingmaster had kept him here till last, and then kept him back for … for nothing, really, for no reason except maybe to delay him. It had to be almost fifth bell by now—Trei turned, walked to the bridge, and stepped across to the first stone without letting himself look down. Anger and offended pride carried him across the first half dozen stones before he even realized that, indeed, there was no magic holding him on the bridge. He stopped involuntarily, wobbling. The sea breeze felt much stronger out here than if he’d stood on a balcony with a railing.

No one else had fallen, though. Or even hesitated, much. He was angry with himself for stopping—for letting all those kajuraihi see him stop. Why should he fall? Of course he wouldn’t. The stones were more than wide enough. Anyone could walk this bridge. A child could walk it. Trei made himself walk forward, not running, but walking fast, jumping over the gaps.

The bridge was wider than some of the pedestrian walks laid out in Rounn streets so people could keep their feet clean, and a lot smoother than parts of the mountain road between Rounn and Sicuon. If one simply didn’t look down … and didn’t think too much about the breeze, which out here seemed to gust harder …

He found the rhythm of it at last. The stones were mostly near enough the same size. You came down on the edge of a stone, took two small steps, and jumped across to the next stone. He went even faster, until he nearly
was
running, taking just one big stride per stone. The climb steepened, and he found himself panting. He wanted to stop and rest, but he wanted a lot more to have the bridge behind him, and all the time he was aware that minutes were passing. Finally he reached the crest of the bridge and found himself on the long downhill side, halfway across.

Then he unexpectedly found himself stepping into a gap wider than the rest. Before he could stop himself, his foot plunged into empty air. Trei flung himself forward, breath hissing out in a sharp gasp, clutching for handholds on the farther stone. His chest struck the edge of the step hard, but his hands found no purchase on the smooth stone, and he slid backward—he knew he was going to fall—his flailing left hand finally found the edge of the step, and with that hold and his right palm flat against the stone, he managed to stop his backward skid. Then he managed to drag himself forward and, with an effort that felt like it tore all the muscles of his shoulders, haul himself up on the flat surface of the stone.

He knelt there for a long moment, trembling. Eventually he crawled to the edge of the step and looked over, wondering whether there were really boats down there in case someone fell. But there was too much haze now to even see the waves below. Somehow this made him feel that he was even higher up, so high that he’d climbed out of the world entirely, and if he fell, he’d fall forever through the empty sky.

The sun, too, was hidden in the hazy overcast, but Trei was sure that fifth bell must have come and gone. Maybe it was even sixth bell. And what was he supposed to do, besides go forward? Back was just as bad as forward. He could hardly sit forever right here in the middle of the bridge, yet he could not make himself move. He would fail this test … he would never have his own wings, never fly.…

That terrible thought was the one that allowed Trei to climb, still shaking, to his feet. To edge his way toward the edge of the stepping-stone—this stone
was
significantly narrower than most of the others; no wonder he’d missed his step—and take a broad, cautious leap to the next. The jump was easy—he’d known perfectly well it would be, he could
see
how easy a jump it was—but still, for the instant in which he was in the air between the stones, he was sure he’d miss and fall. But he landed safely. Looking ahead, Trei tried to guess how many stones were left, but the end of the bridge was lost in the haze. He found it easy to imagine that these floating stones were all that was left in the world, that everything else had vanished, or even that nothing else had ever existed. Trei leaped to the next stone in line and then the next, concentrating on nothing but each stone as he came to it.

He could have cried with relief when the small island finally came into sight, closer than he’d expected, half veiled by streamers of mist and cloud. Even so, he didn’t let himself hurry, but took one stepping-stone at a time until at last he could make the final leap off the floating bridge onto solid ground.

No one else was in sight. The bridge had brought Trei down into a paved courtyard. Around the courtyard, sharp-edged rock rose precipitously. Except behind him, where it fell away in cliffs just as steep; Trei had had enough of heights and kept well away from those cliffs.

The bridge had come down on the western edge of the courtyard. On the far side Trei could see a rugged path leading up to the mountain heights, though those heights were hidden in mist and cloud. The path looked difficult. Even standing at its foot, Trei couldn’t see very far along it—it twisted around too many turns and there was too much mist. Trei looked around the courtyard once more in case he was missing something. Then he turned back to the path, took a slow breath, and took the first step to follow it.

