“She soars through the air like a creature born of wind and sky itself!” His voice drops to a dramatic whisper that somehow still carries to every corner of the tent. “Her voice will transport you to realms beyond imagination! You will question whether she is human at all.”
Kakara help me.
I wish he wouldn’t say such things.
“She performs feats that would kill any ordinary performer! She hangs by a thread between earth and the heavens themselves!” There’s a pause, building the tension. “I give you…the incomparable…the magnificent…the death-defying…Isla of the Air!”
The crowd erupts.
I take a deep breath. Then another. My legs feel like water as I step through the canvas opening and into the light.
The performance area is a circle of packed dirt surrounded by tiered wooden seating. Lanterns hang from the tent poles, casting light across hundreds of faces. They are all watching me. All waiting.
It isn’t a full house. Not like the old days, as Master Roland likes to call them, but it’s busy enough for me.
I pull in another fortifying breath and pull back my shoulders.
Above me, my silks hang from the very peak of the tent. Two long strips of deep crimson fabric, flowing down like ribbons of blood against the canvas ceiling. They’re secured to a metal ring that’s been bolted through the canvas and attached to the main support pole.
I’ve climbed these silks at least a thousand times. I know every twist, every wrap, every hold.
I walk to the center of the ring, letting the crowd see me. I raise my arms above my head in a graceful arc, then lower them slowly. A traditional opening gesture.
The crowd applauds.
I reach for the silks, wrapping my hands around the fabric. I test my grip once, twice.
Then I begin to climb.
Hand over hand, using my legs to grip the silk, I ascend. The ground falls away beneath me. The faces below become smaller.
When I am high, I stop. I wrap the silk around my waist, creating a secure hold, then let myself fall backward. The crowd gasps as I hang upside down, my arms spread wide. The blood rushes to my head, but I’m used to it.
I begin to sing.
The first note rises from my throat, pure and clear. I let a thread of magic weave through it, so subtle that no one could possibly detect it. The note lifts, soaring almost as high as I am.
The crowd falls silent.
I pull myself upright, unwrapping from my waist hold, and begin the routine. I twist the silks around my body in complex patterns, creating shapes and holds that look impossible. Then I allow myself to drop suddenly, making the audience gasp. I catch myself at the last possible moment.
All the while, I sing.
My magic helps. Just a touch. I manipulate the air around me, creating subtle currents that keep me aloft when my gripshould fail. That allows me to spin faster, drop further, and catch myself at the last possible second.
I use just enough magic to make the impossible look effortless.
I’m skilled in my own right. I’ve trained for years. But the magic takes it to another level.
I once again execute a drop that sends me plummeting toward the ground, only to catch myself at the last second by hooking one foot in the silk. I hang there, spinning slowly, my arms outstretched. My voice rises higher.
The crowd is mesmerized. I can feel it. I even start to enjoy it.
Yes!
I’m not sure why I was so afraid…so silly. This is what I do. It is who I am.
I pull myself up again, climbing higher. Almost to the very top now. I wrap both silks around my arms and begin to spin. Faster and faster, letting the fabric unwind as I descend, still spinning.
