Tales from the Earthen Sky

They had missed Hash's introductory speech, and the old man had backed away to watch, face brimming with excitement, as the rotund Headman Bors made his proclamation. What that was precisely . . . Solis couldn't tell yet, because he and Telsan were still in the process of shoving and "excuse me"-ing their way through nervously whispering and occasionally glaring townspeople. Finally, they made their way to where the Lightwing family was, exchanging greeting waves. The trio had pushed through the crowd as well, and getting in from the sky directly had become impossible.

Glancing to his left, Solis caught Phoenix waving at them. She cupped her hands and tried to communicate something to him with exaggerated lips, but he just shrugged.

". . . And this Harbinger has been kind enough to provide that as well," the headman was saying through his mustache. "And so all contestants will appear on the new island of"—he glanced at the Magnates for confirmation—"Grimstaf Vee-Eye."

"Six," Donnor corrected him, eliciting a frown and a harrumph.

"Grimstaf VI," Bors amended, apparently pronouncing it correctly this time. It was only now that Solis realized the portly man was reading from a sheet of parchment. "On the fifth day of the the third month. Contestants must be registered and approved by no later than the third, and will be disqualified if they fail to show up on the fifth. Attendance at the festival, of course, is not mandatory." He proceeded to rattle off a long list of details regarding the upcoming Great Festival, which Solis frankly cared nothing for and thusly ignored.

In the pause that followed, Floris took her brother's arm and, amidst low voices that added up to a din, asked him, "You are coming for the festival, right?" When he hesitated, she looked to Telsan with exasperated pleading.

"He's coming," Telsan said, looking up at Pim and Arthur Lightwing, who were sidling closer.

Before they could say anything, the Magnate Melka took the stage, thanking the headman and asking that everyone quiet down. Her voice, while not at all raised, carried in a slightly unnatural way, piercing the ambient murmur using one of her many preternatural abilities. This detail did more to quiet the winged folk than her words. "Citizens," she said when the crowd had hushed, "We will make this a festival to remember! I know how much you've all awaited this day, and it is just around the corner."

The fakeness of her words rang loudly in Solis' ears, and he wondered if it was just him. Not untrue, nor out of place at such an announcement meeting, but simply uncharacteristic of the woman; insincere. And sure enough, she smoothly dovetailed into her next words:

"But please keep in mind the rules outlined for the following competition, and do not take them lightly. Repercussions for cheating will be swift and severe, and there is no insurance or guarantee for casualties of any misfortune during the event. We encourage all who are brave enough to come forward, and indeed the Harbinger made it clear that the Lords of the Earth are seeking talent that has been overlooked for years. Only be cautious, and do not lightly make a decision you will regret."

Solis narrowed his eyes, sharing a look with his Ornis friend. While serious, these were not the words he expected out of the ancient Magnate. They sounded almost . . . sympathetic. Like she wanted to show lip service to the Lords Above, yet also secretly tried to instill a healthy fear in those still on the fence about joining the competition. Yet these "rules" which Bors had just gone over were not the actual rules of any of the upcoming games, and he knew the Tapiq tribe would be in the dark about specifics until the fifth. The previous grandiloquent words about trials of earth, sky and friendship had not been repeated by Herald Hash or Headman Bors, so Solis assumed it was safe to say their plans had utterly changed. So . . . just how dangerous would it be?

Falla pulled her end of the festoon, tightening the swooping strand of flower-woven material between her and her friend. "Hold up!" called Lysera, holding the preceding swoop to keep it from tightening as well, Falla stopped just at the right length, double-checking her measurements and looking to the other woman for confirmation. She knew she hadn't pulled too hard, but Lysera got so uptight whenever the festival was approaching.

Falla pinned the flowery strand on the post in front of her, adjusting her footing on the step stool as she tucked back a persistent lock of blue-grey hair. She waited as Lysera got down from her stool with more than a little effort and grunting, bunching her skirts at her well-weighted hips before hefting the wooden object to carry it onward, past Falla to the next post. After Lysera had planted the step stool against the post and panted for a few moments, the Dustborn flung her the wreath of ready festal strand.

