Wheel of Wrath

Aranel stretched out his arms, feet flat on the blade of his floating sword. The clouds were thick and smooth, like dollops of cream, and a gentle tailwind blew behind him. Peak racing conditions.

At seven years old, Aranel was the youngest competitor in this heat of the junior cloudsurfing championships. But he was also the fastest. He had to be if he wanted to qualify for the final, then win the overall first-place prize in his age category.

“Are you excited, Ran?” asked his mother. Her golden hair was threaded with magenta ribbons that matched Aranel’s cotton tunic.

“I s’pose,” said Aranel. “What was Sam’s record again?”

“How does it matter? You are not your brother.”

Aranel’s shoulders slumped. “Don’t you want me to win?”

“What I want,” said his mother, dropping a kiss on his forehead, “is for you to enjoy this race. Can you do that for me?”

But you told Sam to win, thought Aranel, sword wobbling underfoot. Right before his race, I heard you. And then Samarel won, like he always did. Their mother clapped him on the back, like she always did. Her smile had been wide and warm, and bright as the sun above.

Brighter than the smile she gave Aranel now.

It hurt his chest looking at it. So he looked away and, instead, up at the sky. A small bird fluttered past, listing in the wind. One of its silver wings was bent.

It’s injured! Aranel made to fly toward it before glancing at his mother. Someone else would heal the bird. He had a race to win.

Aranel stilled his shaking knees and puffed out his chest. “Watch me, Ma,” he said with a grin. “I’ll enjoy every second.”

“As you should.” His mother ruffled his hair. “Fly straight and swift, darling.”

Then she kissed him, again, and went to join the other onlookers at the starting line. There were dozens of them arrayed across the Nisharani sky, floating on their own swords and shields as they waved the banners of their kingdoms and villages.

To Aranel’s left, a girl in turquoise—one of the competitors from Amaratir—was bidding her parents goodbye. To his right, a curly-haired boy from Tahamur, dressed in saffron, stood all by himself. Where was his family? Why hadn’t his mother come to cheer him on?

“Good luck,” called Aranel to the boy.

The boy turned to him and grinned. “Don’t need it.”

Aranel frowned. Everyone needed luck, unless they were a chitronic genius like Samarel. He was about to retort when a conch blasted, signal­ing the start of the race.

Twenty boys and girls scudded across the sky, the clouds frothing in their wake. Cloudmist filled Aranel’s vision, every competitor a smudge of color. When his sight cleared, he saw the Tahamuri boy flying a few feet ahead of the rest. No matter what Aranel did, he couldn’t catch up.

No! Tears stung at Aranel’s eyes as he streamed more chitrons to his soles. He pictured his mother, beaming with pride after Samarel’s victory. She’d never looked at Aranel like that. She’d only ever hugged and kissed and fussed over him. Like he was a kitten, or worse, a child.

His mother tried to hide it with all her coddling, but Aranel had fig­ured out that she loved Samarel more. Everyone loved Samarel more, and why wouldn’t they? He was taller and smarter and better at . . . well, at everything that mattered. Just thinking about it made Aranel’s head spin. His sword teetered as his breaths grew quick and short. He couldn’t pass out now! His brother never passed out, and Aranel needed to be more like him.

Beloved Sherka, please lend me your strength.

Perhaps the prayer worked, or perhaps it was desperation. But the dizzy spell lifted. And as Aranel squeezed at his chitrons, molding the cloud under his blade so it hardened into a thin layer of ice, he slid across faster. He passed the Tahamuri, then surged forward. Two feet. Five. Ten. The flattened summit of Meruten, the Heavenly Mountain, loomed up ahead.

Almost there!

The wind whipped Aranel’s face, drying his tears. He saw Samarel floating on a shield near the finish line. His brother held a golden trophy in one hand. With the other, he was waving the Kirnosi flag and yelling himself hoarse.

I’m going to win, Sam, thought Aranel giddily. Just like you.

A couple feet from the finish line, Aranel’s sword gave a wild jerk. His chitronic bond with the cloud snapped, and he waved his arms to keep balance. In the second it took to regain his bearings, the Tahamuri overtook him.

“See you, loser,” said the boy, spinning around so he was flying back­ward. He stuck out his tongue and sped past in a blur of saffron as Aranel scrambled after.

Meruten exploded at Tahamur’s victory. A torrent of flowers burst from its crater and fell from the sky like rain. Marigolds, dahlias, and irises pelted Aranel in a flurry of color. He batted them away, too overcome with shock to realize what had just happened.