The Floating Islands (17 page)

And the instructors began to teach the boys how to carry heavy stones aloft, and how to cast them down to strike targets bobbing amid the waves. This was harder than seemed plausible.

“You can’t get within bow shoot, fool,” one instructor roared at Tokabii one morning not long after Trei had returned. “Get some height under you! You’ll find it hard to fly arrow-struck!”

Trei shook his head about this later. “Why practice anything of the sort?” he asked. “When no one can attack the Floating Islands anyway. What defense can you possibly need, besides height?”

Ceirfei glanced up. “Oh, well, you don’t yet know much Island history. In the reign of Komaonn the Elder, the Yngulin attacked our shipping and blockaded our trade. We might have been forced to become just a province of Yngul, but Tai Tairenaima invented clingfire and we drove them off.”

“Trei?” called Rei, putting his head in the door. “There you are! The wingmaster wants you, so shake the iron out of your wings!”

Trei shoved his chair back and stood up. His stomach clenched, remembering the last summons from the wingmaster—but no. This couldn’t be the same. Though if the wingmaster had found out about Araenè … His stomach clenched harder. He followed Rei, his steps dragging. And found Ceirfei at his elbow, uninvited.

Wingmaster Taimenai wasn’t alone in his office, Trei found. Novice-master Anerii was also present, and so were two men Trei didn’t recognize. Not kajuraihi. Court nobles, he guessed from the style and fineness of their dress. Araenè—Trei didn’t want to think of his cousin, not now; he knew he would only look guilty if he thought of his cousin. He tried hard to think of nothing at all.

But Wingmaster Taimenai’s grim expression was not reassuring.

All the men were standing except for one of the strangers. That one was a tall man, neither old nor very young, with a long, expressive face and a tired, worried look in his eyes. He wore a white shirt and a violet sash. He had a narrow violet ribbon woven through his dark hair and a band of woven gold about his neck, another about one wrist. Trei thought he
surely
was a court noble. Trei’s heart sank as he tried to imagine what pressing interest could have brought a man like this to kajurai precincts to ask after a mere novice.

“Trei,” said the wingmaster, and beckoned.

Rei Kensenè, hovering uncertainly, received a dismissive wave from the novice-master and went away. Trei wished
he
could retreat so easily. But Ceirfei was still a supportive presence at his back. That was reassuring. He took a reluctant step forward.

“If you please,” Wingmaster Taimenai said to the strangers, “allow me to make known to you Novice Trei Naseida, lately of Tolounn and now an Island kajurai.”

Trei found it enormously reassuring to have the wingmaster put the introduction just that way. The seated man—
surely
he must be a court noble?—gave Trei a small nod.

“This is my cousin, Prince Imrei Naterensai,” Ceirfei murmured in Trei’s ear. “And that is Lord Manasi Teirdana, first minister of finance and my uncle’s close advisor.”

Trei blinked and tried to collect his scattering wits.

“Trei,” said Prince Imrei. His voice was quiet and husky. He studied Trei with careful interest. “Tell me about your journey from Tolounn. Surely you did not leave Tolounn from the harbor at Rounn? That harbor is closed, I believe?”

Trei hesitated. He hadn’t expected to be asked about
Rounn,
not now: even after learning who the prince was, he’d braced himself for questions about Araenè. He said at last, “No, sir. Your Highness. From Sicuon.”

“You walked from Rounn to Sicuon? You went to Sicuon directly? How long did that take you?”

Trei hardly remembered. That journey had been a dense nightmare of exhaustion and grief. He remembered the dust and ash that had veiled the sun, so all those on the road had traveled through a continual twilight. Ash had fallen like snow; they had all choked on the bitter taste of it. “Days,” he managed. But he did not know how many. At the time, it had seemed forever.

“How was it you came to be outside Rounn when the mountain exploded?” asked the prince.

“You can do this,” Ceirfei said, gripping Trei’s arm hard, and Trei, who had come within a feather’s width of turning on his heel and walking out of the room, explained instead about his summer visit to his uncle in Sicuon. He didn’t say anything about how it had felt to stand on the mountain road above Rounn and see the plumes of ash in the air, the shattered mountain rearing above, its internal fire glowing through the cracks in the stone. He didn’t describe the time he had spent just sitting at the side of the road, staring down at the lake of still-molten stone and billowing ash that had, so small a time before, poured down across the city.

