Updraft by Fran Wilde Page A

past the Spire, and back towards the northern quadrants.
    Ceetcee’s path had taken us too low for the crowded towers near the Spire. It was a mistake easily made by someone who’d grown up on the outer edges. A strong downdraft from the towers overlapped our gust and fouled our path. Beliak and I whistled a warning at the same time, but Ceetcee didn’t alter course soon enough. Our group’s progress slowed as she struggled to find a clear path.
    Ceetcee passed control to Aliati, flying nearby. Aliati had seemed quiet on the plinth, and at Varu too. But in the lead, her voice was confident and clear. She pushed us to a tighter formation, then sleeked us around several towers, climbing with each gust. Soon we soared at the towers’ peaks, chattering and whistling soft appreciation in the sunlight.
    Even the volunteers seemed well pleased with the turn of events. They flew at the center of our formation: two hunters and a guard.
    I kept one eye on the mirror and focused as best I could on keeping my wingtips pointed. The Magister fell back in formation, so she was just downwind of me.
    She was grinning. “Well traveled,” she shouted. I saw the testing plinth ahead and grinned too.
    We returned triumphant, my three new friends and I. We were flushed from the flight and windburned. Ceetcee had something in her eye, possibly one of her own long eyelashes. Aliati glowed with her success. Magister Calli walked towards the trade and craft guild leaders and relayed our trip with broad gestures. The tradesman turned my way and bowed. My heart lifted. I’d passed, and very well.
    Another group landed, with Magister Macal. They were missing a student. Grim news, but not a disaster. “Left him at the turnaround tower,” he announced. “Broke formation without signaling. Nearly took the group out.”
    We quieted our celebration.
    *   *   *
    Nat’s group appeared in the distance, beating their way back against the wind. They, too, had all their number. An occasional speck broke the deep blue horizon line. Birds. Sidra still held lead, and the following wind drove her hoarse voice ahead of the formation.
    They were just a few towers away from the plinth when a crosswind hit. I squinted and could almost see it. A squall of air and a rising cloud, a small one. At first I was glad. The gardens needed rain.
    But the squall destabilized Sidra’s formation. One of the hunters fought for balance in the gust. He was blown sideways, towards Nat.
    Nat missed a shouted warning from Dix. The hunter knocked him off course. He tumbled right into the squall, one of his wings broken.
    I cried out as he careened away from the city.
    The wind spun him round, the one wing acting as a blade, his body a rotor. Nat’s legs kicked out, but he fell like a leaf from a garden, twisting down below the plinth.
    Magisters and Singers leapt from the plinth, flying fast, kicking out with their tailskirts, gliding the drafts to get to him. The latter set their wings, pulled from their finger harnesses, and reached arms lined with silver tattoos towards him like prayers.
    I knelt at the plinth’s edge, Beliak and Aliati on either side. We peered over. “Please no,” I whispered. Not Nat.
    The Singers outpaced the Magisters. Even Macal could not keep up. Singer Wik reached Nat first and caught him by the winghooks. Nat’s spin dragged them both down. Beliak made a choking sound, and I grabbed Aliati’s arm with numb fingers. Then the Singer’s broad wings stopped their fall. When they rose, Nat dangled limply, out cold from the spin. The Singer’s left arm bulged with the strain of lifting him, until he removed a rope harness from his waist with his right hand, then double-glided Nat back to us, suspended like a child.
    The other Singer rescued another student from the group, and Magister Dix struggled to right the rest of the flight. The group limped back to the plinth