The Roar of the Lost Horizon Read online

  Nate made it to the dormitory without incident, and he bolted inside and up the stairs to the third floor, where the male trainees slept. Nate shared a room with three of the oldest boys. They were all younger than him by at least two years. He knew from overhearing their excited talk over the past few days that their aptitude tests had gone considerably better than his. They were now waiting for finalization of their ship assignments before they packed their things and began their new lives at sea with the wind on their skin and the sky over their heads and the pride of the empire on their shoulders. They were also blessedly absent from the room, just as Nate had hoped.

  He pulled his worn bag down from the hook beside his bed and shoved his possessions inside: a few shirts and trousers, a couple pairs of thick socks, and the carved wooden bird he’d managed to hold on to from childhood. The paint had long since worn away and there were scratches and chips in the wood from the times it had been stolen and hidden and abused by academy trainees over the years, but Nate had always managed to find it again. It was small in his hand and looked so fragile, but it had survived the academy alongside him. It deserved a better fate than the mines. Perhaps his mother might like to have it. Nate placed it in his pack, tugged on his coat, and grabbed his worn cap from the edge of the bed. He pulled it low over his eyes and stepped out of the room without a glance back. He hurried down the steps, hoping to make it outside and away from the dormitories without anyone seeing him.

  Luck was not on his side. He was just stepping off the stairs when the front door banged open and five of the younger trainees raced inside, faces red and raw from their run up from the beaches. They saw him immediately, and Nate felt their eyes lock on the pack over his shoulder. They knew he was leaving for good, and Nate had no choice but to gather the remains of his dignity and walk past them. They were all younger than Nate by far, with only two of them old enough to have received their Skill marks. That did not guarantee that they’d let him leave with any of his pride intact.

  Nate kept his eyes on a point over their heads, banking on his indifference to the children and their hunger after their exercise to let him slip past with minimal interaction. Two of the girls and the youngest boy in the group moved silently aside as he approached the door, but the older trainees looked hard at Nate, and he felt their eyes clawing at the plain tattoo on his face. A sideways smirk spread over the older boy’s face, mean and ugly beneath the blue Lowwind tattoo on his brow.

  “The Nowind’s finally leaving,” he said, his voice pitched low but easily loud enough to carry to everyone in the room, Nate included.

  Nate’s mouth went dry.

  “You think he finally got a posting?” the older girl murmured back, also a Lowwind, and also too loudly to be considered discreet.

  Nate brushed past them and reached for the door.

  “Don’t be stupid,” the boy snickered. “Who would ever want Nate Nowind?”

  Nate closed the door behind him with a hard click. His eyes burned as he walked to the transportation office a few streets over.

  Years ago, he’d tried to fight back against the nickname, both mentally and physically, but it had passed itself down the generations of academy trainees like a plague. First, the Highwinds had adopted it, using it as an extra reason to look down on him for his lesser Skill. It did not take long for the Lowwind trainees to latch on to it with gleeful malice, ecstatic to have found a way to call out the weakest among them and offer a clear target for the torment of the Highwinds. Then one of the instructors had accidentally called him by the name, and then there was no going back. The name had not left Nate alone as he’d grown older, and he’d learned a long time ago that there was no dignity or purpose in picking fights with children over it. They continued to use it as much as they could, and sometimes teased each other with it as they struggled to control the wind in their early training days.

  Have we got another Nowind? the older trainees would say, and without fail, that pushed the struggling child to tame the wind with a righteous fury, and then look at Nate with a relieved smirk.

  Perhaps Nate would have the chance to rid himself of the horrible nickname in the mines, if there were no other abysmal wind workers around to revive it. Or maybe he would die before someone had the chance to call him that. That was a very possible outcome. Either way, the torment would be over soon. Nate took no comfort in the thought as he skulked up to the transportation office.

  Securing a wagon ride north was easy, and Nate had no trouble with the official who took his information down. She told Nate that his wagon would depart from the northern gate an hour before dawn, and he would be riding with three Solkyrian citizens hired to work in the mines, now that they were of age. No other Skilled would be going, so Nate would need to mind himself around the citizens and make sure they had no reason to complain about his presence. She glanced at his tattoo then, and with obvious surprise told him that it was a rare thing to see a weather worker of any sort heading for the mines. Then she shrugged and said, “The miners will be glad to see a Lowwind instead of another one of those weird Grayvoices. Your Skill is useful, at least. It’ll help them a lot, having someone to bring fresh air down from above.”

  Nate pulled his cap lower over his plain Lowwind mark and tried not to let the transport official see his shame.

  With that done, it was still too early for Nate to say goodbye to his parents. Neither of them would be home from their jobs yet, and he did not want to spend what little remained of the daylight idling in the factory district while he waited for them. His legs burned with the need to move somewhere, but each way he looked, there was something that stood as a barrier to him.

