Nym's Arc

Chapter 3 of 41

The eastern road ran flat and empty. Nym had walked since dawn, and the tower was nowhere in sight. No inn stood along the way. No barn, no well, no roof of any kind. Her feet ached inside her boots. The sun climbed higher, and she still had no idea how many days this road would take on foot. She stopped and set her bag down. The black cat pressed against her ankle, waiting. Nym pulled the bone whistle from her pocket. She did not know why, but her hand wanted it. She lifted it to her lips and blew. No sound came. She frowned and blew again, harder. Still nothing. The whistle stayed silent. She turned it over, checking for a crack. It looked whole. She blew a third time, until her cheeks burned. Then the cat's ears flicked. It stared up at the sky. Nym followed its gaze. A dark shape crossed the sun. Wings, wide and black, beat the air. A horse came down out of the clouds, its coat night-dark, its hooves thick with white fur. A green and gold saddle sat on its back. It landed on the road before her, folded its wings, and looked at her with calm blue eyes. Nym did not move. Her heart pounded. "You heard that," she whispered. "The whistle called you." The winged horse dipped its head. It stepped closer and nosed her hand, the one that held the bone whistle. It knew the sound she could not hear. Someone had made this whistle to call this creature. Someone in her family. The thought made her fingers shake. The cat leapt onto the saddle without fear, as if it had done this before. It curled against the green leather and watched her. The horse waited, patient, its wings loose at its sides. Nym touched the saddle. The gold plates were warm. This was no wild beast. It had come for her, and it had come fast. On foot the tower was days away. On these wings it might be hours. She pulled her bag up and climbed on. Her gown split at the slit, freeing her legs to grip. The horse stood steady beneath her. She wound her fingers into its dark mane. "East," she said. "To the tower." The wings spread wide. With one great push the horse rose. The road dropped away beneath them. Wind tore at Nym's black curls. Below her the empty miles shrank to a thin gray line. Ahead, far off where the trees thinned, a dark spire pricked the sky. The tower. She could see it now. Nym gripped the mane tighter. The whistle had answered her, and it had answered in her family's own tongue. Whoever left her on the river had left her a way to fly home. She fixed her eyes on the distant spire and did not look away.