Once they unloaded Gray and fed her a meal of birdseed, they walked off into the city.
As soon as they stepped off the pier and onto the wharf of the air-harbour, thousands of new sights assaulted Pirin. Vendors selling exotic foods, merchants carrying supplies and pets from far off lands, and of course, people of all sorts. There were only a few elves, and the rest…well, Pirin couldn’t count all the races he saw. Men, ostal, dwarves with their immaculately-braided beards, southern sprites flicking their horse ears and tails, and even a few trolls.
Aerdian guards stood at the edges of the harbour, speaking lazily amongst themselves, and only leapt to action when a well-dressed traveller stepped off a passenger airship. They would escort the tourists—mostly well-dressed ostal—to carriages, which raced away along wooden walkways.
Pirin, Alyus, Brealtod, and Gray wove through the crowd. They ducked between two workers carrying a beam of titanwood, then slipped past a man herding a cluster of chickens.
On the other side of the harbour, a booth sold tickets to the race. That was Pirin’s best shot of entering—for a chance to win a treasure from the Low-Wight’s trove.
When they arrived at the booth, they had to wait in a long line. Every minute that passed, Pirin tapped his foot in his boot. If they didn’t enter in the race soon, then—
“Next!” called the elf manning the booth. “Three tickets? I can’t let you bring your gnatsnapper to the stands, son.”
“I’m here to enter the race,” Pirin stated. “As a contestant.”
For a second, the elf appeared dumbfounded. He pulled out a sheet of parchment and tapped it, then said, “I can’t help you with that.”
“Do you, uh, do you know who can?”
“Look, I don’t know if anyone can.” He scratched his chin, then looked around. Behind him, nestled among the barrels and clutter, was a cloaked figure. The figure looked up, but Pirin couldn’t see anything beneath the figure’s hood.
The elf in charge of the booth continued, “Usually, there’re a few dropouts—these Shadowlords’ and their odd business, y’know—but racers register months in advance. If you want to get in, I’ll—”
Before he finished, Alyus stepped up to the counter. “You’ve got the contestant sheet right there, don’t you?” He leaned forwards, looming over the elf and presenting his ostal horns. The elf trembled. Then, Alyus said, “You boys know me here, yeah? And your boss, Ms. Wighty up there”—he tilted his head up to the side of the canyon, where a large villa of mismatched wood and stone hung over the canyon—“certainly owes me for that last cargo run she never paid for.” By now, Alyus was barely a foot away from the ostal.
“You’re Alyus?” the elf asked. His voice didn’t quiver, but he did raise an eyebrow. “I was expecting someone…shorter. I’m supposed to turn you away if I see you…”
“And I won’t leave. So do you want to be the one who couldn’t get me to turn away, or do you want to jot a name down on your sheet and call it a day?”
“I’ll jot a name down on the sheet, sir.” The elf plucked up a quill and scribbled on the parchment with it. Then, he looked at Pirin. “Name? Title? What should we call you?”
Pirin opened his mouth to speak, but Alyus was faster. “Call him Sailmaker and leave it at that.”
“Very good. You’re in, son.”
Before they could turn away, though, another voice cut through the crowd. The cloaked figure behind the stand stood up. He pulled down the hood of his cloak—he was a man, yet he carried himself differently. When Pirin narrowed his eyes and cycled his Essence, he could feel a pulse of arcane pressure emanating from the man.
A wizard. Probably Flare-stage, from the weight of his spirit.
“This race, boy, is for wizards of the Shadowlords,” said the man. A tattoo scarred one of his cheeks, and a real scar marred the other. He had black hair and dull brown eyes, and a menacing build. Pirin blinked, recalling the mercenary he’d fought at the Silversword school. He couldn’t be the same man…
Pirin swallowed nervously. He adjusted his eyeglasses, then tried, “I didn’t see that rule anywhere—”
“ ‘Course you didn’t hear the rule,” the wizard said. “Wouldn’t want the Aerdians or Dominion poaching the underworld’s best pilots and wizards. We work for the Shadowlords, and it’d better stay that way—can’t go telling everyone who we are. That doesn’t mean it’s not a rule.”
Pirin cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to offend, but…I am a wizard, of sorts.”
“Offense taken, nonetheless.” The man narrowed his eyes and stared at Pirin for a moment.
A shiver ran down Pirin’s spine, and he felt a light push against his core. Was that how it felt to have your spirit scanned? It had never been done to Pirin before…
The man chuckled. “An Embercore. It burned so faintly I could barely feel the Essence in you.” He snorted, then crossed his arms, and a look of glee crossed his eyes. His hand snapped forward faster than Pirin could react. He gripped the edge of Pirin’s coat and pushed it open, revealing Pirin’s sword.
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“Embercore, plain longsword with a crossguard…I don’t suppose you’ve got black hair under that hood,” the man said calmly, though it felt more like an interrogation. “I’d say you’re the arrogant brat who trashed the Silverswords.”
Pirin took a step back, freeing himself from the man’s grasp. “I’m sorry, but you must be mista—”
“I don’t make mistakes,” said the man. “You dishonoured my brother and the school he served, and you deserve everything coming to you. Oh, don’t look at me like that—Silverswords send messengers to their allies too.” He leaned closer, his eyes blazing. “I’ll see you on the starting perch tomorrow. You can have the honour of being swatted out of the sky by Garrosen Tereau himself.”