Prince Imrei wanted to know about Rounn, and then all about the journey back to Sicuon and from there to the Floating Islands. Trei didn’t tell him his uncle in Sicuon had sent him away. Maybe he knew, or guessed. But Trei wasn’t going to say anything about it.

The prince was polite—was that Ceirfei’s presence?—but he went on and on. What ship had Trei taken south? Had it gone well out to sea before turning south, or had it hugged the coast? What ports had they touched on the way? Ah, they had landed at Tetouann? Why? To take on supplies, merchandise, passengers, all three? How long had the ship stayed at Tetouann? Oh, Trei had changed ships at Tetouann? Why was that? How many days had he stayed in Tetouann? Had his new ship—what was its name?—put in at Marsosa? At Goenn? At Teraica? How long had it taken to sail from Goenn to Teraica? How many days had they stayed at Teraica?

Trei could give almost none of the answers to these questions. He remembered, dimly, that he had switched ships twice, and he thought that the second time had been at Goenn, but it might have been Teraica. He thought the ship that had carried him from Tetouann to Goenn (or Teraica) might have been called the
Temenann,
or maybe it had been the
Temoinè
? He didn’t remember the captains’ names. He didn’t even remember whether there had
been
other passengers. Most of the time during that long journey he’d felt like a disembodied ghost: one of the thousands of ghosts of Rounn. The taste of bitter ashes had been on his tongue the whole way, until the hammering heat of the southern sun had begun at last to burn out the memory of the dim, ash-ridden chill of the north.

But he didn’t know how to tell Prince Imrei that.

“A thin tale,” Lord Manasi said to the prince at last, shaking his head.

“Too thin,” said Prince Imrei, sitting back in his chair and running his hand thoughtfully back and forth across its arm. “If the boy was a spy, or the agent of spies, he’d have a far better tale prepared.”

A spy! Trei stiffened, trying not to show either shock or outrage. He looked quickly at Ceirfei, who touched his shoulder in reassurance and shook his head a little.
Just wait,
Trei thought that meant.

“Every spy for the next forty years will be claiming to be a survivor of Rounn,” argued Lord Manasi. “It’s a Gods-given excuse to have no records tracing your past movements.”

“Trei
is
from Rounn,” Ceirfei said quietly, and when his cousin looked at him, he added, “He dreams of it.”

Prince Imrei’s eyebrows rose, and he nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, but Tolounn’s spymasters are clever,” said Lord Manasi. “A half-bred boy heading to the Islands would be a gift to them. Perhaps someone picked up this one at Goenn. That would explain those days ashore. It’s not plausible to suggest it’d take five days to find a southbound ship out of Goenn.”

Prince Imrei held up a hand for silence and said to Trei, “Surely you hesitated to make so long a journey, and with no certainty of welcome at the end of it? Perhaps someone in Tolounn suggested you should come here? Or perhaps someone along your way suggested you might try for kajurai training? That if you brought any artifacts or knowledge of wind-dragon magic back for Tolounnese mages to examine, you might be well rewarded?”

“No!” Trei exclaimed. He wanted to feel outraged. Furious. Instead he only felt frightened and ill.

“Your uncle was a well-regarded minister,” Lord Manasi observed. “You might have had a good place in a ministry in a year or two—you might have looked to become a court minister yourself. Instead you came”—he gestured broadly, indicating not the wingmaster’s office but the wider kajurai precincts—“here.”

“I wanted to fly!” Trei said, but even to his own ears this protest sounded weak and childish. He could not begin to put into words the deep longing that had struck him the first time he’d seen the kajuraihi soaring above the waves.…

Lord Manasi tilted his head skeptically, plainly having no understanding at all of that longing and not really believing in it. “Valuable as Tolounn would find a spy in any of the ministries—and we may be certain there are some— Tolounnese artificers would be even better pleased to have someone bring them a sample of dragon magic. That’s something, so far as we know, that Tolounn has never accomplished. If we grow careless, we might find Tolounn far too closely acquainted with all the arts by which we protect the Islands—”

“
We
don’t protect the Islands,” Wingmaster Taimenai said sharply.

