Updraft by Fran Wilde

The Magisters look out for their towers. You’ll be fine.”
    I bristled because Nat didn’t understand, before I remembered that he couldn’t understand. I hadn’t told him anything.
    Florian pulled a bone marker from the bag, but did not look at it.
    The observing guilds and Magisters ensured the Singer could not fail me overtly. But the Spire had ways of meddling with outcomes. Ezarit had always been especially careful in her dealings with them. I fretted the possibilities, then realized that was exactly what they wanted me to do.
    The temporary plinth and the net beneath swayed in the wind. Bone cleats that had been carved into the tower tops of Mondarath and Viit anchored the thick ropes that held the plinth firmly in the sky. Secondary ties looped through moorings cut in Densira’s balconies and Wirra’s. The lines were temporary, made of fiber and the strongest silks, not spliced with sinew. They would hold for our needs and be used again for the wingfights. The plinth was not permanent, not like a bridge. Only Singers could provide the skymouth sinew necessary for a bridge. With it, they bound the city together.
    The towers below us twisted slightly at each tier, each level a little wider than the one above it, lower levels darkening with age and garbage.
    I looked around, praying the skies would keep clear. Several other students did the same. I saw my cousin, the talkative Dikarit, who’d failed Laws and Solo last year. He gestured to me to stand with him, but I waved back, choosing to stay by Nat.
    Seven students had arrived so far from Densira. Six from Viit. Only two from Mondarath, and both looked nervous. Nine from Wirra.
    At a melodic laugh high above us, everyone looked up. Sidra descended, glorious in her wings, visible from any of the towers. Dojha, following her, looked less sure of her own new wings. The fifth warning sounded just as Dojha’s feet touched the plinth. She shook her head at Sidra’s back, but didn’t say anything.
    Florian cleared his throat and addressed his Densira class for the last time. “Welcome, flight,” he said formally. He smiled at Dikarit, but not at me. The cold dawn air ruffled the thinning hair on top of his head. “You are well prepared. Make Densira proud.”
    Three other flight groups gathered on the platform, tight knots around their Magisters. I imagined those teachers giving similar encouragement to their students.
    The Singers hummed a low, slow song: a variant on The Rise. Then the older Singer reminded us of the rules: no talking beyond what the test required, no leaving the plinth, no quarreling with the results. When they finished, the Magisters bowed to us and stepped away, looking for the first time at the chips they’d drawn.
    Each bone chip contained one of four tower symbols. If a Magister drew his or her own, he would hand it back.
    I hoped the Magister from Viit, Calli, would be our Laws tester. Ezarit knew her. She was a daughter of Liras Viit, the wingmaker. The Magister from Mondarath was so new even his students were strangers to him.
    â€œThe old Mondarath Magister was taken by the skymouth,” Sidra whispered. No one shushed her.
    Magister Calli joined the two students from Mondarath. Her task this round would be short.
    Our Magister went to Wirra.
    And Magister Dix from Wirra went to Viit. I released a little air from my lungs. One hurdle passed.
    Mondarath’s Magister walked to our group. He seemed very young. Below us, no one on the towers would know yet, but when they learned of it, they would think us unlucky from the start. So many students, with such a young tester.
    When I looked at him more closely, I realized he was barely older than my cousin.
    â€œI am Magister Macal,” he said. “And you are my first flight test.”
    Sidra groaned, so softly that only the flight group could hear her, not the Magister.
    â€œEnough, Sid!” Dojha whispered.
    Macal began