Taking Flight (Ethshar) Read online

  And if he was to see great cities and vast plains, that could well mean Ethshar.

  Kelder had discovered, to his pleased surprise, that each language he attempted was easier than the one before. He had feared that his brain would fill up with words until he could fit no more, but instead he had found patterns, similarities between the different tongues, so that learning a third language was easier than a second, and the fourth was easier still.

  Even so, a year's spare time, given the distractions caused by all his chores on the farm, was not enough to really become fluent in any of them. He felt he could get by well enough in Trader's Tongue, and knew enough Ethsharitic to avoid disaster in the event no other tongue would serve. In Aryomoric he was, he judged, about on a par with a three-year-old, while in Uramoric and Ressamoric and Elankoran he knew only scattered phrases.

  But then, he didn't intend to need Uramoric or Ressamoric or Elankoran, or even Aryomoric. He had decided to strike out to the north, all the way to the Great Highway, where his Trader's Tongue and Ethsharitic could be put to use—to the Great Highway that ran between the legendary bazaars of Shan on the Desert to the east, and the huge, crowded complexity of the Hegemony of Ethshar, with its ancient capital, Ethshar of the Spices, to the west. The seer had said she saw a road stretching before her that he would travel—what other road could it be, but the Great Highway?

  So he had set out, his pack on his shoulder, and for three days he had marched north, through pastures and meadows, past farms and villages, through most of Shulara into Sevmor, and then from one end of Sevmor to the other.

  At least, he thought he had passed beyond Sevmor, because he had never heard of any highways that ran through Sevmor. The Great Highway ran through Hlimora, and he therefore now believed himself to be in Hlimora.

  What else could that road be, but the Great Highway?

  And what was it, but a long strip of dirt?

  Three days of thirst, sore feet, and backache had taken much of the glamor out of his plans, and the sight of that empty road was the pebble that sank the barge. This trip, like the others, was a failure.

  Maybe his sisters had been right all along, and Zindre the Seer was nothing but a lying old woman. He would never see the great cities she had promised him, the strange beasts and beautiful women, the mighty magic.

  He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, then plumped up the pack to serve as a pillow. His food was gone; he had eaten the last at midday. He would need to use his precious handful of coins to buy food from now on, whether he went on or turned back.

  And in the morning, he promised himself as he lay down, in the morning he would turn back. He would go home to the family farm, to boring old Shulara, and he would stay there, dismal as that prospect was. He would listen to his family and give up his belief in the seer's prophecy.

  After all, what need did he have of the wonders she had promised? He had a safe, secure position. With all three of his sisters married he would one day own the farm himself, the green pastures and the rich cornfields and the thirty head of cattle. He would undoubtedly marry someone—probably not the magical beauty the seer had predicted, but someone boring, like Inza of the Blue Eyes from across the valley. They would settle down and have children. That was just what his family had always said would happen, and they were right after all. He wouldn't see any wonders, wouldn't be an honored champion—all he would do would be to keep his parents happy by working the farm.

  How horribly dull!

  He opened his eyes and peered down through the darkness at the highway. The greater moon was rising, casting a pale yellow glow, so he could still see the road, faintly.

  It looked horribly dull, too—that was the problem. All of life, all the World, seemed to be horribly dull, with no wonders or beauty anywhere.

  Maybe he was just tired, he thought. Maybe everything would look better in the morning.

  Even if it did, though, he would go home—not covered in glory at all.

  He sighed, and closed his eyes, and slept.

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  Chapter Two

  He awoke twice during the night, shivering with the cold; each time he curled himself up into a tighter ball, pulled the blanket more closely about him, and went back to sleep. The third time he awoke the sun was squeezing up out of the ground, far to the east, and he blinked at it unhappily.

  With a sigh, he rubbed his eyes and sat up, remembering just where he was.

  He was facing north atop a low hill, and below him lay the legendary and very disappointing Great Highway. To his left both moons were low in the west, and to his right the sun was just rising, and the combination cast long, distorted, and colored shadows across the hills. The sky was streaked with pink and gold and feathered with bits of cloud. The morning air was cold and sharp in his nostrils, carrying the smells of wet grass and morning mist.

