Updraft by Fran Wilde Page B

and made tangled, exhausted landings.
    Singer Wik dumped Nat in a puddle on the plinth’s woven surface.
    â€œThis one didn’t watch the others,” Dix said, as if she wasn’t certain anyone should have rescued him. “Naton’s boy.”
    There was a hush from the Magisters. Finally, Florian, our Magister, bent to Nat and shook him awake.
    Nat retched and grabbed at the air, his face flushed and angry.
    â€œYou’re all right,” Florian said roughly. “You were rescued like a fledge, but you’re fine now.”
    Nat retched again. He’d failed Group. He wouldn’t pass the wingtest this year. But he climbed to his feet. The plinth bounced as he took a step. One wing hung crooked from its strap. The other, battens split, silk torn, drooped against his shoulder.
    But he had lived. He had not fallen through the clouds. I reached for his hand, and he jumped at my touch, then held tight.
    The volunteer who had careened into Nat, the hunter from Mondarath, had plummeted fast and hard. The Singer who had gone after him returned empty-handed. He landed, ashen faced, then pointed up and intoned, “Jador Mondarath fell in service to the city. Look up to watch his soul pass above. We do not look down in mourning.”
    More loss for that tower.
    The blessing ended, and students and Magisters gathered into tower groups one last time. Dikarit stood off to the side, having passed without trouble. Sidra stood, panting, her face ashen. Dojha and I juggled relief and joy with sorrow. Nat, still gripping my hand, turned away from us, eyes on his feet.
    A brass-haired Singer intoned a benediction. The last words from The Rise: We all fly together. Even in death. “Go in service to the city,” she said.
    Singer Wik spoke after her. “Wingmarks will be distributed at tomorrow’s wingfights, before Allmoons.”
    Magisters and students raised confused questions. This broke tradition. Wingmarks were exchanged for the four test marks now, not tomorrow.
    The Singers did not explain. They repeated the change. The guild members murmured “Singer’s right.” As if that explained things.
    â€œMust be because of the fall,” Aliati said. Her face was marked with tears. Her tower, her hunter.
    â€œI encourage you who receive wingmarks tomorrow to respect the city’s Laws, and those of you who have not passed to try again,” the older Singer said, then turned and jumped from the plinth without waiting for a response. Her dove-gray wings momentarily blocked the sun as she soared back to the Spire.
    Singer Wik and the third Singer followed without a word to anyone.
    Our flight groups lingered on the plinth, confused. The test didn’t feel over. I began to worry that the Singers would declare no one had passed, but then I thought about my flight and grew calmer. I’d passed. I knew it. Traditions had been broken, all formality lost, but I’d passed. I caught Beliak’s eye, then Ceetcee’s. Waved to them as their groups headed back to Wirra and Viit.
    When I realized that Nat had dropped my hand and walked to the plinth’s southern edge, my heart sank. So caught up in my own worries. Shame on me. I joined him as he peered over the edge, then at the Spire in the distance.
    â€œIt wasn’t your fault.”
    â€œBad luck,” his voice rasped. He unbuckled his left wing, broken beyond repair, and slid the strap from his shoulder. He hung it over the edge of the plinth and dropped it.
    My heart ached for him. “Next Allsuns, Nat. You will pass.”
    Florian waved us back to the plinth’s northern side, and I pulled Nat after me. We would fly back to the tower of our youth together.
    Using winghooks, Florian carried Nat. Nat cringed with shame. His remaining wing was secured to the Magister’s chest.
    They glided away from the test plinth. Sidra sulked behind them, muttering to Dojha. My cousin and I followed, trying to