The windcaller soared down from the clouds to alight in the plaza. Watching the astral artist leap off her greathawk with a flourish and stand amidst the thronging crowd, which seemed to appear from nowhere, Zef recalled to mind every flaw in his plan.

Yet it would work. It had to.

The windcaller was one of the A’avi, as almost all astral artists were. Except for a few nobles’ sons and daughters who were rich enough to be trained by an artist, no one in Foundation seemed touched by starlight. The A’avi’s hair, which had the sheen and texture of feathers, swept back from her head in emerald and pearl hues. Her features were sharp and her body petite, yet though she was a head shorter than the humans surrounding her, her presence commanded the attention of the villagers. Even the mayor, lingering at the crowd's periphery, was dwarfed by the artist's allure.

Zef blinked, trying to clear the haze from his mind. He couldn't trick her if he let himself be dazzled at her first appearance.

Keep a level head, Zef.

Rising, he scrambled down the building, then took up his position at the end of an alley. It was narrow, the home and the bakery to either side of it crowding together, as if competing over whose space it belonged to. But no one traveled through it, and that was the important thing.

Zef checked his props out of the corner of his eye, hidden from view except to himself. The plan was simple, though stealing the components for it had been difficult. Hidden under a pile of refuse was a bellows from the forge over which he and Gail lived. Though he’d felt guilty borrowing from a man who had been so generous to them, he told himself the smith would barely miss it.

When Zef borrowed a thing, he always returned it. And mostly in the same condition.

From there, he only needed to requisition a few parts for rigging up a pedal, all found at a clockmaker's workshop, and set up his contraption, as well as the dead leaves he would make his demonstration with.

There was one problem that could prove fatal to the plan: he had to do his testing here at the alley's entrance. How he would summon the windcaller to him, or have an excuse to bring her back here for his testing, he didn't yet know.

But he hadn't survived this long without being able to think on his feet.

As Zef waited for the testing to begin, his stomach growled. He winced and put a hand to it. With all the work he'd been putting into his deception, he'd had less time to find food for himself. Even Gail was probably a bit hungry, though his brother would never complain of it. Zef had made sure to take half as much as him just in case.

The signal came.

Zef jerked his head up as blue light flared above the plaza. It coalesced into the shape of an egg, then burst outward in shards, revealing a bird composed of crackling lightning.

A sparkroc — or the illusion of one.

As little as Zef knew of the astral arts, he figured the windcaller wasn't powerful enough to summon such a creature in actuality, nor risk it among all these citizens. Still, it took an effort not to cower as his fellow villagers did before him.

An idea sprang to mind.

He didn't hesitate. Long ago, he'd learned his gut was wiser than his head, and he followed it.

Zef ran forth from the alleyway and threw up his arms toward the sparkroc, yelling and standing tall. Its shriek was thunder, crashing against his eardrums, drowning out any noise he made. Yet he made a show of it, turning fear into defiance.

As quickly as it had come, the illusion fizzled out into a smattering of sparks. Zef realized he was still shouting and clamped his mouth shut with a shamefaced grin that was only partly an act. Everyone around him stared, some with disgust upon noting his shabby garments, others with fear as if he were a madman. None of the townspeople looked friendly.

He ignored them all and looked at the one person who mattered here. Zef found the windcaller's eyes and held them. They had the intensity of her greathawk, though her irises were icy blue rather than gold. Sweat dripped down his back. His heart tried fleeing from his chest.

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"You!” the A’avi shouted across the plaza. "Come here!”

Zef backed away, back toward his alley and his hands held up, as if he were afraid of the attention. He hoped she would follow. He needed her to follow.

"I am sorry, High One. I acted out of turn. Please, I beg your forgiveness."

He stopped short of bowing. He needed her to know he had a spine even as he slathered on the pandering.

The crowd had stood, but they parted so as not to stand between the windcaller and Zef. The mayor, however, seemed eager to intervene, bustling over to stand as near to the windcaller as she dared. The greathawk looming behind the artist proved a fine deterrent.

"Please, High One, ignore him,” the mayor pleaded. “He's just a local urchin, unworthy of your time."