  Turning west and making his way up the gently sloping streets would take him into the wealthier neighborhoods and, eventually, the noble district and the home of Emperor Goldskye himself. Sunthrone City wore its palace like a crown, at the crest of the highest hill it could reach before the vast mountain claimed the land and rose too steeply for building. The wealthy flocked to the area, placing themselves well above the smog of the factories and the smell of the fisheries down by the coast. Nonthreatening lesser Skills could be put to work up in the noble district as personal servants, and charming, dazzling Brightbend entertainers and demure Clearvoice animal handlers were common sights up there. For Nate, a journey to the western heights of the city was a quick ticket to scorn and potential bruises. Some of the uphill gentlefolk were all too quick to find creative uses for their walking canes when the Skilled crossed their paths, no matter the color of their tattoos.

  If he headed south, Nate would return to the coppersmith neighborhood, and eventually come to the small but comfortable home his parents had owned before they had squandered every copper mark they had on Nate, trying in vain to coax a stronger Skill out of his blood after his sponsorship had been revoked.

  If Nate went north, each step would bring him closer to the mines. He would face that terrible fate first thing tomorrow. He could not do it today.

  So, with no other choices, Nate braced himself with a heavy sigh and turned east, heading downhill towards the harbor. From the city’s main thoroughfare, Nate could look out over the roofs of the low buildings and see the curving arm of the harbor down below, with ships nestled safely inside and the vast, wild horizon stretching far beyond. He kept his eyes on the street.

  When he was younger and still believed that he would be a Highwind like his brother, Nate had often looked out at that hard line between the sky and the sea and imagined sailing over it, twisting wind into the sails of an imperial navy ship and sending the craft racing over the waves. As the years wore on and Nate stopped dreaming, the horizon started to look harsh and mocking, much like the crisp, curving lines of the tattoos stamped across the faces of his worst tormentors. The horizon was often the same color as those tattoos: light and clear, blue as the sky.

  That day, Nate did everything he could to avoid looking at the horizon. He turned down the much narrower side streets as often
as he could, keeping the sight of the harbor and the line of the sky crashing against the sea away from him.

  He passed all sorts of people as he walked, although as the sun set and he descended further downhill, his worn clothing began to stand out less and less from the other pedestrians’. He also saw more faces with the tattoos of the Skilled as he went: there, a sailor with the elaborate, deep blue tattoo of a Goodtide on his face, carrying a large parcel as he walked behind two clean-skinned sailors; passing Nate and heading back uphill was a horse-drawn carriage driven by a woman with the black tattoo of a Clearvoice; a pair of men with the white marks of light benders rushed out of a bakery and headed towards the factory district; and there was another Lowwind with a slightly more complex tattoo than Nate’s, marking her Skill as the stronger one. He dropped his eyes and gave her a wide berth as they passed each other. She did not look at him.

  Soon, the sky was deep orange with the last light of the day, and Nate was far enough downhill that he could no longer see the horizon over the roofs of the city, let alone the harbor. The wind was obstructed by the buildings, but that was far from a blessing. Without the winds to whip them away, the smells of the city were thick. Nate was used to them, but coming down from the clearer air of the merchant and financial districts always left his nose and his stomach threatening to rebel, especially when he turned his feet in the direction of the fisheries and started for the place his parents now called home.

  The smell of dead fish mixed with the realization that he would need to show his parents the letter in his pocket was enough to propel Nate further than he’d meant to go. Rather than turning down the street that would take him to their apartment on the very edge of the factory district, he kept walking, delaying his killing of their hopes just a little longer. If they had loved him less, if they had sacrificed less, it would have been easier to face them. So Nate turned down a different street, figuring he would circle the block once or twice before knocking on his parents’ door.

  He did not get the chance. Instead, Nate walked into a duel.

  Chapter two

  The Duel

  At first, Nate did not think much of the people squeezed into the narrow street between buildings. Solkyrian citizens often gathered in the final light of the day to wish each other well and make their plans for the morrow. Perhaps such a large crowd was unusual, but Nate ducked his head and wove his way through the citizens as respectfully as he could. This close to the harbor, citizens tended to be a bit more forgiving of the presence of the Skilled, and the people he passed did not pay him much attention at all. He was careful not to push or step on anyone’s toes as he threaded his way towards the wall, and the crowd thinned a bit as he skimmed his way along the bricks. He came up short when he heard a rough voice growl a promise to decorate the streets with someone’s innards.

  For a heart-stopping moment, Nate feared that they were speaking of liberating his internal organs. It had not been legal to kill a Skilled on the street for a long time, but that did not mean that it did not happen, although usually it was the Grayvoices that bore the brunt of those attacks, not weather workers. Still, Nate’s gaze darted over the crowd, searching for a quick escape. He thought that, if he launched himself off the wall and rolled past the man with the sword, he might be able to slip away.

  Then Nate paused and looked again at the man with the sword, and the duel came into focus.