"Careful!" came the immediate, horrified response, prompting an eyeroll which Falla cut short. She had "flung" the material only a few feet to the woman. She was being patient. She could be patient. They went on like this, stringing the festoon about the south plaza of Megeth, until the material was used up, at which point they fetched more from the girls who were helping on the sidelines. Ariana, Lysera's older daughter, Mital, her younger, and another girl whose name Falla could never recall. She would think of it.

Falla did this to herself every year, volunteering to make the material for the festoons and then, as if that weren't enough, offering to help her decoratively-oriented acquaintance Lysera—not quite a friend, but almost—to string them up in the squares and plazas where events would be taking place two days from now. Around them even now, other decorators and workmen were readying stalls, signs, platforms and flagpoles, or carting supplies to and fro. The great festival was always a lively event, though this year the air was rife with a new flavor of mystery, tension and almost—dare she say—dread.

Another woman would have thought of her daughter at this moment, and how she might become victimized by the events the Harbinger had set in motion. Falla did think of her daughter, but mostly just to reminisce that she very much missed her help this year. She had been trying to work the girl less this past week, so that she had more time to pursue her borrowed passion. Part of her wanted the girl to win, or one of her close companions, if only to prove Falla's own significance to the family, but she knew how warped that was. Another part wished desperately for the girl to fail, for this phase to be over, so that those three could grow up and become the adults society needed—not forced, but needed—them to be, naturally drifting apart in the order of life. She wasn't jealous of her daughter, or at least she didn't like to think so, but . . . well, she did wish she would find some better friends, or at least a charming young man to settle down with. Falla could use a son-in-law.

Not that infamous troublemaker, of course. Charming was hardly the word for that fluff-headed child.

"Falla?" called a light voice from above.

The sudden beckon caused the Dustborn's head to swivel, and she nearly lost her balance, eliciting a gasp from Lysera. The newcomer was Colla, the Windborn woman she'd seen with Solis and Telsan on occasion. "Oh, you startled me, Colla." Pretty and usually full of energy, the woman seemed a tad off-kilter today.

"My apologies. I recognized you and thought to say hello." Colla looked down at Lysera, still flapping her wings above the half-circle of looped drapery. "And you are?"

"I'm Lysera."

Colla nodded in that way that people do when about to forget a new acquaintance's name. "Lysera . . ."

"Colla, you haven't seen my daughter by any chance, have you?" Falla asked on a whim.

The younger woman paused, then shook her head. "I was actually on my way to find her. I . . . I should be going, though."

Colla lingered for a few moments, and Falla considered questioning what for, but neither spoke, leaving the awkward silence of a pair too unfamiliar with each other to ask further. Colla left, leaving the older woman with a strange feeling of disquiet in her belly. It was nothing, of course, merely the discomfort around strangers which she'd long pretended to have gotten over. She masked this discomfort by placing a hand on one hip and wringing her back one way, then the other. Her bones, middle-aged and finicky, seemed to ache more frequently every day. Unlike Lysera's, hers had only managed to lose the shape that had once occupied them in her youth. She liked to think she retained some of her beauty, but of course she also liked to think she didn't care one way or the other.

But what would it be like to be a Magnate? To never age. That is . . . if the tales were true, and they had indeed lost mortality's bite long ago. Melka was no beauty, but what she did have was eternal. What was the ability to mold dust when compared to everlasting health and vigor? Falla could recall being thirty, and already it seemed a distant past, almost a different person who used to live in her bones. Those bones had aged, and her cheeks had sagged, and she wore just that much more makeup to cover it.

You're being silly again, she told herself. What are you, a child, playing and making dares with Callo and Emery? One of the reasons she was so hands-off with Phoenix was to give her room to be the young woman she herself had never been allowed to be back at Fenaback. That familial prison. If she could do it all over again . . . would she do it differently?

(Fenaback, Vesev Keep)

Hilda Vesev laid a slender hand on her son's shoulder, painted fingernails curling to bite the lavish cuffs on his dress tunic. "Say it one more time, Sef."

Prosef Vesev stood rigid, still staring out the window of the stone walls of the lower keep as though peering into the Dolce estate, which was visible nearly a mile away across the city of Castile. He made no indication of noticing his mother's touch, which brought the faintest of smiles to her lips. One of simple satisfaction, that of having raised such a perfect man—not one of pleasure. "I will show the Magnates that it was a mistake to choose the masses over the great families," he said dispassionately. Glancing expressionlessly back at her, his eyes displayed the hidden fire, the secret red inferno, that only she could see. "I'll enter the tournament, and I'll win, and I will make you proud."