“We do,” snapped Lord Manasi, “and we must, as your precious dragons will do nothing more than keep us aloft—”

“If you please.” Prince Imrei lifted his hands in a mollifying gesture. “Our height
is
our protection. Nor do we wish to offend the sky dragons who hold us above the waves by allowing any trace of their power to fall into the hands of Tolounnese artificers.”

The wingmaster was as sternly expressionless as ever, but his crystalline kajurai eyes glinted with impatience. “Prince Imrei, the boy made the climb up to the heights of Kotipa. Do not mistake the situation.
We
do not decide which boys to accept into the novitiate. That is a judgment the dragons make. Unless you doubt the judgment of the dragons whose magic you so determinedly protect, Lord Manasi’s suspicion is untenable.”

Novice-master Anerii said harshly, “A half-bred boy might be approached
after
his audition. When he finds himself divided in blood and heart and loyalty, who knows what choices such a boy will make?”

“We are all acquainted with your opinion,” the wingmaster said. His tone was absolutely flat, yet somehow conveyed a profound rebuke. Novice-master Anerii crossed his arms over his chest and glowered, but he did not say anything else.

“Trei
is
kajurai,” Ceirfei said to his cousin. “Who would know better than I?”

Prince Imrei nodded thoughtfully, seeming to find his cousin’s opinion persuasive.

The wingmaster added, taking adroit advantage of Ceirfei’s support, “And as this is so, and as you have now met the boy yourself, Prince Imrei, I will be grateful to see you put these suspicions to rest.”

For a moment, he and Prince Imrei simply gazed at one another. Then Prince Imrei said to Trei, “You maintain no one approached you—not a Tolounnese mage, nor any Tolounnese official, nor anyone else. No one suggested you should audition on Kotipa.”

“No,” Trei said faintly. He wanted to lean against the wall—he wanted to sit down on the floor, if he couldn’t sit in a chair—he locked his knees and tried not to sway.

“And no one has approached you since your audition. No one has said anything to you about, say, loyalty to Tolounn, or suggested you return to your father’s people?”

Trei shook his head.

“Our novices stay in the novitiate,” Wingmaster Taimenai said shortly. “We keep them close; we keep them busy.”

“But the boy left the novitiate for several days, I believe,” observed Lord Manasi.

The wingmaster sighed sharply. He looked at Trei and asked, “Well, Trei, and did anyone approach you in such a manner while you were comforting your bereaved cousin after the tragic loss of your uncle and aunt?”

“No,” Trei whispered.

“I will check that this is true,” Lord Manasi declared.

“I shall leave you to that,” Prince Imrei said to him, but added to Trei in a soothing tone, “Though I’m sure it’s true.” He gripped the arms of his chair, rose to his feet, and nodded to Ceirfei. “Cousin, thank you. Wingmaster Taimenai, I’m grateful for your assistance. I believe we’re satisfied. You have been most helpful.”

The wingmaster inclined his head briefly and then glanced around the room, gathering all their attention. “Novices, you are dismissed. Return to the novitiate. Novice-master Anerii, if you will await me here? Prince Imrei, Lord Manasi, I hope you will permit me the honor of escorting you—” He stepped politely over to open the door and ushered his noble guests out and down the hall.

Trei made it most of the way down the stairs before he began to shake.

“Sit down,” Ceirfei urged him, and sank down himself on the stair above. “I’m sorry—I
am
sorry, Trei. I couldn’t warn you.”

“No,” Trei managed to agree. He understood that. He tucked his face against his knees and said, muffled, “I—you were—thank you.”

“You’ll be all right.” Ceirfei rested a hand briefly on Trei’s shoulder. “Manasi suspects everyone. Imrei doesn’t suspect anyone; it’s not his nature. That’s why my uncle sent them both. You understand we think Tolounn is preparing to invade? Do you see?”

Trei shook his head blankly. “I know people think so. But how
can
they? And why should they?” He heard himself say “they” almost as though someone else were speaking, and wondered if his voice sounded as strained and artificial to Ceirfei as it did to himself.

But Ceirfei only shrugged. “How? We have no idea. But why? If they think they can succeed, then why not?” Ceirfei’s tone had taken on an uncharacteristic bite. “They might invade us because they’ve always resented our independence and think we ought by rights to return to being a Tolounnese province. Or because they’re ambitious to add Cen Periven to the Empire, and the Islands are an important base for any such attempt. Or maybe just because it’ll make somebody’s political career to press a short, successful war.”