  A dawn like this was a sort of wonder, at any rate, but no more so than he might have seen back home.

  He got to his feet and stretched, trying to work some of the stiffness out of his joints, and stared down at that disappointing strip of dirt below.

  At the very least, he told himself, he should go down and walk a few paces on it, just so he could honestly say, when he got home, that he had traveled on the Great Highway. After all, wasn't that part of the point? Wasn't he trying to do things that he could brag about when he got home? He didn't really think he had ever seriously wanted to stay away forever, and the seer had said he would return. He couldn't quite imagine not going back home sooner or later.

  He just hadn't intended it to be quite so soon.

  He had learned years ago, in the face of his sisters’ mockery, to keep his mouth shut about Zindre's predictions; still, he had secretly harbored hopes of someday making them all come true.

  Now he was finally convinced it would never happen. The World was just not an exciting place. There were no wonders to be seen.

  He would just go home and be a farmer.

  Something moved in the corner of his eye; he looked up, startled. The movement had been off to the left; he turned and looked, trying to spot it again.

  At first, of course, he looked at the highway, and then at the fields to the far side, and then along the row of low hills along the near side. Only when the sparkle of something bright catching the morning sunlight drew his gaze upward did he spot it.

  It was pale and gleaming and more or less cross-shaped, flying along above the highway, and initially he took it for a huge and unfamiliar bird. It swooped closer as he watched, gleaming in the dawn as he had never seen a bird gleam. He stared, trying to make it out, and realized that it was no bird.

  It was a person, a person with wings, and it was coming toward him.

  He hesitated, unsure whether to run or stand his ground. A person flying meant magic, and magic, much as he wanted to see it, could be dangerous.

  The World might not be quite so dull as he had feared, but, he told himself, it might be more dangerous than he had thought.

  Then the flying figure drew close enough for him to see the curve of breast and hip, the long sweeping flow of golden hair, and he knew it was a woman, a young woman, and like any lad of sixteen he wanted to see more of her. He stood his ground.

  The figure drew closer and closer, her wings spread wide to catch the gentle morning breeze; they flapped occasionally, but she was gliding more than actually flying. Sunlight gleamed brilliantly from the wings, sparkling and iridescent; rainbows seemed to flicker across their silvery-white surfaces. She was wearing a white tunic with colored trim, though he could not yet make out the details; below the tunic were fawn-colored breeches, rather than the skirt a woman should be wearing—Kelder supposed a skirt would be impractical in flight. Her dangling feet were bare.

  He held his breath, expecting her to veer away or vanish at any moment, but she came closer and closer. He could see her face now, the high cheekbones and turned-up nose, the large eyes and
mouth. She was very young, not so much a woman as a girl, his own age or even a year or two younger. The trim on her tunic was green and blue embroidery, depicting leaves and flowers.

  He stared, utterly astonished, as with a final swoop she settled gently to the earth not ten feet away from him.

  She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her face was heart-shaped and perfect, her eyes a deep, pure blue, her hair a flowing stream of gold. Kelder had heard of blondes, and had even seen pictures, but he had never seen one in person before.

  The wings that grew from her upper back were sleek and white, with every curve gleaming polychrome; the back of her tunic was slit on either side and hemmed to allow them through. In front her breasts filled the tunic out nicely.

  As she landed her wings, which had spread at least five yards from tip to tip, folded about her sides, like a cape. The embroidery at her neckline and on her cuffs, he noticed, showed morning glory vines in full bloom. A bloodstone as big as the top joint of his thumb glowed at the base of her throat, catching the morning sun.

  She was four or five inches shorter that he was, though he was scarcely a giant—a shade below average height, in fact. She looked up at him with those deep blue eyes.

  “Hello,” she said, speaking the single Ethsharitic word in a soft and velvety voice.

