Taking Flight

At the very least, he told himself, he should go down and walk a few paces on it, just so he could honestly say, when he got home, that he had traveled on the Great Highway. After all, wasn’t that part of the point? Wasn’t he trying to do things that he could brag about when he got home? He didn’t really think he had ever seriously wanted to stay away forever, and the seer had said he would return. He couldn’t quite imagine not going back home sooner or later.

He just hadn’t intended it to be quite so soon.

He had learned years ago, in the face of his sisters’ mockery, to keep his mouth shut about Zindre’s predictions; still, he had secretly harbored hopes of someday making them all come true.

Now he was finally convinced it would never happen. The World was just not an exciting place. There were no wonders to be seen.

He would just go home and be a farmer.

Something moved in the corner of his eye; he looked up, startled. The movement had been off to the left; he turned and looked, trying to spot it again.

At first, of course, he looked at the highway, and then at the fields to the far side, and then along the row of low hills along the near side. Only when the sparkle of something bright catching the morning sunlight drew his gaze upward did he spot it.

It was pale and gleaming and more or less cross-shaped, flying along above the highway, and initially he took it for a huge and unfamiliar bird. It swooped closer as he watched, gleaming in the dawn as he had never seen a bird gleam. He stared, trying to make it out, and realized that it was no bird.

It was a person, a person with wings, and it was coming toward him.

He hesitated, unsure whether to run or stand his ground. A person flying meant magic, and magic, much as he wanted to see it, could be dangerous.

The World might not be quite so dull as he had feared, but, he told himself, it might be more dangerous than he had thought.

Then the flying figure drew close enough for him to see the curve of breast and hip, the long sweeping flow of golden hair, and he knew it was a woman, a young woman, and like any lad of sixteen he wanted to see more of her. He stood his ground.

The figure drew closer and closer, her wings spread wide to catch the gentle morning breeze; they flapped occasionally, but she was gliding more than actually flying. Sunlight gleamed brilliantly from the wings, sparkling and iridescent; rainbows seemed to flicker across their silvery-white surfaces. She was wearing a white tunic with colored trim, though he could not yet make out the details; below the tunic were fawn-colored breeches, rather than the skirt a woman should be wearing-Kelder supposed a skirt would be impractical in flight. Her dangling feet were bare.

He held his breath, expecting her to veer away or vanish at any moment, but she came closer and closer. He could see her face now, the high cheekbones and turned-up nose, the large eyes and mouth. She was very young, not so much a woman as a girl, his own age or even a year or two younger. The trim on her tunic was green and blue embroidery, depicting leaves and flowers.

He stared, utterly astonished, as with a final swoop she settled gently to the earth not ten feet away from him.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her face was heart-shaped and perfect, her eyes a deep, pure blue, her hair a flowing stream of gold. Kelder had heard of blondes, and had even seen pictures, but he had never seen one in person before.

The wings that grew from her upper back were sleek and white, with every curve gleaming polychrome; the back of her tunic was slit on either side and hemmed to allow them through. In front her breasts filled the tunic out nicely.

As she landed her wings, which had spread at least five yards from tip to tip, folded about her sides, like a cape. The embroidery at her neckline and on her cuffs, he noticed, showed morning glory vines in full bloom. A bloodstone as big as the top joint of his thumb glowed at the base of her throat, catching the morning sun.

She was four or five inches shorter that he was, though he was scarcely a giant-a shade below average height, in fact. She looked up at him with those deep blue eyes.

“Hello,” she said, speaking the single Ethsharitic word in a soft and velvety voice.

“Hello,” Kelder replied, when he had caught his breath. He was suddenly very, very glad that Luralla’s grandmother had known Ethsharitic.

Who was this miraculous creature? And why was she speaking to him? Had Zindre told the truth after all? Was this one of the prophesied wonders?

Was she perhaps even more?

“I’m Irith the Flyer,” she said. “Who are you?”

“I’m … I’m…” He gulped and tried again. “I’m Kelder of Shulara.”

She studied him thoughtfully for a moment, and then pointed to the south. “Shulara’s that way, isn’t it?” she asked, cocking her head prettily to one side.

Kelder nodded, staring down at her. She was unbelievably beautiful.

“Then what are you doing here?” she asked, blinking up at him.