Miles to Babylon

V: The Skyreavers, Part I

The bloated metal airloft hardly looked capable of moving, much less flying. From afar it had seemed a glory worthy of the Holy King himself, with the nation's banner wrought in gold across the gondola, shining like a watchtower beacon atop Ehrnfeldt's skyport tower. But up close... is this truly the same ship? Its hull was a patchwork of riveted iron plates, each with its own gradient of wear. Rust crept like vines along the seams, and the gas envelope was sagging in too many places for Awen's liking. She knew how they worked well enough—she'd watched them drifting across the eastern sky, and had even built a wooden model once—but the idea of handing her life to such a behemoth made the ground swim beneath her feet.

"Is it safe?" she asked, as the gangway groaned toward her.

Miss Lamm smiled sweetly over her shoulder. "You've never flown before, have you? I've flown dozens of times." She placed a hand on Awen's back. "In this same airloft, in fact."

"You aren't frightened?"

"Oh, always," Miss Lamm admitted, "but do you want to know what makes it better?" She pulled Awen under her arm and leaned in. "Once we get on board, no matter what we do, there's not a thing between us and the ground but our own Faith." She grinned at the look on Awen's face, then squeezed her around the shoulders, assuring her that they would all be just fine.

The past twelve hours had been little more than a blur. Awen had changed and packed a small bag, just for one night; afterward, she was told, she needn't want for anything. Her goodbye to Wyn was a tight hug and a quick whisper. As for Auntie Thea, the guildlorist never gave her the chance—she had nodded only once at Awen's decision before disappearing from her study, though the look she'd given Miss Lamm had said quite enough. Awen's eyes still stung, though she'd yet to spill a tear. She wondered if they would.

The inside of the airloft commanded its own sort of awe. Fluorescent lights hummed in the narrow corridors, casting pearly shadows against walls adorned with elaborate gold filigree. Why they would waste such luxury on a child from the quaintest edge of the Kingdom, Awen couldn't say; perhaps they really did think her special. Miss Lamm led the way up two spiraling flights of stairs, past a dining area with a panoramic window, down a hallway full of arched and gilded doors.

"This floor is for important guests," Miss Lamm explained, "The Lord Arcanist and Dr Reilow are around somewhere as well. And this," she turned the key to a door at the end of the hall, "is to be all yours."

If it weren't for the low ceilings, it could have been a lord's chamber. A stained-glass window fractured the morning sun, throwing color across a mahogany wardrobe and four-poster bed large enough to accommodate five of her. "We'll send servants up with meals," said Miss Lamm. "I expect you'll want to sleep, though, won't you? Last night could hardly have been comfortable."

"Sleep—yes, that would be lovely." The night's lodging in Ehrnfeldt, splendid as it was, had been little comfort.

"If you need anything, press that switch by the bed—yes, just there—and a servant will attend you. Ah, and, Awen," she looked back as she turned to go, "should you feel the need to wander, it would befit you to call an escort." With another treacly smile, she took her leave.

Awen threw herself on the bed, feeling the silk breathe against her skin. A rumble through her pillow woke her moments later. She rushed to the window just as the airloft began its ascent, slowly leaving behind the familiar red-brick buildings and streets of Ehrnfeldt. A pane of clear glass offered her a view of the landhood's capital—a city where the lights only seldom went dark, and steam carriages wove their way through buzzing streets and tradesquares. As the ship leaned eastward into the rise, she could just make out the spired towers and weathered, ruddy walls of Ehrnfeldt Lorestead reaching toward her. Below those ramparts were the cobbled paths she'd wandered long ago with Auntie Thea, the fountains where she lay beneath the gaze of stone gargoyles. Can the Holy City truly be any grander?

Sleep would be long coming, with her heart pounding so. Besides, if she kept watching, perhaps she could catch a glimpse of the wild, cursed places that even Darklanders had left behind, where primordial beings slithered in the shade of crumbling monuments... but, of course, that was nonsense. Besides, the airloft was so slow; what she needed was a book. Immediately she thought of the Taran Frith chapbooks she had loved and destroyed. No—she shook off a pang of guilt. She'd been guarding herself against temptation, that's all; temptation by—what? Adventure? Magic? A lot of help that was.

By the time breakfast was brought, boredom had forced Awen to try on nearly every outfit in the wardrobe. Not a one suited her; silky and billowy as they were, the skirts somehow managed to slump down even as they snatched her ankles. There were none of the linen blouses she liked, no boys' breeks at all... the closest thing to home was something near her school uniform, but even it felt foreign to her, its white silk buttons creeping up her throat. In the end, she stood before the mirror in her dirty undershirt, her skin like coal against the whiteness of the walls. A feather-shaped birthmark drew her eyes to her collarbone, where it rose purple out of the flesh. She covered the flaw with her hand, biting her lip. If only they wore tunics here, like the Darklanders... She climbed into bed and closed her eyes, wondering what Lydia would think of all this.