The Bitterbynde Trilogy by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

over the edge of the platform, out into the chasm of night.
    From behind distant mountains the moon continued to rise, the stars slid imperceptibly across black glass. To the south, ink-dark waters stretched to the head of the bay. The sound of waves on the shore far below was carried upward on a salt wind. Horses nickered faintly, and hooves drummed in the meadows. The two silvery bars hung motionless, four hundred feet off the ground, level with the doorsill’s rock shelving.
    â€œPure alt four hundred sildron ingots, I see,” said Grod Sheepshorn with an exaggerated bow to his superior. “Enough to forge hoof-crescents for half a squadron! Worth a gold piece or two to the guards for the borrowing, eh, my lord?”
    â€œWorth none of your business,” the aristocrat said coldly. “Let’s see you boys perform, now.”
    â€œFirst the wager,” demanded Tren Spatchwort. He stood half a head shorter than Sheepshorn, wiry and lithe.
    â€œOne gold eagle each if you do it. Nothing if you don’t. Maybe a broken neck.”
    â€œWha—one eagle?” stammered Spatchwort. “But my lord said three!”
    Ustorix rounded on the menial, teetering on the edge of civility.
    â€œWell do I recall the agreement. One for the first attempt, two for the second.”
    â€œBut there was nothing said about a second—” Sheepshorn broke off and turned away. When he turned back, he was grinning. The grin did not reach his eyes. He bowed stiffly.
    â€œIs my life worth twenty shillings?” He laughed. “Hey for two sovereigns! My lord knows that we can do the trick once, twice, countless times! For us it is easy! True, Spatchwort?”
    The smaller youth nodded uneasily.
    Sheepshorn flung off his cloak. Measured strides brought him to the back wall of the gatehall. With a lunge, he broke into a run, straight toward the gate, where the sildron bars hung side by side several feet from the edge. His soft boots made no noise on the dominite floor. There would be no noise as his body hurtled down through four hundred feet of space—perhaps a slight disturbance when it encountered the ground below. The nameless watcher seized a martingale and gripped it fiercely. Having reached the platform, the servant-boy flung himself out and up. His leap brought him to the hovering bars. His feet planted firmly, one on each bar, the boy skated through the air, leaning back slightly, carried by his own momentum. It was a daring act, an act of great skill—for a second, as he slowed, he teetered on the brink of losing balance and life, caught it again, and stopped.
    His friend Spatchwort whistled nervously through his teeth. Ustorix said nothing.
    Squatting on his precarious perch, Sheepshorn tied the sildron bars to his boots. When he stood, he grinned again with his eyes—posed, poised like a dancer.
    â€œNow look at me!” he crowed softly, so softly, on the breeze. Noise would bring discovery. “I can walk on the air, like a wizard.”
    A rush of exhilaration had accompanied success. His confidence rose. Lifting a boot, he took a careful step, then another, almost swaggering. Lightly he bobbed in nothingness as he returned to the doorsill and simply stumped back inside.
    Blandly, Lord Ustorix handed over the gold coin to the erstwhile performer, who, suddenly conscious of finishing an entertaining display in style, swept him a deep and ingratiating bow. Perhaps his cynicism was lost on the noble youth; perhaps not. Ustorix showed no sign.
    The sildron ingots having been untied and returned to their gravity-defying position in space, it was Spatchwort’s turn. Moonlight accentuated the two gray wells of eyes in his pale face as he made his run. He stumbled before reaching the platform but recovered well to make the leap, and like Sheepshorn before him, he gained foothold and glided away as if on some invisible cushion. Triumphant, he slowed to a halt and fished a