  “Hello,” Kelder replied, when he had caught his breath. He was suddenly very, very glad that Luralla's grandmother had known Ethsharitic.

  Who was this miraculous creature? And why was she speaking to him? Had Zindre told the truth after all? Was this one of the prophesied wonders?

  Was she perhaps even more?

  “I'm Irith the Flyer,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “I'm ... I'm...” He gulped and tried again. “I'm Kelder of Shulara.”

  She studied him thoughtfully for a moment, and then pointed to the south. “Shulara's that way, isn't it?” she asked, cocking her head prettily to one side.

  Kelder nodded, staring down at her. She was unbelievably beautiful.

  “Then what are you doing here?" she asked, blinking up at him.

  “I ... I wanted to see the Great Highway,” Kelder replied, horribly aware that his answer sounded stupid.

  She turned to look down at the road. “Well, there it is,” she said. “It's not really much to look at, around here.” She turned back and smiled at him. “Of course, this is one of the dull parts,” she said. “The best parts are at the ends.”

  That was a fascinating bit of information, and Kelder was very pleased to have it. “You have traveled on the Highway?” he asked. The Ethsharitic words came to his tongue with difficulty; he feared that if the conversation went on he would soon be lost.

  Irith grinned at him. “Oh, I've been back and forth along it a hundred times!” she said. “What about you?”

  “I came here last night,” he admitted. “From Shulara.”

  “Oh.” She glanced southward. “They don't speak Ethsharitic there, do they?”

  “No,” Kelder admitted.

  “I don't think I remember how to speak Shularan,” she said, apologetically. “Would you rather speak Trader's Tongue?”

  “Ah ... it might be easier, yes,” Kelder agreed, relieved. Trader's Tongue shared rather more vocabulary with Shularan than did Ethsharitic, and the grammar came more easily. Besides, Tikri Tikri's son had been a more knowledgeable and congenial teacher than Luralla the Inquisitive.

  Irith nodded. “All right,” she said, in Trader's Tongue. “You came here cross-country all by yourself?”

  Kelder needed a minute to switch languages; then he replied, “Well, there aren't any roads in Shulara, not really.” Trader's Tongue was much easier, once he had made the adjustment.

  “Oh, I know,” she said. “I was there once, a long time ago. It's pretty, but not very exciting.” She shrugged, then looked back up into his eyes. “Is that why you left?” she asked. “To find somewhere more exciting?”

  “Something like that,” he agreed, marvelling at how she seemed to be equally fluent in both tongues. “I wanted to seek my fortune, you know, like in the stories. My father wants me to just stay home and be a farmer like he did, and he ... well, I didn't want to. Or at least, not yet.” He made no mention of the prophecy, for fear she, like his sisters, would think it stupid and laugh at him.

  She nodded. “Grown-ups can be so boring, can't they?” She giggled.

  The sound, Kelder thought, was almost like birdsong.

  Bright and beautiful, with a laugh like birdsong, with a magic all her own—this was the girl he was to marry! It had to be, beyond a doubt. He would bring her to his home in pride and delight, and spend his life with her in joy.

  That was what the seer had said. Kelder swallowed.

  Irith smiled at him, then abruptly sat down, cross-legged, on the grass. The movement exposed her ankles, and Kelder noticed something on one of them, several narrow bands encircling her leg.

  Then she stretched her arms over her head and yawned, and Kelder stared at the display of curves elsewhere and forgot about her ankles. Wings aside, blonde hair aside, Irith was still far more interesting than Inza of the Blue Eyes.

  “I got up early this morning,” she said casually, when the yawn was done. “I wanted to do a little early flying, before anybody else was up.”

  Kelder settled to the ground himself, far more slowly and carefully, a few feet away from her. He stared at her, at the great shining wings, and wondered where she had come from. If he was going to marry her, he wanted to know something about her background. Was there a whole nation of winged people somewhere?

  That would be a wonder worth seeing!

  “Do you live around here?” he asked.

  “Oh, I don't live anywhere in particular,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Just wherever I happen to land.” She smiled at him again, an intoxicating smile. He smiled back without knowing why.

