“Are we almost there?” Tristan asks impatiently.
“Just a little higher,” I say, gazing up into the star-flecked sky.
“But we’ve passed just about all the skymounts . . . and I’m tired.”
“Oh, stop complaining,” I tease. “You’re the one who wanted to go so badly, remember?”
We fly in silence. Soon the dark, shapeless outline of the High Skymount beckons from above like a beautiful temptation best resisted.
“I’m scared,” I say in a small voice.
“I know.”
“Tris, let’s go back.”
“Too late for that,” he whispers, entranced.
We overshoot the High Skymount, then begin our descent, aiming for the woods along its edge so we won’t be seen by the Alulas in the wide clearing at its center. I feel my hands shaking as I glimpse them on our way down. Gathered in one giant circle is the entire royalty of the skymounts—from the old Council members, who have no arms at all, to the youngest members of their family flits, who have whole arms just like mine. They all look so proud and fearless as they stand there in silence, their eyes closed and their elegant Sending dresses fluttering in the breeze like pairs of rebellious wings. My heart pounds with renewed anger. Of course they’re fearless. They Send others; they need not worry about being Sent themselves.
We slam-hit the surface as silently as we can. Landing on the skymounts is much more jarring than landing on the ground below.
“Get your hair out of my face, will you?” Tristan whispers, waving away the mass of curly tangles.
I flip my hair back. Tristan hates landing on the skymounts because my hair always falls forward into his face. Usually I find it funny, but nothing is funny to me now. Not with the Council so close.
“That reminds me . . . here,” Tristan says, pulling something out of the pocket of his flying cloak. “I carved this out of that skymount wood you gave me.” He hands me what looks like a misshapen comb, and my fingers confirm a row of uneven but smooth teeth.
The pleasure of surprise makes me forget about the Sending for a moment. I wonder how long it took Tristan to carve out all those teeth, and I smile, hoping it took him quite a while. “I love it. Thank you, Tris.” I start the comb through my hair, and we both struggle to hold back our laughter when it gets stuck there.
“I wish we were allowed to be friends,” he says.
“It’s not our fault we Alulas aren’t allowed to come near the Mantaurs,” I point out. “They endanger our lives.”
It’s true, too: even the necessity of the Merging is a dangerous task. I’ve never been old enough to take part in the Merging, but I remember my family flit warning me how risky it is. The Mantaurs, interested only in fighting the Alulas, view the Merging as just another opportunity to tear off some Alulas’ wings. So the Alulas must spray entire packs of Mantaurs from overhead with a strong herb to make the Mantaurs drowsy first. Then they have to do quickly the thing necessary to perpetuate our kind, and leave before the Mantaurs’ drowsiness wears off and they can attack.
Tristan looks in the direction of the gathering, now masked by the trees. “It puffs the Alulas up—comparing themselves to the Mantaurs—doesn’t it? Makes them feel holy when they’re really not.” I’m about to argue when he abruptly straightens and says, “I’m moving in closer.”
“No, wait! They could see us.”
“Hess, their eyes are closed.” He inches forward.
“Wait! If they see me—especially with you, a Boytaur—”
“It’s okay.” He reaches behind, takes my hands in his, and holds them there, steadying them. “It’ll be okay.” He creeps to the edge of the woods and peeks out at the clearing.
I want to leave. I want to jump right off him and fly far away. But as I watch the back of his head as he strains forward in the darkness, all I can think of is that first time we ever hid out together. And I know I cannot desert him.
The first time we hid out was also the first time we met. I had been flying longer than I should have on that memorable day, and a sharp cramp in my wing had sent me plunging straight down to the forbidden ground. Never before had my feet touched anything but the dry soil of the skies, and the strange feel of the moist, springy ground made the bottoms of my bare feet prickle with fear. No sooner had I begun surveying that treeless, hilly land for a place to hide when a faint rumbling sound filled my ears.
Not knowing if I was hearing a herd of animals or a hunting pack of Mantaurs, I froze, thinking of all the terrible stories I’d heard about the Mantaurs. How they viciously devoured the animals of the ground and even turned on their own kind, killing each other for food when there were fruit and nut bushes all around them. (The Mantaurs have no qualms when it comes to what they eat; they even chew on the evil weeds that the Great Alula forbids.) My common sense returned to me then, and I ran into the nearest of many hillside caves. The inside of the cave was just as smooth as its sloping exterior: I frantically searched for rocks to hide behind but found only a curtain of mossy vines growing up the back wall. I squeezed between the vines and the wall, gritting my teeth at the shock of the dank, clammy sandwich. But the physical discomfort didn’t distract me for long, because I heard another sound—a very nearby sound—and saw a Boytaur slip into the cave after me. I froze again. I felt he knew I was there, though he did not look at me. He pressed his horse’s body against the side of the cave and strained his head forward, peering out in the direction of the rumbling. I had enough time to notice that he was about my age and that he had a curious glow about him before I saw the other Mantaurs and Boytaurs.