Zef burned at her words, but he’d heard them often enough to keep a cool head.

The windcaller ignored the mayor, but she didn’t advance toward Zef. For a long, breathless moment, she only continued to stare.

"Why did you do you that?" the artist said, her tone as imperious as before. "Shout and shake your fists at the sparkroc?”

Zef bowed his head, evaluating where he was in relation to the alley, then placing his foot near the hidden pedal.

"I thought it was attacking the village," he called back. "I wanted to draw its attention from the others, and to prove to you I am brave."

"So you wish the stars to gaze into you?”

"I do."

The A’avi waited a breath, and Zef knew what she expected. He didn't move.

"Well?" she said, her exasperation plain. "How am I to test you from over there?"

"Apologies, High One." This time, he added in a bow. "I'll faint if I come any nearer."

To his surprise, the artist snorted a laugh.

The mayor was at her elbow again, daring to approach a little closer. "He is only causing trouble, High One. Please, I have many prospective candidates—"

The skyscribe only spoke louder. "Is it my greathawk you fear? Yet you faced down a sparkroc only moments before."

Zef bowed again. "My courage surprised me as well, High One."

When he offered nothing more, the skyscribe looked around the crowd, as if to confirm she wasn't the only one hearing his words. Then, to his surprise and delight, she strode toward him.

"Very well," she said as the villagers parted, all watched the scene with the same disbelief Zef felt. "I will not overtax your courage."

Reaching him, the artist stopped and crossed her arms. With her there before him, the allure Zef had felt initially resurged, a feeling very much like heat from a forge emanating from her. Yet it didn’t fall on his skin, but pushed deeper within.

Zef swallowed and didn't have to fake his faltering mettle. This was his moment; here was the test. His fate flew before him, and he had to catch it.

His brother's life hung in the balance.

The thought of Gail steeled Zef's nerves. He nodded, then put on a look of intense concentration and raised his hands.

"I will show you my power, High One," he declared, his words ringing across the plaza. Then, like he’d seen boys and girls do in past years, he thrust his hands toward the pile of leaves and pressed down his foot.

The bellows activated with a wheeze, though not as strongly as he'd hoped, and the sound was loud in the hushed square. But his heart soared as the leaves puffed up two feet in the air, spiraling a little before settling back to the ground.

Zef held back a grin as he looked up at the skyscribe. But her expression wiped away any joy.

Her eyes were like lightning as she stepped toward him. "Would you waste my time, boy?" she hissed. "Would you play me for a fool?"

He had to fight back a swallow. Relying upon a lifetime of deception, Zef held her gaze and willed himself to believe his own lie.

"It is a pitiful display, I know, High One. But given the chance, I swear to you, I will rise higher than any other, as high as the sky reaches."

His eyes felt as if they would burn with the intensity of her gaze, but he didn't look away, nor did he blink. It was like a strange childish contest of who would flinch first. Zef was determined not to lose.

The skyscribe's face twisted, then smoothed again. Zef stared, unsure he trusted his eyes.

For a moment, he could have sworn the artist grinned.

The A’avi faced the crowd, raising both her hands as she did. “The stars are content, for they have found the Aedis’ first candidate."

In the past, those chosen as candidates were greeted with applause. Now, where folk weren't stunned into silence, there was only jeering and protests.

"Him? You can't mean him!"

"Look at his clothes! His hair! Stars and moons, there's grit on his skin!"

Zef barely heard them. He was repeating the windcaller’s words in his head, willing himself to believe they could be true, though it seemed utterly impossible.

The artist didn't try placating the crowd, but only turned to him. He knew he wasn't imagining it now as the corners of her slanted eyes crinkled.

"Follow. I will show you where to find me tomorrow so we can depart. But first, I require answers, answers only you can supply.”

The A’avi turned away without waiting for a response. Zef stared after her for several strides, then roused and tailed her before the crowd closed in her wake.

He was a candidate. His ruse had worked. The stars had gazed into him and not found him entirely wanting.

But he had a feeling he had a lot of work ahead of him still.

Zef glanced up at the sky island casting its shadow on his village. No matter how much convincing it took, he would do it. He had to, for Gail.

For himself.