  The duelist before Nate was massive, with thick shoulders and arms that sloped like a bear’s. His face was a hard plane of sharp angles and square bones, with a bulbous nose and thick brows hanging low over clear, bright eyes. He had the bronze skin and dark hair of a Solkyrian citizen, but those eyes were pale and predatory and sharp enough to draw blood. He lazily tugged open the collar of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves, pushing the fabric over his bulging muscles and taking time to flex them as he moved. Whether that was to bolster the confidence of his supporters or intimidate his opponent, Nate could not say, but he knew that he did not envy the poor fool lined up to fight the bright-eyed bear man.

  The poor fool turned out to be a woman, fit and lean but so small compared to the bear man. Like her opponent, she had dressed down to a loose, long-sleeved shirt and pair of black breeches. Her boots were old but finely made and well cared for, and the red sash wrapped around her waist added a striking splash of color to her form. Especially when she drew a pistol out of the sash. Instead of doing what Nate deemed the only intelligent thing and leveling the weapon at the bear man, she passed it to a boy behind her, who already had his arms full of what must have been her coat and hat and at least three other pistols.

  “Blades only,” she called in a strong, clear voice. “First blood ends it.”

  “You can keep all your blood if you hand the little thief over,” the bear man snarled back.

  She cocked a dark eyebrow and considered him with wolfish intensity. “That wild accusation is what landed you opposite me in the first place,” she said. “Don’t make this worse for yourself.”

  The bear man flashed a wicked grin, displaying teeth as large and square as his jaw. “Bold talk from a woman about to have a new scar.” He sank into a combative stance, the weapon in his hand more like a dagger than a sword against his raw size.

  The woman turned her back to him, and placed her hand on the shoulder of the boy who held her things. The boy looked up at her, and Nate was struck by the pure terror in his eyes. But the woman gave his shoulder a firm pat, and the boy swallowed and stood straighter.

  The gesture was nothing more than a small moment, but it made Nate look closer at the female duelist, and the people that clustered behind her. They were sailors, Nate saw, although not from the imperial navy, nor from any merchant ships. Likely not any of the independent Solkyrian fishers, either, he suspected. There was a roughness to them, men and women alike, with their well-armed postures and wind-worn faces. There was also an unexpected unity to them as they pressed forward to place themselves closer to the terrified cabin boy. He seemed to draw further comfort from their presence, and some of the fear left him. Not all, but some.

  Nate looked at the other crew, the one behind the bright-eyed bear man, and saw an equal sense of danger and unity among them. Nate decided that it would be best if he slipped away before someone noticed him, but a bespectacled sailor had stepped into the space behind him, watching the duelists with a grim intensity and blocking his escape. Nate pulled his hat lower over his Skill mark and shoved as far as he could against the bricks at his back, praying to the gods above to protect him and keep the duel away from his little part of the wall.

  The woman finally turned back to her opponent. She drew her sword and swung the blade in a glittering arc in front of her. Her eyes were dark and angular against the sun-browned skin of her face, highlighted by high cheekbones and the gentle slope of her nose. Her long, straight black hair was tied back with a simple band. She stretched almost lazily as she considered her opponent, rolling her shoulders and shaking her arms out one at a time. “Ready, then?” she called.

  The bear man smirked and flexed his arms again. “I’ll try not to scar your pretty face, darling.”

  “As you like,” she said with a shrug. And then she was across the gap between her and her opponent, driving her sword straight for his heart.

  The burst of speed took almost everyone on the street by surprise, and the bear man only just managed to throw up his own sword to turn her blade aside. He stumbled back and fell into his crew mates, who murmured and growled as they caught and steadied him. They rallied behind the bear man as the shock wore off. Just in time, Nate saw, as the woman was already closing in for another swing.

  “Cut the bitch’s heart out, Ed!” someone shouted from the bear man’s side.

  The swords rang together again, but Ed the bear man was not laughing now. He gave more ground under the woman’s onslaught, and low cheers sounded out from Nate’s side of the crowd. They grew more frenzied as the woman pressed her advantage, an
d kept Ed the bear man dancing back on his heels.

  “Get him, Captain,” the sailor next to Nate murmured.

  Captain? Nate thought. Dueling on behalf of a cabin boy?

  He did not have time to dwell on the realization. The fight circled around to his side of the street, and Nate found himself stumbling sideways to avoid the edge of a sword. He fell into the bespectacled sailor, who took a firm grip on Nate’s arm and tugged him further out of harm’s way, just in time to avoid Ed the bear man crashing into the wall and leaving a Nate-sized smear on the bricks. Ed caught his balance on the wall and pushed off of it with a snarl, trying to meet the female captain’s onslaught with his own brute force. She countered his wild swing, then slashed her sword across his chest. Ed fell back, clutching at the cut in his shirt, but his hand came away clean.

  The hand on Nate’s arm tightened in frustration before releasing him. “She’ll get him,” the sailor growled before turning his attention on Nate. “All right there?”

  Nate nodded and risked glancing away from the duel for a moment to thank the man. His voice dried in his throat when the man’s eyes fell on Nate’s tattoo, and a deep frown settled over the sailor’s features.

  The man peered at Nate over the circular spectacles perched on the tip of his hooked nose. “Who are you?” he asked, his tone suddenly wary.