The Floating Islands (12 page)

None of the sketches were as good as Marrè’s later work, but even so Trei thought that he could feel the wind that was ripping at the leaves, that he could almost hear the chirp of the sparrow as it prepared to leave its perch, that in the next moment the sketch of his sister’s hand might draw a dark streak across the paper. He remembered the feel of the bobs and whorls of the staircase railing under his own hand as he ran down the stairs.… Aunt Sosa had scolded him for running on the stairs. He recognized the sausage vendor, from whom he and Marrè had bought lunch more than once; the man had pretended to be hard-hearted, but Marrè had said she’d caught him throwing sausages at street dogs when he thought no one was watching. She’d caught that embarrassed, covert generosity perfectly in the self-conscious turn of the man’s head as he glanced over his shoulder while tossing his wares to the dog.

The chalk studies were more detailed, and one of them was far more precious, because though the first was only of the house in Sicuon, the second was of Trei’s parents. Marrè must have either brought this study with her from Rounn or else done it from memory, because it showed their mother seated in her favorite chair, at the kitchen table, with their father, framed by the doorway that led into the rest of the house, standing behind her.

Marrè had done most of the background simply as a vague wash of color. This indistinct background simply called attention to the figures in the foreground: Mother was looking up at Father, smiling, her hand over his where it rested on her shoulder. Father was looking down into her face. He was not smiling, his expression was even somber, and yet even so Marrè had somehow made his deep affection plain in her drawing.

Trei very carefully slid the drawings back into their protective envelope. He laid the envelope aside on his bed—then changed his mind and picked it up again—then put it carefully down once more.

The young Third City novices, neither of whom had gotten any letters, were teasing Rekei about his mother writing him, and his answer that they were just jealous that their mothers hadn’t written them was probably a little too true, and suddenly they were all three shouting, and Trei had no patience or tolerance for any of them. He walked out without a word.

He went down a stairway and then along a rough-hewn corridor almost at random, and then along another, and down another stairway, even though he suspected he might by now be out of the bounds of the novitiate. He didn’t care. He followed the taste of salt in the air around a corner and found himself on a wide balcony. After a moment, he recognized it: there was the long, low-arched bridge of floating stones, and there in the distance the rugged crags of Kotipa, the Island of Dragons. The faint, insubstantial glitter of wind dragons was perceptible around and above the sharp-edged peaks; the crystalline wind was everywhere streaked and layered with complicated changes of pressure and temperature and movement. Beyond Kotipa was nothing but the sea, stretching endlessly north. Trei stared out into the blue distance.

Trei found he was clenching his fists so tightly his nails were cutting into his palms.

“She’s dead! They’re all dead! What do I care about seeing the wind
now
?” Trei said, and only realized after he heard his own voice that he’d spoken aloud. He was trembling, but didn’t know whether he was furious or frightened or grieved. He couldn’t decide what he felt, far less what he
should
feel. Except he wanted very badly to go home, only he was caught in confusion because he did not know what he meant by “home.” Except it was not here.

Novices weren’t allowed to venture out of the novitiate. Trei hesitated for a moment, thinking about that—or not really
thinking
about it, but aware of it and also aware that he did not, at the moment, care. Then he headed for the wide stairway that he knew led from this balcony to the open city. From there, he was sure he could find his way back to Uncle Serfei’s house. He wasn’t sure why he felt so strongly that he had to go there. But he ran up the stairs.

It was late, late enough that he met no one to stop him, or even ask where he was going. But Ceirfei caught up to Trei before he had gone even half a mile through the moonlit streets of First City. Trei heard the rapid footsteps coming up behind him and spun around, then stared in surprise. He didn’t know whom he had expected, but not Ceirfei. The other boy was breathing hard. He’d been running. Trei didn’t understand how the older boy had even known to look for him, or where.

Then he realized he did know, and flushed.

“Rekei showed us the letter and drawings,” Ceirfei admitted. He had stopped some distance back and now stood still, uncharacteristically tentative, as though afraid Trei might bolt.

“Rekei—? He had no right!
You
had no right!”