"That's my boy." This second statement had been only more profound and on-point than the first, and both were the closest thing to music that her ears had ever enjoyed. "And will you tell your father?"

Sef said nothing for a moment, turning back to the arch-framed window. She could practically see the frown coloring his perfect, stoic face. "No. That would not be in the best interest of the family, as the pride of the Vesev would ultimately not be upheld." He turned to face her, and her fingers were brushed aside by his deceptively solid shoulder. The shoulder of an elite, she might say. His elemental wings, which had the power to siphon life itself from living things, were not present. He rarely manifested them, and generally only at her bidding, but she had the utmost confidence that he was the most powerful elementalist the family had seen in generations. To call him a useful tool in her pocket would be an insult to what she had raised. As though going off-script, the young man said, "Mother, you know as well as I that Father is a fool."

"I know, darling. You took his best qualities, and he has little else to give. Victro Vesev, the man who may one day lead the family to its slow, choking demise. You will do well in the games. But of course, I'll do my part and show only surprise when you announce your participation."

Sef nodded slowly.

"And of course," she said in afterthought, "you remember what to use if, by some event, you are in a pinch?"

"It will not come to that, Mother."

"I know, dear, I know. But if, and only—"

"It will not come that far, Mother. The Harbinger, the Magnates and the elders all agreed that the games would be dangerous this year. I fully plan on being that danger."

Characters

Solis Lightwing (SOLE-iss)—The main character, a white-winged boy of unceasing curiosity who longs to see inside the forbidden Earth.

Telsan (TELL-suhn)—Solis’ best friend, a young man of the Bird Tribe.

Phoenix Dolce (DOLE-chay)—Friend of Solis and Telsan, a Flameborn girl of sixteen years. Daughter of Falla Dolce.

Faridi (fuh-RID-ee)—A Tapiq man who frequently volunteers for lookout duty.

Colla—A female Tapiq; often works with Faridi.

Melka—One of the three living Tapiq Magnates.

Donnor—Said to be the eldest of the three living Magnates.

Spore—One of the three living Magnates. Doesn’t say much.

Fey—Late grandmother of Solis, formerly a Magnate who had returned from the Earth and started a family.

Terms

Earth, The—An immeasurable continent that looms over the entire sky. Forbidden to all save those whom the Magnates choose each year.

Megeth (meh-GETH)—Hometown of Solis and his fellow Tapiq people.

Ameros (AM-uh-ros)—Largest island in the southeastern quadrant of the sky, where the Tapiq village of Megeth lies.

Fenaback—Also called the Isle of Colors, this island is home to many elementalists, including powerful families such as the Dolce clan.

Tapiq (tuh-PEEK)—The tribe of winged men who dwell in Ameros and the surrounding islands. As with most tribes, they have adopted some from other tribes and races as their own, while others are visitors.

Magnate—Overseers of the ten tribes who have ascended to the Earth and returned, bearing supposedly infinite knowledge that they choose to keep hidden.

Kinships

Elementalist—One born with a Kinship to an elemental force. They usually lack wings.

Flameborn—Kin of flame. They form their own wings as needed from tongues of fire that sprout from their backs.

Dustborn—Artists of soil and dust. They fly with wings created from nearby dust particles.

Windborn—Wind kin. Unlike other elementalists, these often grow wings just like any other, though some possess a heightened ability allowing them to fly without wings—and thus lacking them.

Waveborn (aka Watchers)—Keepers of the invisible wards that protect the sky islands from falling hazards. Also, those with the rare ability of sound manipulation.

Wards—Magical barriers put in place by the Magnates and managed by the Watchers.

Dewborn—These control moisture and redirect water.

Stormborn—Creators of small storms and electrical currents.

Snowborn—Bringers of frost and snow on a small scale.

Sunborn—Manipulators of light.

Beastborn—These rare kind, seen largely in the northwestern isles, come in different orders according to a certain class of living creature.

Cragborn—Manipulators of stone.