They were galloping so fast that at first I was relieved to think they were passing right by. But they circled back and spread out, slowing to a halt all around the cave. I nearly stopped breathing at the sound of their hooves on the hilltop above me and the sight of several large, muscular forms just outside the cave’s mouth.
Then I heard them speak, and I sucked in my breath in horror.
“I’ll tear her wings off!” growled one.
“No, whoever finds her does!” yelled another. “Then we’ll all take turns torturing her.”
I pressed harder against the soft wall, praying to the Great Alula to let me sink right into it, disappear. The thought of the Mantaurs attacking each other and the animals of the ground had always made me ill. But that was nothing compared with the sick panic that throbbed in my head at the thought of them attacking me.
I was still desperately praying when one of the Mantaurs headed straight for the cave opening.
I dug my fingernails so deep into the cave’s wall that it hurt. But before the Mantaur came close enough to see inside, the glowing Boytaur stepped out from his hiding place, blocking the way. The Mantaur stared at the Boytaur, his eyes wild.
“Go back where you came from, glowing freak!” the Mantaur shouted. He spat out a wad of evil weed he had been chewing. It barely missed the Boytaur.
I dug my nails deeper into the wall.
“No,” said the Boytaur with defiant confidence. “You go back.”
The Mantaur glared at him, open hatred boiling in those wild eyes. Yet there was fear in his eyes, too, and to my disbelief he backed away from the cave without even looking inside. The rest of the Mantaurs followed his lead: soon the whole pack had gone off somewhere else to hunt for me, shouting back and forth about my location.
I let out a sigh.
Cautiously, the Boytaur turned and cantered on his hoofed legs to where I stood, still plastered against the wall. “If you come with me to my cave, you’ll be safe from them,” he said shyly.
I studied his face, wary of any Mantaur. And it was then that I noticed his eyes were the center of his light, the sun that gave off his wondrous rays. . . .
I lean forward on his back and peer over his shoulder. One Alula has broken from the ring of faces and, eyes still closed, has begun walking quietly forward. She is no older than I am and, from the expression on her face, not much braver either. I recognize her at once. Often I have flown in the same flit with her, but never have I tried talking to her or responded with much friendliness when she tried talking to me. I’m glad of it now, too. Glad she won’t be yet another Alula for me to miss.
Tristan whispers. “Is she—”
“Shhh. Yes,” I say. “She is the one they’re Send—”
“Shhh! Look.”
As the Alula takes her place at its center, the circle closes up, and another Alula—one of the Council members—spreads her wings and lifts her wrinkled face toward the treetops swaying beyond her shut eyelids. The other Alulas raise their heads as she speaks:
“Great Alula, Goddess of the Winged Women, please take this child safely to the plane of our choosing: the human plane—an existence parallel to ours, at once here and not here. Please guide her to fulfill her duty there. We sacrifice her for the good of all the planes, and our blessing goes with her.” She pauses, then cries, “Great Alula, we give her to You!”
I shiver. There is a visible relaxing in the circle, then a flurry of wings—wings that fly up and down as if moved by another force, like leaves dancing on windblown boughs. I can still feel Tristan’s hands in mine, and I hold them tight. When the beating finally stops and the circle starts to break up, the Alula in the center is gone.
“Wow,” Tristan breathes.
“All right, it’s over. Time to go,” I say, spreading my wings anxiously.
“I wonder why they Sent her to the human plane,” he ponders, ignoring my words.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“I wonder how it felt for her,” he says.
“Well, it felt pretty unpleasant for me, so can we just—”
“Okay, okay.”
The Alulas are walking away now, heading for the nearest entrance to the High Skymount’s interior. They look content, at peace. But it’s a cold content, a proud peace. Tristan lets out a final wistful sigh, and we briefly gallop as best we can between the trees, then lift off. We’re just about to clear the skymount’s edge and dive down into the black sky when I feel uneasy and glance back over my shoulder.
My uneasiness is not calmed by the sight of a young Alula, face upturned and eyes open wide, staring right up at me.
The sound of Tristan’s eager whisper jerks me back to the frightening present. “Come on, Hess!” he urges, giving my hands a squeeze. “Take a look at this.”