my aeroship is nothing more than a wayward butterfly needing capturing. I lower my goggles back over my eyes, but only seconds later, they fog up. As the storm spins us into a vortex, Rufus and I grab the helm to hold the ship steady. He’s wearing my gloves, and my hands are blue with frost, and I’m cursing the copper—not wooden—spokes, which hold the cold dreadfully. My face is frozen, but I cannot tell if it’s from the ice storm pattering around us that my skin is so sharp, or from the great speed at which we’re falling to the earth.
“We must find the current!” I shout, as Rufus and I coax CELESTE to stay upturned.
“No use! Take cover!” he growls loudly enough that even the winds subside to his tone. “We’re going to crash.”
I’m nearly blinded in this gray and white lightningrich storm, but I shake my head. “We’re not.” My fingers grip the helm tighter, and then I spot the edge of the storm: a border of flashing lightning and a curve of clouds. “Fly south!” The rounded glass navigator bolted to the helm confirms our direction; the arrow rattles wildly against the glass.
CELESTE ’s wooden beams shudder, and the furnace’s piping loosens from the ship’s skeleton. Out of the corner of my goggled eyes, I spot the wings holding tightly against their beams; they’re buoyant and the sails are strong enough, and yes, we’re going to make it.
A gust sets us on the edge, and Rufus and I put all our weight onto the helm to keep it steady. We break free of the winds, and now the winter sky is peaceful. I whip around to the storm’s darkness behind us as we fly onward. My shoulders settle in relief, and I feel a smile grace my face as I look at Rufus.
He throws a fatherly arm around my shoulder and kisses the top of my head. “Well done. Well done.” We glide over smoother currents, and I watch the eastern sky as the sun peeks over the horizon. The air is blistery and cold, and every breath is an inhale of icicles and an exhale of fog. But the view—the view is exhilarating. There are pinks and oranges and roses, and light fluffy blankets of clouds expanding toward the moon and stars about to go to sleep. It’s remarkable.
“There!” Rufus calls, pointing north. I follow his gaze. “Oh,” I whisper when I spot what we seek. The Perilous Lands.
Endless infertile land. Not even desert, but muck and dirt and dead trees with no hope of ever a spring. There’s a lone castle in the distance, tall and black with too many pointed towers and not enough breaths of color. CELESTE drifts lower, and the closer we come to the realm of the Fisher King, the fewer the skeletons of trees and foliage, as though God himself might have seized everything lush and alive and cast it aside, leaving only a spectacle of silent, iron grandeur.
“Does no one come here?” I face the blacksmith, his expression of mourning and worry as heavy as his iron mask.
“Would you?”
I turn back to the view. “Let’s be quick about this.” Already, there’s a sensation of magic: the same eeriness I felt when Merlin and I strode through the woods for Arthur’s Norwegian steel. But this is different: the aura of death is powerful, but sentient, as though ghosts might still dwell. The aeroship’s tattered wings flap against the breeze as we hover over the ground. I help Rufus steer until we find a good spot to land, outside the castle walls, directly in front of the moat. Inside, there’s a labyrinth of pathways and streets. I don’t know how we’ll find our way through to come upon the Fisher King.
Like Rufus might be thinking the same thing, he speaks: “Maybe you should take another quick peek at the sorcerer’s scrolls and writings in case Merlin had a map.”
I nod without turning. I cannot pry my eyes away from such desolation. “Yes. There must be something.” Surely there must. Because the only other way to survive such a place as this would be to steal magic, for goodness sake.
And
“We must find the current!” I shout, as Rufus and I coax CELESTE to stay upturned.
“No use! Take cover!” he growls loudly enough that even the winds subside to his tone. “We’re going to crash.”
I’m nearly blinded in this gray and white lightningrich storm, but I shake my head. “We’re not.” My fingers grip the helm tighter, and then I spot the edge of the storm: a border of flashing lightning and a curve of clouds. “Fly south!” The rounded glass navigator bolted to the helm confirms our direction; the arrow rattles wildly against the glass.
CELESTE ’s wooden beams shudder, and the furnace’s piping loosens from the ship’s skeleton. Out of the corner of my goggled eyes, I spot the wings holding tightly against their beams; they’re buoyant and the sails are strong enough, and yes, we’re going to make it.
A gust sets us on the edge, and Rufus and I put all our weight onto the helm to keep it steady. We break free of the winds, and now the winter sky is peaceful. I whip around to the storm’s darkness behind us as we fly onward. My shoulders settle in relief, and I feel a smile grace my face as I look at Rufus.
He throws a fatherly arm around my shoulder and kisses the top of my head. “Well done. Well done.” We glide over smoother currents, and I watch the eastern sky as the sun peeks over the horizon. The air is blistery and cold, and every breath is an inhale of icicles and an exhale of fog. But the view—the view is exhilarating. There are pinks and oranges and roses, and light fluffy blankets of clouds expanding toward the moon and stars about to go to sleep. It’s remarkable.
“There!” Rufus calls, pointing north. I follow his gaze. “Oh,” I whisper when I spot what we seek. The Perilous Lands.
Endless infertile land. Not even desert, but muck and dirt and dead trees with no hope of ever a spring. There’s a lone castle in the distance, tall and black with too many pointed towers and not enough breaths of color. CELESTE drifts lower, and the closer we come to the realm of the Fisher King, the fewer the skeletons of trees and foliage, as though God himself might have seized everything lush and alive and cast it aside, leaving only a spectacle of silent, iron grandeur.
“Does no one come here?” I face the blacksmith, his expression of mourning and worry as heavy as his iron mask.
“Would you?”
I turn back to the view. “Let’s be quick about this.” Already, there’s a sensation of magic: the same eeriness I felt when Merlin and I strode through the woods for Arthur’s Norwegian steel. But this is different: the aura of death is powerful, but sentient, as though ghosts might still dwell. The aeroship’s tattered wings flap against the breeze as we hover over the ground. I help Rufus steer until we find a good spot to land, outside the castle walls, directly in front of the moat. Inside, there’s a labyrinth of pathways and streets. I don’t know how we’ll find our way through to come upon the Fisher King.
Like Rufus might be thinking the same thing, he speaks: “Maybe you should take another quick peek at the sorcerer’s scrolls and writings in case Merlin had a map.”
I nod without turning. I cannot pry my eyes away from such desolation. “Yes. There must be something.” Surely there must. Because the only other way to survive such a place as this would be to steal magic, for goodness sake.
And
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