Ceirfei gave a little nod, not arguing the point. He said instead, “He was worried for you. So were we all. We didn’t know whether you might have gone to fly or just someplace to be alone. Rekei and the younger boys went to search the novitiate, Genrai went to look for you on the flight balcony in case you’d gone to get wings. But—” He hesitated. “We also thought if you had a package like that from your Tolounnese kin, you might very well want to go find your Island kin, so I came to look for you out here.”

Trei barely listened to this. “Do you know why they sent me away?” he asked furiously. “They sent me away because they didn’t want to pay the tax to register me on my majority! That’s why! I thought they
liked
me, and then they—” Trei stopped, swallowing.

Ceirfei didn’t say anything, but only nodded. He came forward to sit down on the high marble steps of some fancy white First City tower.

After a moment, Trei joined him. He said in a quieter voice, “I was fond of them, do you understand that? I thought they were fond of me. I liked Aunt Sosa. I think she
was
fond of Marrè. If
Marrè
had been there with me that summer—if she’d been there instead of me—”

Ceirfei nodded again. “Then perhaps you’d both be in Sicuon. You’ve lost so much. I’m very sorry for your loss and your grief. I know you would never have traded your kin for the wind and the sky. But once you lost your father’s kin, I’m glad you came to your mother’s kin and to the sky. When we endure loss, the past reaches out to grip us from behind, but it’s not wrong to turn your face forward.”

Trei listened to this in silence. He could not find any answer, but after a moment, he managed a small nod.

“Trei … if you went flying on your own without leave, well, novices do things like that. Even if you were caught, the punishment would only be a whipping, or grounding at worst. But, Trei, leaving the novitiate without permission? The wingmaster could expel you for that.”

At the moment, Trei wasn’t certain he cared.

“You’d care in the morning,” Ceirfei said, watching his face. “So would I. We’d all hate it if you were gone. So I came after you, to tell you so.” He got to his feet, took a step back toward the kajurai precincts, looked at Trei in deliberate invitation. “Come back with me? If we slip in quietly, no one need know anything about this. Will you come?”

Trei hesitated. He looked around, finding himself disoriented now amid the moonlight-drenched white towers of First City. Did he even know how to get back to the kajurai tower? Much less find Uncle Serfei’s house? He took a step after Ceirfei, then stopped. “Why did you come after me?
You’re
venturing out-of-bounds, too. The wingmaster could expel
you
for that, too.”

Ceirfei shrugged. “I don’t think he would, though. And if we
were
caught, well, if he didn’t expel me, he could hardly expel you. That’s why we decided that Genrai would go look for you on the flight balcony and I’d come out here. And I did find you, so that worked well. Will you come back with me now?”

If he didn’t, Trei knew, he’d wish he had in the morning. Ceirfei was right about that, too. He stood for a moment longer, looking around at the city. But then he turned back toward Ceirfei.

However, after they found the kajurai tower and the stairway that led down toward the novitiate, and descended most of the way to the bottom of the stairs, Ceirfei paused, a hand on Trei’s arm to hold him back. Puzzled, Trei followed the direction of Ceirfei’s gaze. Then he swallowed. Two men waited for them below. Even from this distance, Trei immediately recognized the novice-master. He thought the other man was Wingmaster Taimenai himself.

The wingmaster wore unornamented kajurai black and an expression of forbidding patience. Novice-master Anerii also wore black, but he had never looked less patient. In addition, he had a riding whip in his left hand, which he was tapping in a slow rhythm against the side of his boot. A whip like that, Trei found, was an even more fraught item in a country where there were so few horses.

Ceirfei and Trei stepped together from the last stair, came out onto the balcony, stopped shoulder to shoulder, and waited.

“As you have both been excellent students,” the novice-master said at last, “I am certain you are able flawlessly to recite the penalties for disobedience and venturing without leave into the city.” He pointed at Trei with the whip. “Well?”

“Strokes of a whip, or denial of flying privileges, or expulsion from the kajurai novitiate,” Trei recited in a whisper. He tried not to glance at the whip the novice-master held. He’d never been beaten in his life, but he was very sure he would rather face the whip than be expelled. Earlier, when Ceirfei had reminded him of the possible penalties, he hadn’t thought he really cared about the possibility of expulsion. But that numbness had passed. He cared now. He knew he couldn’t bear it.