  “What about your family?” he asked.

  “Don't have any,” she said. “They're all long gone.”

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” he replied.

  She turned up an empty palm in a shrug.

  They sat silently for a minute, each contemplating the sunlight on the grassy hillside and the road below. The place that Kelder had found so dismal the night before somehow seemed to be sparkling with beauties and possibilities now that Irith had appeared. Kelder wanted to say something to her—he wanted to impress her, to sweep her off her feet, to hurry along the process of courtship and marriage. Zindre had told him he would marry this creature, but she had never said how long it would take.

  But Kelder found himself tongue-tied, unable to think of a word. Irith's beauty was overwhelming.

  Then Irith asked, “So, if you're off to seek your fortune, how old are you, anyway? The traditional age is still thirteen, right? You certainly don't look thirteen.”

  “I'm not,” he admitted. “I'm sixteen.”

  She nodded. “I guess you left it a bit late, then?”

  He nodded. “What about you?” he asked.

  “I'm fifteen,” she said.

  He nodded again. That was just right, a year younger than himself.

  Not that he would have minded if she weren't.

  After a moment's hesitation, he gathered his nerve and said, “I never saw anyone with wings before.”

  She giggled—definitely birdsong, he thought.

  “As far as I know,” she said, “there isn't anyone else with wings. Just me.”

  “Oh.” That answered that, and disposed of any notion he might have had of finding a land of winged people, but left her background a complete mystery. Kelder tried to think of some clever way to phrase his next question, but couldn't. “How did you come to have wings, anyway?” he said. “Were you born with them?”

  She giggled again. “No, silly, of course not!” She pushed playfully at his shoulder.

  Startled and pleased by the unexpected familiarity, he asked, “Then where'd you get them?”<
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  She blinked at him, and then leaned over toward him as if she were confiding a secret. “Well,” she said, “I was a wizard's apprentice once, a long time ago. And I think I was pretty good at it, too. But my master was an old grouch, really stuffy about all these stupid rules and regulations and his precious guild and all my obligations as a wizard in training, and all that stuff, and I just got really fed up with it all, you know? So one day when he'd been especially nasty to me, after I was done crying and while he was out at the market or somewhere, I borrowed his book of spells—or stole it, really, I guess, since he'd told me never to touch it, but I gave it back. Anyway, I took it, and looked up a spell he'd told me about that would give me wings, and I used it, and it worked! See?” She preened slightly, flexing her wings so that they caught the sunlight and shimmered brightly.

  “They're beautiful,” Kelder said, in honest admiration. He was tempted to reach out and touch them, but dared not.

  He wondered what it would be like, taking a flying girl to bed. Would the wings get in the way?

  She smiled as she peered over her shoulder at them. “Aren't they? And flying is such fun!"

  He smiled back at her, sharing her delight, then asked, “What happened after that? Did the wizard catch you?”

  She laughed. “No, silly,” she said. “At least, not then. I just flew away and never came back. And the next time I saw him wasn't for years, and by then nobody cared any more, and we just forgot about the whole thing.”

  Kelder nodded. “So you never finished your apprenticeship?”

  “No. Why should I? I've got everything I need!” She spread her wings wide, and the breeze they made blew the hair back from Kelder's forehead. “See?” she said.

  He stared in amazement. He wondered just what she meant when she said “years,” though. She couldn't mean it literally. After all, she must have started her apprenticeship at age twelve—that tradition was so ancient and sacred that Kelder couldn't imagine it being violated—and it must have taken her at least a year before she learned enough magic to attempt something like a wing-making spell, and got fed up enough with her master to use it. He had always heard how difficult wizardry was, and he would have thought it would take at least a journeyman wizard to do something like that; the magicians he'd seen mostly limited themselves to little stunts like lighting fires or making trees whistle. Nobody could have made journeyman before age eighteen, from what he'd heard—sixteen at the very least. And yet Irith claimed she'd gotten her wings and run away years ago, and she was only fifteen now.