Fly Up into the Night Air Read Free Page B

place by a small stream that meandered near the road, and stopped to eat. He slid off of his horse and looped the reins over his saddlebow. "You won't wander off, Petar, will you?" The cob's only answer was to drop his head and begin to tear at a patch of grass near the stream. "Good idea." Stilian unstrapped his saddle bags and pulled them off. Laying them out on the grass, he rummaged around for the bread and cheese he'd packed for the midday meal. While he gnawed at them, he pulled a letter from a pocket.
    Dear Stilian,
    I cannot begin to tell you how much we miss you and want you home. It does not matter that we must necessarily share in your burden. You say that you cannot return, that it is too hard sharing the pain of your loss. Can you not find some joy in your memories of Kit? We know that you will always miss him, but has the sharp edge of your pain not dulled a little with time? Must we lose you forever, too? Please come home after you finish your current circuit, even if only for a few days. Thalia and I will be together at Grayholme for the solstice.
    Thalia and I miss you terribly,

    Hugh

    Stilian folded the letter away and squinted at the sunlight sparkling on the surface of the stream. Perhaps he should try to go back to Bugport or Grayholme. But he was not ready. Kit's loss was too raw. The influenza had taken him in less than the four days it took to travel from Bugport to Grayholme. The shock of it still set him shivering in quiet moments. If only he hadn't been so far away, he would have known Kit was sick. He would have returned sooner--perhaps to die with him. Stilian leaned back against his saddle bags, closed his eyes, and whispered, "We bonded for life, Kit. How was I to know we had so little time?"
    When they met, Stilian had been fifteen, skinny, and with big hands and feet. He'd found his way to Bugport on his own after running away from his family: a stiff-necked father and muscle-headed brothers who had no use for the Canny--and even less use for a skinny runt who shamed them.
    Stilian tumbled off the hay wagon in the Bugport's market square and marched straight across to Blue House, where one applied for schooling with the Canny at Grayholme. There wasn't much point in sightseeing; he had no food or coin left. Inside the building, he found a large, cold room with a stone floor and three rows of small desks. A group of seven or eight boys and girls populated the seats, all anxiously peering around or whispering to one another. Most of them appeared to be three or four years older than Stilian. The sight almost sent him back out the arched entrance again. What were they waiting for? Either you could sense the feelings of people around you, or you couldn't. He certainly could. He was practically nauseous from the waves of anxiety coming from the applicants.
    At the front of the room, an old man with a gray beard and dark blue tunic sat behind a small table. There was some kind of insignia on his right shoulder that Stilian didn't recognize. Before moving forward, Stilian tried to sense what the man was feeling, but there was nothing he could be sure of. Either the man was feeling nothing--unlikely--or he was hiding his emotions. That idea intrigued Stilian, and he stepped further into the room. He'd never met anyone who could hide from him--not if he was really trying.
    Whatever the man was doing to block him, he was clearly the person to whom Stilian needed to speak. So he strode up to the little table, looked the man in the eye, and spoke firmly. "Good morning. Are you the person I should talk to about going to Grayholme?"
    The man looked up at Stilian and smiled. "Yes, that's right." He handed Stilian a piece of paper. "Did you come to pick up an application? Here, take this home. Bring it back when you're ready."
    Stilian inspected the paper unhappily. The first questions on it asked about his parents and the location of his home. He wasn't particularly eager to broach either topic. "I thought