flat of canvas. Another kite, Cal-raven realized.
“It’s been a year,” said Nat-ryan. “A year, master. You cannot build something in haste if you hope for it to stand.” He watched the kite-maker work. “Soro. That’s your name?” He frowned at Cal-raven. “If you know him, why did you run from his camp?”
Cal-raven blinked.
The pillarman continued. “He says he knew there was trouble in Cent Regus’s territory. He went in there and found you half-dead.”
“Soro? He carried me out of there?” Cal-raven closed his eyes. “I woke and thought I was in a slavers’ camp.”
Soro gave the rest of the bread to Nat-ryan. He devoured it, his jaw working hard as an animal fighting for its life.
Soro got up, and the sight was something like seeing a misshapen shrub grow legs. Cal-raven watched the brusque hunchback hobble awkwardly across the grass.
Left alone with the rain and the emaciated pillarman, Cal-raven felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He glanced up at the three shadows on the canvas ceiling, and their strange dance was all the persuasion he needed to step out into the air.
The veering shapes in the sky hypnotized him. They were kites—more kites, smaller and bound to strings that were tied to the tree branches. And yet they flew in concert, darting left and right, diving and rising, dancing in the sky.
“They’re learning,” said Nat-ryan from behind him.
“Learning?”
“Didn’t you see the kite that carried you out? The old man calls that one ‘mature.’ It flew on its own, master. He builds them, and then he trains them to fly but never to wander away. And if he takes their strings, they respond to him.” Nat-ryan shrugged. “Sometimes they fly off on their own, but eventually they fall and break. He runs after them, puts them back together. He says they’re humbler after they’re repaired.” He coughed suddenly, pressing his hands to his chest. “He may be crazy, but he brought me out of the pit.” Then he coughed again, clearly pained by the turmoil in his lungs.
“What happens now, pillarman?”
“Soro’s taking me to the lake. He says there’s good water there. And you don’t want to know what I’ve been drinking here.”
Soro seemed to be adjusting the rods of the heron-kite’s frame.
“Shall we take you along, master?”
“I don’t think you’re equipped to take me on any journey. What do you havehere—a mule?” Cal-raven shrugged. “And I can’t say I’m comfortable around Soro. I don’t know what he wants. I need somebody who can answer my questions. Somebody I trust.” He looked off into the Cragavar.
Where is my teacher now? I wonder
.
Old Soro trudged to the mule at the edge of the trees and lifted saddlebags over its back. Then he paused, distracted, gazing skyward.
A magnificent rain cloud moved westward on high winds, its bulk like the hull of a ship, its highest reaches white and wind-swept like sails. Sunset’s rays beamed along beneath it. The sight lifted Cal-raven momentarily from his distress. He longed to go back into the sky. To forget everything that burdened him.
Soro buckled the saddlebags and began untying the mule from the tree.
Cal-raven walked down toward him. “Where do you plan to take Nat-ryan?”
“Where does an Abascar man belong?” came the bearded man’s reply.
The barb in the question snagged him. “I’m not going with you.” He turned back toward the ruins. “I can’t.”
Soro finished strapping the bags to the mule, then clapped his hands three times, and the animal turned and trotted dutifully into the woods, its ears swiveling as if already watching for predators.
“What are you …” Cal-raven pointed after the animal as if Soro hadn’t noticed. “It’s off with your things!”
Soro ignored him and marched back to the large kite. He began bending the beams of its wingspan. Then he unclasped small latches along those beams and unfolded greater extensions of canvas, doubling the stretch. It
“It’s been a year,” said Nat-ryan. “A year, master. You cannot build something in haste if you hope for it to stand.” He watched the kite-maker work. “Soro. That’s your name?” He frowned at Cal-raven. “If you know him, why did you run from his camp?”
Cal-raven blinked.
The pillarman continued. “He says he knew there was trouble in Cent Regus’s territory. He went in there and found you half-dead.”
“Soro? He carried me out of there?” Cal-raven closed his eyes. “I woke and thought I was in a slavers’ camp.”
Soro gave the rest of the bread to Nat-ryan. He devoured it, his jaw working hard as an animal fighting for its life.
Soro got up, and the sight was something like seeing a misshapen shrub grow legs. Cal-raven watched the brusque hunchback hobble awkwardly across the grass.
Left alone with the rain and the emaciated pillarman, Cal-raven felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He glanced up at the three shadows on the canvas ceiling, and their strange dance was all the persuasion he needed to step out into the air.
The veering shapes in the sky hypnotized him. They were kites—more kites, smaller and bound to strings that were tied to the tree branches. And yet they flew in concert, darting left and right, diving and rising, dancing in the sky.
“They’re learning,” said Nat-ryan from behind him.
“Learning?”
“Didn’t you see the kite that carried you out? The old man calls that one ‘mature.’ It flew on its own, master. He builds them, and then he trains them to fly but never to wander away. And if he takes their strings, they respond to him.” Nat-ryan shrugged. “Sometimes they fly off on their own, but eventually they fall and break. He runs after them, puts them back together. He says they’re humbler after they’re repaired.” He coughed suddenly, pressing his hands to his chest. “He may be crazy, but he brought me out of the pit.” Then he coughed again, clearly pained by the turmoil in his lungs.
“What happens now, pillarman?”
“Soro’s taking me to the lake. He says there’s good water there. And you don’t want to know what I’ve been drinking here.”
Soro seemed to be adjusting the rods of the heron-kite’s frame.
“Shall we take you along, master?”
“I don’t think you’re equipped to take me on any journey. What do you havehere—a mule?” Cal-raven shrugged. “And I can’t say I’m comfortable around Soro. I don’t know what he wants. I need somebody who can answer my questions. Somebody I trust.” He looked off into the Cragavar.
Where is my teacher now? I wonder
.
Old Soro trudged to the mule at the edge of the trees and lifted saddlebags over its back. Then he paused, distracted, gazing skyward.
A magnificent rain cloud moved westward on high winds, its bulk like the hull of a ship, its highest reaches white and wind-swept like sails. Sunset’s rays beamed along beneath it. The sight lifted Cal-raven momentarily from his distress. He longed to go back into the sky. To forget everything that burdened him.
Soro buckled the saddlebags and began untying the mule from the tree.
Cal-raven walked down toward him. “Where do you plan to take Nat-ryan?”
“Where does an Abascar man belong?” came the bearded man’s reply.
The barb in the question snagged him. “I’m not going with you.” He turned back toward the ruins. “I can’t.”
Soro finished strapping the bags to the mule, then clapped his hands three times, and the animal turned and trotted dutifully into the woods, its ears swiveling as if already watching for predators.
“What are you …” Cal-raven pointed after the animal as if Soro hadn’t noticed. “It’s off with your things!”
Soro ignored him and marched back to the large kite. He began bending the beams of its wingspan. Then he unclasped small latches along those beams and unfolded greater extensions of canvas, doubling the stretch. It
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