The path was steep, sometimes more a vertical climb than a footpath. Trei used his hands almost as much as his feet to climb, but he quickly learned that the rocks could be sharp-edged as knives. He shook blood off his hand, sucked the cut for a moment, and finally sliced a strip off his shirt on that same edge of stone in order to bandage his hand. His palm hurt for a while, but so much of his attention was taken by the other perils of the path that he soon forgot the pain.

Occasional twisted trees, dwarfed by wind and scant soil, thrust almost horizontally out of the broken stone face of the mountain. Their roots could be seen, gripping hard along the stone before disappearing into whatever crevices of soil they’d found. They made good handholds, but almost more importantly, they served as reminders that life existed even here in this improbable place.

Mist wreathed the path, which sometimes took sharp turns back on itself. The switchbacks and the mist together meant that Trei could seldom see very far ahead. Each time he made his way around a turn or through a streamer of mist, he found something that seemed more dangerous than whatever obstacle he’d just negotiated. A narrow trail of broken footing above a precipice, for example. Or a long gap in the path across a sheer cliff, bridged only by a pair of thick ropes. He crossed that gap by sliding his feet along the lower rope, gripping the upper one tightly in his hands.

Trei was always conscious of time passing. He tried not to worry about it. He reminded himself how foolish he’d feel if he tried to rush and fell over a cliff. And he wondered, when he had a moment, where the other boys were: had they all moved so much faster that they were already finished and only he was left struggling up this mountainside?

Then at last he caught hold of one more stunted tree, hauled himself up and around a leaning shelf of stone, and found himself on a path that had suddenly become smooth and level. For a long moment he just stood, bent and gasping with effort, hands braced on his knees, gazing along the last short length of the path to the slender white tree that commanded this height. The tree bore silvery leaves, and both white flowers and small golden fruits. Under the tree was a small pool bordered by round white stones.

Trei made his way cautiously toward the tree. The whole mountaintop seemed to him like the sort of place that was probably dedicated to one of the Three Gods—to the Silent God, most likely, because it was very silent here. A cup of white stone stood beside the pool. Trei found he was terribly thirsty. He made the sign of the Silent God, dipped the cup in the pool, and drank.

The water was very cold, so cold Trei was amazed it wasn’t ice. It tasted of clouds and snow and high winds and of something else, something wild and unfamiliar. Trei spilled a few drops of water on the ground for the God.

The silvery leaves of the tree fluttered, though Trei could feel no breeze. He stepped over to the tree and laid a hand on its smooth bark, looking up into its branches. Its golden fruits were shaped like teardrops. They were gleaming and translucent, like polished gems placed on the tree by a master jeweler.

Wondering if this was right, feeling that it was, not seeing anything else to do, Trei plucked a single fruit from the tree and ate it. It was not like any other fruit he’d ever eaten. It was sweet and crisp, but it tasted, behind the sweetness, of the same vivid wildness as the freezing water of the pool. The wildness lingered on his tongue longer than the sweetness. It was not meant for men at all; he somehow knew that. He was immediately afraid that he might have made a mistake, that maybe he should have resisted the impulse to eat it, that he might have ruined his one chance to fly. The fear of this made him tremble, where the cold of the water had not. But he had chosen to eat the fruit, and it was too late now to choose again.…

The fruit had one seed, a little larger than an apple seed, white and faceted like a jewel. Trei spat the seed out into his palm and gazed at it for a moment. Then, acting on a sharp, inexplicable impulse too powerful to even consider, he put the seed back in his mouth and swallowed it whole. It felt cold and sharp going down his throat, and the cold of it spread from his tongue down his throat and through his blood. Trei put a hand on the tree’s trunk again, steadying himself against a sudden wave of dizzy confusion; he found himself sitting on the ground, leaning against the tree’s twisted trunk, with no memory of either deciding to sit or falling. He dipped a shaking hand in the pool and splashed the cold water across his face. A fragrance like snow and apples and crisp pine rose around him, and he shut his eyes and fell into a crystal wind as cold as ice.