upward into a lifting draft.
Francescaâs breathing began to slow. The pilot was an expert. Of course he was. She found that she was smiling broadly, idiotically. They were going to live.
She looked eastward across the savanna and the receding rain clouds. Two caravan roads cut straight brown lines through the grass to converge on Avel.
Her giddiness dissipated as she wondered if they would have to land in the savanna. Until she came to Avel, Francesca had never seen grass like
that which covered the Deep Savanna. It grew seven feet tall and consisted of thick, bamboolike segments. It reduced vision to a few inches and nearly halted movement. A party armed with scythes could cut a narrow path through the stalks, but the grass soon dulled even the sharpest blade.
By stepping off a road, one could become lost in the grass ocean. Caravan guards told stories of men who stepped just a few feet into the stalks and became disoriented. The miserable souls would spend days wandering, at times coming within a biscuit toss of the road. Almost always, they died of thirst.
And that was to say nothing of the hundred-mile grass fires or headless katabeasts or sun-eclipsing bee swarms or savanna lycanthropes.
Every Western Spirish child knew of the massive, intelligent lycanthropes that moved through the grass ocean as a wolf might run through a meadow. Hidden within the tall grass, the lycanthropes were safe from hierophantic pilots and warkites.
More insidiously, lycanthropes could sometimes seem human. Some Spirishmen believed the beasts transformed their bodies into human bodies. Others supposed they used spells to appear human. Whatever the case, everyone agreed the creatures and the blasting spells their spellwrights could cast were more dangerous at night.
The city guards of Avel were constantly resisting lycanthrope attack. The beasts would rush the walls and try to knock them down with their blasting spells. More chilling stories came from the caravan men who crossed the savanna. They described lycanthropes who would cry out like men lost in the grass, only to devour anyone foolish enough to run to their aid. Other caravans described camps of men out on the savanna who would invite unwary travelers to join them by their campfire, only to change into their lycanthropic bodies as soon as the travelers let down their guard.
As sensational as these stories were, they paled in comparison to those of the Savanna Walker, an ancient monster that roamed the plains. Some said the Walker was an elder god who had inhabited the continent before humanity had crossed the ocean. Others claimed it was the souls of men whoâd died of thirst in the savanna. All the stories spoke of an unspeakably hideous body and of its shrill scream. Anyone who saw the beast or heard its voice was driven mad. However, while most Spirish adults knew lycanthropes to be real, most believed the Savanna Walker a mere ghost story.
Francesca looked back at the infirmaryâs roof. The cloud of blindness covered the tip of one minaret. She shivered.
âHold on,â the hierophant said. âItâs choppy in the ridge lift.â
Francesca wondered what, exactly, she was supposed to hold on to when the sailcloth surrounding her disappeared. In an instant of terrifying
freefall, they twisted to face upward. Then the red cloth leapt away and with a thump popped into a lofting kite. Francesca found herself hanging in a harness that had been made of the hierophantâs expansive green robes.
Francescaâs hands tingled.
A spellwright had to be fluent in a magical language to see its runes. As a wizard, Francesca could see only Numinous, Magnus, and the common languages. The hierophantic language was invisible to her. However, spellwrights could sense proximity to unknown language by a nonvisual âsynesthesicâ sensation. A tingling in both hands was Francescaâs synesthesic reaction to the hierophantic spells moving through the
Francescaâs breathing began to slow. The pilot was an expert. Of course he was. She found that she was smiling broadly, idiotically. They were going to live.
She looked eastward across the savanna and the receding rain clouds. Two caravan roads cut straight brown lines through the grass to converge on Avel.
Her giddiness dissipated as she wondered if they would have to land in the savanna. Until she came to Avel, Francesca had never seen grass like
that which covered the Deep Savanna. It grew seven feet tall and consisted of thick, bamboolike segments. It reduced vision to a few inches and nearly halted movement. A party armed with scythes could cut a narrow path through the stalks, but the grass soon dulled even the sharpest blade.
By stepping off a road, one could become lost in the grass ocean. Caravan guards told stories of men who stepped just a few feet into the stalks and became disoriented. The miserable souls would spend days wandering, at times coming within a biscuit toss of the road. Almost always, they died of thirst.
And that was to say nothing of the hundred-mile grass fires or headless katabeasts or sun-eclipsing bee swarms or savanna lycanthropes.
Every Western Spirish child knew of the massive, intelligent lycanthropes that moved through the grass ocean as a wolf might run through a meadow. Hidden within the tall grass, the lycanthropes were safe from hierophantic pilots and warkites.
More insidiously, lycanthropes could sometimes seem human. Some Spirishmen believed the beasts transformed their bodies into human bodies. Others supposed they used spells to appear human. Whatever the case, everyone agreed the creatures and the blasting spells their spellwrights could cast were more dangerous at night.
The city guards of Avel were constantly resisting lycanthrope attack. The beasts would rush the walls and try to knock them down with their blasting spells. More chilling stories came from the caravan men who crossed the savanna. They described lycanthropes who would cry out like men lost in the grass, only to devour anyone foolish enough to run to their aid. Other caravans described camps of men out on the savanna who would invite unwary travelers to join them by their campfire, only to change into their lycanthropic bodies as soon as the travelers let down their guard.
As sensational as these stories were, they paled in comparison to those of the Savanna Walker, an ancient monster that roamed the plains. Some said the Walker was an elder god who had inhabited the continent before humanity had crossed the ocean. Others claimed it was the souls of men whoâd died of thirst in the savanna. All the stories spoke of an unspeakably hideous body and of its shrill scream. Anyone who saw the beast or heard its voice was driven mad. However, while most Spirish adults knew lycanthropes to be real, most believed the Savanna Walker a mere ghost story.
Francesca looked back at the infirmaryâs roof. The cloud of blindness covered the tip of one minaret. She shivered.
âHold on,â the hierophant said. âItâs choppy in the ridge lift.â
Francesca wondered what, exactly, she was supposed to hold on to when the sailcloth surrounding her disappeared. In an instant of terrifying
freefall, they twisted to face upward. Then the red cloth leapt away and with a thump popped into a lofting kite. Francesca found herself hanging in a harness that had been made of the hierophantâs expansive green robes.
Francescaâs hands tingled.
A spellwright had to be fluent in a magical language to see its runes. As a wizard, Francesca could see only Numinous, Magnus, and the common languages. The hierophantic language was invisible to her. However, spellwrights could sense proximity to unknown language by a nonvisual âsynesthesicâ sensation. A tingling in both hands was Francescaâs synesthesic reaction to the hierophantic spells moving through the
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