Page 13

13

Tanwen was flying.

Her stomach was permanently lodged in her throat as the gondola raced upward through the clouds. She gripped the railing as the cage swayed in the wind. She didn’t want to think about the single thick rope their contraption clung to, the only support keeping them from plummeting into the angry Aspero Sea below.

By the Low Gods, I’m going to be sick, she thought.

As am I, squeaked Eli within the pack on her back.

Tanwen could sense him burrowing beneath her clothes, fighting the chill. She had found the cheeky bugger hiding inside quickly after departing Ordyn, and, despite reprimanding him because of the dangers in coming, she was glad he had stolen away. His presence kept her from being overwhelmed by her uncertain future.

At least we made it past the checkpoint, reasoned Tanwen silently, attempting to shift her thoughts from where they precariously dangled.

I might have preferred being back beneath all those vultures, Eli griped.

I certainly do not, Tanwen argued. I will take freezing-cold cloud coverage over suffering those whooshing shadows any day.

They had reached the western Galia checkpoint at dawn, and despite the early hours, the skies had been filled with dozens of Volari soaring home. It had been difficult for Tanwen not to constantly flinch as she shuffled forward in line.

Tanwen yipped—a sudden whip of wind smashed into the gondola.

The cage groaned its protest as her stomach bounced into her throat, her grip white knuckled on the banister.

Still prefer the clouds? Eli taunted.

Tanwen’s rebuttal was stolen as they finally pierced through the last bit of cloud and into the raw, uncovered light of day.

The brightness was a slap to her senses. Intrusive and harsh.

Tanwen squinted, shielding her eyes as the massive island of Galia rose from the clouds like the barnacled back of a turtle breaching waves. A jutting expanse of carved perfection that could have been made possible only by the luxury of endless time.

Tanwen gasped, the beauty nearly overwhelming.

Everything was green, lush, alive. And it sparkled. All of it.

Ré’s wash of sunlight bounced off every manicured surface, saturated each piece of foliage, and brushed open the petals of every flower. It was a deluge of colors and blooms.

Of life.

Fioré, the town they rushed toward, sprawled like dollops of rich icing, white roofs with massive skylights, pantheons and open-air markets reaching and hugging the edge of a glistening lake. The water was so blue it might as well have been the sky that filled it.

The only thing breaking the peace was the flapping of hundreds of wings.

Volari were everywhere.

Tanwen instinctively shrank back, her senses on high alert as her attention was drawn, up and up and up, to the top of a jungle mountainside.

The palace glowed as if a piece of Ré himself had been carved out and placed meticulously at the tip. The white marble of the domed citadel radiated with power; the massive, reaching pillars shimmered, a beating heart.

And her father and brother were somewhere within. Trapped. Possibly in pain. Suffering.

But not for long.

Daydreams of vengeance blossomed in Tanwen’s mind, thawing her chilled skin.

The prince had swooped into her home, stealing away her family.

Now here Tanwen soared, promising to do the same.

“Line up against this wall,” commanded their Süra guide after Tanwen and the new recruits had been divided into their respective services. “The den madams will be here soon for your inspections.”

Tanwen was pushed and jostled into a row with ten other young women, her nerves anxious like plucked strings.

The energy around her was chaotic, a bustling Fioré spilling out on all sides.

Their gondola had docked next to an outdoor market, where the air was filled with the lively chatter of vendors hawking their goods and citizens negotiating prices. Ré’s morning light glistened over the endless displays of ornate pottery and drapes of fine silks hanging in stalls, while the tantalizing scent of spices mixed with caramelized fruits.

If it wasn’t for the surrounding ostentatious architecture, bright sun, and endless swooping shadows of Volari overhead, Fioré could have been mistaken for Ordyn. The diversity of citizens was vast. Horns of every shape and curve filled the crowd. Even the shop attendants were Süra.

Tanwen felt the energy in her line change, drawing her attention to a group of elegantly dressed older women approaching. The girls beside her stood straighter.

Of the newcomers, a curvaceous woman in flowing lilac silk approached their line first. Her horns were tall and twisted like those of Süra from Garw. Her dark skin shone smooth in the morning light as she glanced down her nose at the first girl in their row. By her side was an assistant, reading aloud the information provided on the recruit’s papers.

“Who’s that?” asked Tanwen in a whisper to the recruit to her left.

“That’s Madam Kyva,” said the girl, a waver of fear in her voice. “She runs Sumora.”

The hairs rose on the back of Tanwen’s neck.

That’s where we’re meant to go, said Eli from where he remained hidden in her pack. I want to see.

No, Tanwen hissed silently. You must stay put, she instructed, watching as two of the recruits whom Madam Kyva inspected were pushed to form another line, their expressions grave.

“What’s happening?” Tanwen asked of the girl beside her again.

“They weren’t chosen,” she explained with a swallow.

“What does that mean?”

“They will be left for the other madams to review. If they are passed up again, they will most likely go to the dens in the Shadow District.”

Tanwen frowned. “What’s the Shadow District?”

Fearful blue eyes fervently caught hers. “Nowhere either of us wants to be.”

Tanwen’s blood ran cold, the wait for her inspection torturously long, but eventually Madam Kyva stopped before Tanwen. Her floral perfume pressed into Tanwen as their gazes collided.

Tanwen dutifully lowered her eyes, but she could feel Madam Kyva’s scrutinization sliding over her body, calculating, measuring.

At Sumora you will be seen as if a barmaid. A pretty and entertaining companion to their patrons.

The sobering words of Tanwen’s mother rose up in her mind.

You must be careful, Wen, and not for the usual reasons.

Tanwen held out her papers for the awaiting attendant.

“This is Tanwen Costers from Zomyad,” he read. “She is recommended to serve in Sumora. Her trade was meddyg in her clan, and it says she knows how to make docüra.”

The following silence was thick, a slow assessment.

“How many clients have you served docüra?” asked Madam Kyva.

Tanwen was momentarily caught off guard by the question, but she recovered quickly.

“No fewer than two dozen, ma’am,” she answered.

“Hmm,” replied Madam Kyva. “Show me your hands.”

Tanwen did as she was commanded.

“You will need a good scrubbing,” observed Madam Kyva before she walked to the next girl in line.

Tanwen blinked, her fear spiking.

What does that mean?

But then her papers were shoved back into her grip, a new red mark stamped on the top: Approved .

Tanwen’s hands shook as she read the word over and over.

Her future was decided.

She was in.

Despite her nerves, Tanwen looked up, finding the shining palace atop the distant mountain, and smiled.