Free Updraft by Fran Wilde Page B

emerged from Wirra and another three, gray, green, and brown, from Viit. We were halfway to the plinth when the air grew sloppy. An eddy spilling from the lee of Mondarath soiled the gust. I dipped, then Nat wobbled. We had to shift to another updraft, quickly. My mother’s lenses slipped down my nose as I turned my head left and right.
    Then I spotted a strong breeze marked by a line of coasting whipperlings. Whistling to Nat, I rolled for the new vent. He followed.
    By the time we climbed above the towers, on approach to the plinth, we were drenched in sweat.
    â€œWe could have called for a ladder,” Nat yelled, his wing’s left pinion close to mine.
    I shook my head. No ladder. Not for me. No matter how tired I was. I cupped my wings to slow my approach to the testing plinth. Checked to make sure the path was clear. The tests might not have started, but the Magisters and councilors already watched, and judged.
    The bone horns sounded. Three warnings.
    My arms ached, and the back of my neck. I hoped we would have time to rest between challenges.
    My feet touched the woven plinth. The warp and weft of it gave slightly when I landed as close to Densira’s Magister, Florian, as possible. He dipped his head to me, his face carefully blank.
    Nat circled once more and, instead of sinking, executed a flip that cut his wind and dropped him square between the two Singers at the center of the plinth. They pretended not to notice. Nat grinned ear-to-ear.
    I adjusted my lenses so they wouldn’t slip again. Not during the tests.
    The Singers faced away from me. I couldn’t tell if the taller one was Wik, the Singer who had rescued and then threatened me. Their bodies were gray turrets in the colorful swirl of wings and nervousness. I would learn soon enough whether he’d come today.
    Around us, students rested and stretched. They recited tower names to themselves. More than a few looked worried.
    The four Magisters stood at the plinth’s four corners, symbolizing the four quadrants of the city. Florian for Densira. Viit’s able instructor, Magister Calli. A young Magister from Mondarath, so recently arrived no one knew his name. And Dix as Magister for Wirra. She grinned at me, showing as many teeth as she could manage.
    A net stretched below the plinth, strung between the four towers and tied by sinew. A brown-robed member of the traders’ guild landed beside the Singers at the center of the plinth. The Singers dipped their heads, but did not bow. Finally, a crafter landed, her embroidered wings glittering in the morning light. The city and its towers were now represented. The plinth creaked and swung in the wind. The bone horns sounded a fourth time.
    Two more students skidded to landings and found their towers, mumbling apologies. The Singers split from the central group. They carried four silk bags to the Magisters at the corners: one Singer walked south and west; the other, north and east. As the Singer carrying Densira’s and Mondarath’s bags approached, my breath caught again. Wik.
    His profile in the sunlight threw me off guard; I was mesmerized by the silver tattoos. They made him look sharper, more imposing. They accented his cheekbones and his chin.
    He smiled at Florian and the group. “I wish you all luck in your knowledge and in the sky.” He did not look at me, but the corner of his lip twitched.
    My throat tightened. What could the Singer do to me, here under open sky?
    He could do anything he thought would help the city, I realized. Anything at all. My exhaustion heightened my panic. At a loss, I hummed Elna’s song from two nights ago to myself. It worked surprisingly well. I calmed enough to thank the Singer with a clear voice. He paused to look at me, sending a shiver down my spine. Then he continued his slow circuit of the plinth.
    â€œDon’t worry about the test, or Dix,” Nat whispered. “The guild is watching. The Singers are watching.