“Have you any excuse to offer?”

“No, Novice-master,” they answered together. Trei added at once, “But Ceirfei only left the novitiate because I—”

“Enough,” ordered the novice-master. For a moment his cold stare pierced Trei. Then his attention shifted to Ceirfei. He frowned.

Ceirfei met his eyes for a moment, then deliberately bowed his head.

“Novice-master Anerii,” Wingmaster Taimenai said abruptly. “If I may impose.”

Master Anerii turned toward the wingmaster.

“I recognize that I am trespassing upon your duty,” the wingmaster told him. “However, I will make this decision.” He studied the boys, his expression more forbidding than ever. “I shall hold, this once, the penalty of expulsion. Ten strokes apiece, well laid down. And grounding for a senneri. I will wield the whip myself. I will ask you to attend to your other duties, Master Anerii.”

The novice-master, his mouth tight, turned on his heel and went out.

“I would
not
complain to my—” Ceirfei began, clearly outraged.

“Silence,” Wingmaster Taimenai ordered sharply. “Remove your shirt, Novice Ceirfei. Turn about and set your hands upon the wall.”

The riding whip did not draw blood, but it left wicked welts. Ceirfei did not make a sound, but he could not quite keep from jerking as each blow fell. His breath hissed between his teeth. When it was finished, he was trembling. But he bowed properly to the wingmaster, though there were tears in his eyes.

If I do as well,
Trei thought, but the thought dissolved unfinished, all thought dissolved; the moment stretched out into an empty, waiting silence.

For all he had braced himself, the whip’s first blow was a surprise; Trei jerked and gasped as much in shock as in pain. Indeed, at first he thought the pain not so much, but then he found it actually arrived slowly and then expanded hugely; it was still expanding as the second stroke arrived, and this time Trei did yelp, because, distracted by the unfolding pain of the first blow, he had somehow forgotten a second was on the way. He heard his own cry, though, and was ashamed.
Ceirfei
hadn’t made a sound. He clenched his teeth and endured the third stroke in silence, and the next, and the next, and then he lost count, only braced his arms against the wall and pressed his face against the stone … and then it was over.

The wingmaster accepted Trei’s shaky bow with a curt nod. “I trust neither of you will give me occasion to repeat this exercise. Or reconsider more severe penalties.” He ran the whip through his hands, studying them. His expression was unreadable. “You are dismissed to the novitiate. Do you know your way from here?”

They did, though it seemed longer than previously, and with a lot more stairs. Trei and Ceirfei both walked slowly and carefully. Everything hurt, Trei found; every step pulled at his back, and the brush of his shirt against the welts was worse.

“He didn’t need to send the novice-master away—as though I would complain to my uncle!” Ceirfei said through his teeth once they were safely out in the hallway. He was furious.

Trei had never seen Ceirfei angry before. It was a cold, rigid fury, exactly as Trei would have expected if he’d thought about it. He stopped, so that Ceirfei had to stop, too, to face him. Trei asked suddenly, not clearly knowing he was going to ask until the words were out between them: “Who
are
you? Who
is
your uncle?”

For a moment Ceirfei only stared back at him. But at last he gave a self-deprecating shrug—which made him wince—and a wry smile. “Ah, well … my mother is Calaspara Naterensei.” And then, when Trei only looked baffled, he added, “The king’s sister.”

Trei stared at him. He knew perfectly well that Ceirfei had liked having a companion who didn’t know his rank. His
exalted
rank. Trei had known Ceirfei’s rank must be exalted. But— “You’re a
prince,
” he said, trying to fix the idea in his mind.

Ceirfei shrugged again, more carefully this time. “The least of princes. Don’t think too much of it, Trei. There are four cousins and two brothers between me and the throne.”

“Or you’d never have been allowed to audition,” Trei agreed. He understood
that.
“Still. A
prince.
” Trei tried to adjust to this notion. It was, in some ways, remarkably easy. He said after a moment, “That explains a
lot
about you.”