13. Skyward! #2
No response. Typical.
At the back of the gondola, the old man controlled the helm, and the younger man with curly dark hair and a long face manned the vent controls.
The young man looked in my direction and smirked in a way that was almost a sneer.
If I thought the older man gave me the creeps, it was nothing like the fear that shot up my spine at the predatory look on the younger man’s face.
Wonderful. So we had Captain Creepy and his protégé, Creepy Junior. The family business, apparently. I turned back around and put up the hood of my cloak, hoping they remained at the back of the gondola for the duration of the flight.
I scanned the horizon as we traveled west over the Gulf of Nox.
The cloud cover was like a thick blanket, sandwiching us between the white above and the deep blue below.
Lined up in a row, tiny, synchronized splotches interrupted the sea of white and gradually grew larger.
I followed the V-formation of the flock of cranes heading to their breeding grounds in the north.
With their necks outstretched, the stiff wingbeats of their unhurried flight were quickest on the upstroke.
Their long, rolling calls faded as they became mere specks in the distance.
Cranes were birds of omen and prophecy. One of the many aurai, the nymphs of the breeze. It is said that they see their path from the beginning of the thread to the end, from birth to death. Understanding their way, as it winds through the lands of life, until finally leading them to the Aether.
I shook my head. And then there was me. I could barely figure out where I’d be sleeping each night.
When the queen and her court visited during the 200 Year Celebration, there was a performance of the Dance of the Crane in the Citadel’s great hall.
The twisting and turning of the dancers represented the labyrinth of life, the decisions made between the beginning and the end.
I remember it as if it were yesterday, like everything else that happened during that week. Both the marvelous and the tragic.
It was nine years ago, and I can still see the white and black feathers of the dancers with their red crowns, faces lifted to the sky, wings outstretched.
I stared across the welkin in the direction the flock had disappeared—that same sky the Volanti believed was a sacred place.
The cool morning breeze blew the hood of my cape off my head.
A stronger gust followed, rocking the gondola.
I gripped the bench and wondered if the Goddess Aura was watching.
Or if it was one of her Venti gods here with us.
Most likely Favonius, the god of the west wind, but also the bringer of spring.
And as that headwind pushed against our momentum, the air growing heavier, I doubted we were in his favor at all.
A sigh escaped my lips. Or maybe it’s just the wind. A simple matter of air moving from cooler, high-pressure areas to warmer, low-pressure ones. Nature seemed like a more believable explanation than the divine.
I gazed out at the overcast sky. The sea of white blocked my view of the heavens on the far side.
As a Sideri, it was only natural to want to know that the Gemini gods were watching me from above.
But I haven’t been able to see the stars since I left the Citadel.
How could my Sideri gods watch over me when the clouds were keeping them away?
It was almost midday when that blanket of clouds grew billowy and gray in front of the airship. We were almost through the gulf. Land approached far below as gusts rocked the airship and the sky grew darker. One hit us with such force that Griffon toppled to the side and woke from his nap.
Rumbling thunder and flashes of lightning lit the sky in the distance. Apparently, I hadn’t been soaked enough this week, because the universe clearly felt I needed another go. We had just made it over land when the rain began.
The men rushed back and forth between the various controls at the back of the gondola. Griffon glanced back at the men with a question in his eyes.
“We’re adjustin’ course to go ‘round the worst of it. No need ta worry,” the older man bellowed over the wind.
Griffon and I exchanged a glance, our eyebrows rising in unison. Their frantic hustling cast serious doubt on why this wouldn't be the perfect time to worry.
My confidence up and disappeared when they turned us toward the south. The once-white clouds to our south were now just as dark and angry as the billowing thunderclouds rolling in from the west. And then it was all around us. The air grew heavy, thick with humidity and electric charge.
I held on to the bench tighter and dismissed the idea that it was the god Favonius watching over us. Tempestas must have come swirling in with the gale. The goddess of storms made her entrance as the wind whipped the airship back and forth.
Flashes of lightning crackled across the sky, illuminating the clouds in an eerie, blinding light.
Thunder followed, booming so loud it vibrated through my chest—not just through it, but into it, settling somewhere behind my ribs like it had found a place to live.
I held my soaked cloak down, fighting the wind as it whipped around.
So much for the “weakly little girl” of a storm. This felt more like the weakly little girl had grown up, developed anger issues, and decided to take it out on our tiny airship.
The men were now in a full panic, shouting to one another, adjusting dials, and dropping weights over the side. The older man struggled with the rudder, his hands slipping. Griffon’s wet hair clung to his head as he made his way back to help steady the wheel.
The storm was enormous, and I was nothing, clinging to a bench on a rocking airship as my body hummed with the static electricity in the air.
Pressure behind my ribs swelled with each crack of lightning and each roll of thunder until it felt almost unbearable, like my skin was too small to contain whatever was building.
I clamped down on it and held my breath.
And then it happened.
The sky lit up with another blinding flash.
A loud crack jerked the boat as lightning struck the propeller on the back of the balloon.
Sparks shot into the air. The spinning propeller careened over the men’s heads.
It ricocheted off the ropes attaching the balloon to the gondola on Griffon’s side of the boat, slicing through three of the lines and fraying the fourth—and last rope—on that side, before flying away into the storm.
The starboard side of the boat lurched to an odd angle as the ropes gave way. I grabbed onto the bench to avoid sliding down the deck and watched the fibers of the frayed line spin around, quickly unravelling. The boat gave a violent shudder.
“GRAB THE ROPE!”
My eyes whipped toward Griffon. He wasn’t just yelling. He was yelling to me. His wide eyes pinned me with stark fear. It struck me instantly which rope he was referring to. The ropes on my side of the boat were still secure.
Oh. Oh no.
Without another thought, I turned and dove for the one closest to me. The airship shuddered again, and the deck beneath my feet disappeared. I clung to the rope with both hands as my skirt-covered legs swung against the floorboards of the gondola, the rope fibers biting into my skin.
Now attached only to the port-side ropes, the boat hung sideways, swinging back and forth with the momentum of the drop. There was nothing but angry clouds below my feet. I shook my wet hair out of my eyes and scanned toward the back of the gondola, where the wheel and controls were located.
Everything not bolted down had fallen from the boat and into the abyss below.
The men were gone.
Griffon was gone.