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The starting perch was barely large enough to fit all of the birds and their riders. Fifty racers all lined up along a wide wooden platform painted with yellow stripes and flourishing elven script.
Pirin climbed onto Gray’s back and pulled a flight helmet on over his hood. The metal helmet clung to his chin with a leather strap and guarded his eyes with a glass visor. He’d pouched it from an unsuspecting courier at the air harbour. The courier was a letter-bearer for wealthy tourists; they wouldn’t miss a single helmet.
He slid his feet into Gray’s stirrups and prepared himself to fly. “Ready, Gray?” he whispered, leaning closer to her back. She cooed softly.
“Some Familiar…” one of the other racers grumbled. “If you can’t sense that it’s ready, then you’re not a very good master.”
Pirin looked around, trying to find the source of the voice, but he couldn’t pick out just one of the other contestants. They were all muttering about him, debating whether he was weak, stupid, or a true Embercore. He turned forwards and nudged Gray towards the lip of the platform. He might not have a Reyad with Gray yet, but he knew how to fly, and that had to count for something.
After a moment, a loud crackle overwhelmed the snickering and hypothesizing. Pirin looked up. Beside the audience risers, a small wooden booth overlooked the canyon. Two candlelit silhouettes stood behind the glass, barely visible past the midday glare. Above the booth, a pair of porous windstones had been suspended on a platform. Bellows fed wind into them, and they amplified the voice of the announcer when air blasted through them.
“Good morning, everyone, and welcome to the Bâllenmarch Classic!”
Suddenly, a pang of fear stuck him. Oh, this is insane. Truly insane. He rubbed his head. He was supposed to race against wizards who all had Reyads with their mounts?
He swatted the thoughts down and clenched his teeth. No time for that.
The announcer continued: “What a fine winter’s day it is for some racing!” He had a distinct, foreign accent, with plenty of lilting syllables that made him sound cheerful no matter what he said. “I expect plenty of carnage, upsets, and most of all: speed! The best pilots of Aerdia, all gathered here today for one purpose: to prove their capability and worth to the Bâllenmarch Low-Wight and earn themselves a treasure of their choosing!”
For a moment, time was stuck in an uncertain loop. The crowd murmured, the riders murmured, and the windstones crackled.
“Three laps of the canyon. Stay within the markers, and don’t kill or maim any civilians!” the announcer finally called. “Without further ado: Pilots, to the edge of the perch!”
The host of pilots shuffled forwards to the edge of the platform. Pirin nudged Gray as far forward as she could walk without plummeting off—her talons reached over the platform’s edge, and she opened her wings, testing them.
“We can do this,” Pirin whispered. “Just a little flying. We’ve done this before.”
“Pilots!” the announcer called. “Launch in three…two…”
Pirin clenched his eyes tight, then his fists. He begged his body for courage, and he hoped Gray would do the same.
“One…go!”
At the announcer’s call, they all leapt off the perch. The other riders’ reactions were faster than lightning, and they had a split-second head start before Pirin managed to signal Gray to leap off the platform.
She pushed off and dove down towards the canyon’s floor. There wasn’t much room to dive, and certainly not enough room to maneuver any less than precisely. The river at the canyon’s base wasn’t deep enough to catch him if he made a mistake. The rocks would turn his fragile skull and body to a red mist.
Seconds before they reached the canyon floor, he pulled back on Gray’s nape. She maneuvered out of the dive, flapping her wings hard and fast. They skimmed just over the surface of the river, stirring up a tidal wave of water and mist.
As soon as they stabilized, Pirin assessed his surroundings. Aside from one other pilot, whose giant bluejay’s wing hung at an awkward angle from an early collision, Pirin was at the back of the pack. He needed to gain some ground.
He pressed his elbows down against Gray’s neck. They blasted forwards through the canyon, steadily climbing higher and higher, away from the river. Pirin guided her left and right, weaving through the tightly-packed houses and buildings of the canyon’s largest city.
A column of chimney smoke choked him, but he coughed it out and wiped his eyes. Every second, the other riders drew further and further away. Before long, he wouldn’t even be able to see them. Their Familiars’ Essence-enhanced bodies were too powerful. They could fly too fast, and…
Pirin squinted. No more excuses. He could fly better than this. He’d woven through the buildings of Northvel tighter, and before that…well, he didn’t remember, but Gray did, and his own instincts remained. Whether he was the best Sirdian bush pilot or the worst racer ever, his past didn’t matter.
There was no other choice.
He made tighter turns. He returned to his breathing pattern and cycled his Essence, and he tried to feel the path ahead. He’d seen it from above, but he just needed to concentrate on the memories. In a second, the buildings and the route through them seemed clearer and more obvious, as if he had been living here for years.
Again, the faint wind in his soul. He drew on it.
He wove around and through the wooden structures, making every turn in just enough time to get through the stacked houses.
Three more turns, and they burst out of the buildings and onto an empty straightaway. He and Gray blasted past two riders.
Pirin grinned. It was time to seize first place.