They didn’t think that way, though. They were young, and they believed nothing could really hurt them. They were convinced their flying skills would protect them. They believed a crash was out of the question.
Except that Railing recognized that some tiny part of him wanted to know what a crash would feel like and how much punishment his Sprint could take. Stupid to think that way, but there it was.
They raced through the obstacle course, hearing the scrape of branches against their hulls, the thrumming of the radian draws, and the rush of the wind in their ears. Everything was quick and fast, everything a blur, there and gone again in an instant. It was insanity, Railing thought suddenly. And it was such fun!
His brother increased his speed as they neared the return to the shoreline, then changed course abruptly and shot between a series of trunks at no more than six feet off the ground, mast raked all the way back. Railing hadn’t been expecting it and couldn’t make the adjustment fast enough. He was forced to settle for keeping to the old way, a less risky, more reliable side turn around a massive old cedar’s broad canopy before racing into the open once more.
Then they were back out over the waters of Rainbow Lake, flying side by side again, paired up in perfect formation. Railing saw his brother grinning at him, aware that he had done something Railing hadn’t. A challenge. Railing gave him a thumbs-up, an acknowledgment. But he would lead next when they went into the Shredder, and it would be his chance to respond. He was already thinking of how he would do that, what sort of trick he might try that would leave Redden eating his parse tube exhaust.
Only this time they would be using the wishsong to enhance the experience, and neither of them knew what that would mean. Flying faster, they hoped. But maybe something more, as well. The magic was unpredictable, and the user could never be entirely certain how it would respond. There were stories about this, some of them very dark indeed. The brothers had heard more than a few. Not from their mother, of course, who wouldn’t even speak of the magic, but from the Alt Mers and others who had known Bek and Penderrin and especially Grianne. The magic, they said, could do anything. It could even kill.
But the brothers weren’t planning on using it that extremely, so Railing pushed aside his concerns and focused on his intent for the next pass into the Shredder. He glanced over at Redden, made a quick sign that he was ready, saw his brother motion in response, and brought his Sprint around in a wide sweep so that he was again facing toward the shoreline.
Then howling like a wild man he jammed the thruster levers all the way forward.
The Sprint bucked and lurched in response, the entire vessel shaking with the sudden influx of power fed down into the parse tubes. The racer catapulted forward like a great cat, whipping across the flat, broad surface of the lake, tearing toward the opening of the obstacle course. Railing risked a quick glance over one shoulder. Redden was right behind him, tracking in his wake.
Ahead, the Shredder’s rocks and trees came into sharp focus, the opening easily discernible. Exhilarated, Railing flattened himself further in the cockpit of his craft, flexed his hands on the thruster levers, and summoned the wishsong’s magic. It began as a humming changed to words, a small flux within his throat that ran down into his body, warming his lungs and belly, then was carried through his bloodstream and into his limbs. He felt a sharp tingling, and then the rush of the magic as it exploded to life, hard and certain. He fought to keep it under control, reining it in when it tried to break free, channeling it into his hands and from there into the controls and down into the diapson crystals, feeding and enhancing their power.
Abruptly, the crystals responded, and the little Sprint shot ahead as if a pebble from a sling. The force of the acceleration was so powerful that Railing was almost thrown from the cockpit. Only the restraining straps kept him from being tossed out. The wind whipped into his eyes with renewed force, bringing fresh tears to his eyes, nearly blinding him. Spray from the surface of the lake waters, which this sudden surge had disturbed, whipped across his face, cold and sharp.
Too much power!
He tried to hold it back, to slow the Sprint’s forward momentum, but he had lost control. He was tearing into the maze of rocks and trees so fast that he could barely make out where he was going. But somehow he managed to keep the vessel righted and on course, though barely able to track the terrain ahead. He felt a rush of adrenaline sweep through him as he maneuvered the craft through its twists and turns, this way and that, bank and slide, raise and lower—look out!—everything suddenly becoming a part of what he could feel more than what he could see.
He screamed with joy, unable to contain his excitement.
Then, just for a second, he lost his focus, momentarily distracted by a shadow’s movement to one side, and his attention wavered just enough that he lost control. The Sprint yawed wildly, sideslipped through a maze of rocks, skidded into a nest of branches, and flipped upside down in midair. Railing hauled back on the thruster levers and dropped the power to almost nothing, fighting to stay airborne. In the split second that was left to him, he wrapped himself in a cocoon of the wishsong’s magic and waited for the inevitable.
It was just enough.
The Sprint went down in a tearing of radian draws and a shrieking of ripped hull boards, its mast snapping clean off. He felt the steering come loose completely and the light sheaths collapse. The Sprint slid wildly across the ground, bouncing off trunks and boulders, spinning and rolling. Railing lost all track of where he was, tossed first one way and then the other against the safety harness, fighting to maintain the wishsong’s flow. He kept his head down and his limbs tucked into the cockpit, teeth clenched against his expectation of pain and maybe death.
But when the Sprint finally came to rest, he was still alive. He could scarcely believe it. He lay motionless inside the cockpit, tipped sideways and turned backward, clouds of dust and debris billowing all around him, the sudden silence unexpected and deafening.
He was still trying to decide if he was hurt when Redden appeared next to him, frantically working at the buckles and straps of the safety harness, trying to help him get free. “You idiot!” he was screaming. “What were you thinking? Are you all right? Shades, that was a monster crash!”
Railing nodded. “Oh … I don’t know. It wasn’t so much.”
Then he passed out.
When he regained consciousness, he was out of the cockpit and lying on the ground nearby. Redden was kneeling beside him, holding him up so that he could drink from the aleskin.
“Am I alive?”
“Alive?” Redden snorted. “You aren’t even hurt! How did you manage that? I thought you were …” He trailed off, looking exasperated. “You better not try something like that again!”
Railing drank from the skin, long deep swallows. He could feel the burn of the ale going down, restoring his heart rate and giving him fresh life. He moved his arms and legs experimentally. No damage. “Help me up.”
Redden lifted him to a sitting position and then to his feet. He was achy and battered, but no bones were broken and there were no external signs of any injuries. Railing took a deep breath, exhaled, twisted his shoulders, and stretched.
“I think I’m all right.” He said it incredulously, not sure why it was so. “It was the wishsong, Red. That’s what saved me. I was feeding the magic into the crystals, but when I lost control of the Sprint, I used it to protect myself. Sort of wrapped it around me like a cushion. It worked!”