The Princess's Feathers

Ahead of me, a vast and unbroken expanse of empty sky and wind-whipped clouds, utterly devoid of land masses, ebbing and flowing tempestuous, reaching out into infinity.

Below me, a jagged tip of gold and brown, jutting into the endless expanse like a dagger’s edge, the northernmost influences of ascendant civilization itself.

The strait to the Northern Continent, and the northern edge of the island of Samsivik.

Archer’s Point.

Here is where I will leave this world and travel to another.

After my meal at the logging camp, I departed the crescent-shaped island and resumed flying north. As it had been for most of my journey thus far, the overcast skies provided good cover to fly discretely through the northern islands of Sarlain.

Not that I’d have much to worry about in the short term if I was spotted by someone. Besides Lithan sightings being a somewhat frequent occurrence here, I’m the Lithan that killed Princess Asha. For taking the life of the enemy’s Princess, they’d pin a medal to my chest feathers if they felt they could safely do it.

With less to worry about I flew at a more leisurely pace, dropping through the clouds more often and lingering there longer to get a better view of what was around me. I knew I needed to preserve my energy for the crossing, and whatever awaits me on the other side. Eventually, I came to land on a small island near the strait, giving me a front-row seat to my next task.

What we know about the Northern Continent is that it’s unlike anywhere else on the Moon. The tales of Avians who’ve snuck into the continent are well known, as are the incredible, alien things they witnessed there: Beasts the size of locomotives, iridescent plants that glow pale in the light of Maki, and trees towering higher in the sky than even our great Elder Tree. A land as fascinating as it is dangerous, anyone who ventures there rarely returns, and those who do often report being driven back by angry Dragons before they can land.

I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t make me excited. To think, I’ll be the first animal to travel freely through the Northern Continent! Me, me, me — Asha Lordanou!

I still don’t know if other Lithans will welcome me, or if we’ll even be able to understand each other. But being one of the continent’s extant species means I should be able to pass through without setting off any alarms with the natives.

At the very least, I should be able to survive easier over there. I’ll no longer have to worry about running into airships or angering our centuries-old enemy. Presumably, the prey over there will be a lot more acclimated for a creature my size, and might even be easier to hunt.

I haven’t forgotten about my responsibilities to the throne and my family, of course. But how could I, a naturalist at heart, not be looking forward with bated breath to the sheer thrill of what’s to come? How many completely new plant and animal species are over there, just waiting to be discovered?

With excitement pushing me forward, I rise to my talons and stretch myself until my whole body goes taut. I’ve been resting here for a while, regaining my strength so I’ll have enough energy to make the entire crossing. Flying over clear sky has proven to be largely uneventful so far, but this is going to be the longest stretch yet, and the strait to the Northern Continent is completely free of islands. If I begin to get fatigued or mess up my flight halfway, it could be fatal.

There’s also the issue that the strait to the Northern Continent has dangerous gales, and only airships of a certain size can perform the crossing. I’m not nearly as big as one of those airships, so how’s a Lithan like me going to do it safely?

As it turns out, there’s a trick! It involves air currents!

Whenever I think about the air currents that exist between the continents (basically never…), I think back to a helpful little drawing I made back during my grade schooling when I was first learning about them. It was… um… oh, yeah!

There it is!

…I really liked drawing smiley faces on stuff back then, huh?

I was like, 7 years old. And still in my ‘princess’ phase. Come on.

Look, the important thing is, right there next to the island I drew, there’s an area of calm winds (blue colored) sandwiched between two faster gales (red colored). If I can position myself safely in that area, then I should be fine!

So far on my journey north, I’ve been able to guess my way into it with some trial and error, but the winds in the crossing to the Northern Continent are a whole other level. If I misjudge entering them here, the gales could easily blow me off course into a dangerous situation.

I take a deep breath, feeling as rested as I’ll ever be, and walk forward to scan the skies in front of me. There are only a few more miles of Sarlain below me before I encounter the winds of the strait. Hopefully, that will be enough space to safely insert myself into the area of calm winds.

I bound toward the edge and thrust into the sky, beating my wings hard to gain altitude against the powerful gusts. I decide to circle back around the island and find myself facing inland over the island of Samsivik.

KREEAH!

I call across the island, a farewell for anyone who might be listening. I’m leaving behind everything I’m familiar with, everything I’ve ever known.

Mother, Father, Sofl… I won’t be gone for long. I promise.

I come about, turning north towards what lies ahead. Even while I’m still over land the wind whips my body like a rag doll, making my ascent more difficult than usual. I seem to be at the right altitude, but as I approach the strait the winds only grow stronger. I try dropping in altitude, thinking I’m flying too high, but there’s no change.

Then, something catches my left wing.

It could have been a bird, it may have simply buckled under the force of the gale. But my flight stalls and I feel myself being dragged backward. Flapping my wings hard I attempt to regain my composure but the wind only pushes against me harder until I lose all control of my flight!

I panic, tumbling through the sky like a stone with no way to control myself. In a tizzy, I lash my wings, desperate to find a pocket of calmer winds to stabilize myself. But the world around me is spinning too fast, dropping too precipitously for me to find balance.

Desperate for any solution, the thought of the last time I was in mortal danger races through my head. The fight back in the hollow — the moment I transformed. That time, I allowed the rage festering inside me to take hold, allowing my instincts to determine how I would react. I would have died if I hadn’t done that.

For a fleeting moment, I stifle the panic coursing through my veins, leaving conscious thought behind. I allow the beast inside me to react.

My wings open wide, letting the wind push me unabated. I tumble about, holding them steady in place until they lock, letting the wind pass freely over them. Slowly the tumbling begins to subside until I feel myself flipped around violently by the wind. Where before I would have lost control, I suddenly find myself back in total control of my flight.

Instead of fighting against the gale, I feel it push against my back — a force to stabilize myself.

I fan my tail feathers wide, wasting no time regaining the altitude I’d lost. I wish I could stop and try to process the calamity that just occurred, but the winds are gusting as strong as they’ve ever been, and there’s little time to dwell. I look down and see the edge of the island rapidly approaching below me. If I try to circle back over land to give myself more space before reaching clear air, I run the risk of losing the flight stability that nearly cost my life to achieve.

I have to keep fighting upwards!

Almost over clear air, It’s obvious the pocket of calm winds isn’t at its normal altitude. Could it exist somewhere higher at the crossing to the Northern Continent? What if it doesn’t exist at all, and Lithans simply have to fight these nightmarish gales the whole crossing? It couldn’t possibly be that, could it?

I strain against the wind, struggling to make progress. Now higher than I’ve ever flown before I feel the air getting thin, making my breathing rough and labored. For the first time, a chill grows under my feathers, aching tired muscles that are already fighting a losing battle against the tempest.

I can’t keep this up much longer. There’s no way I can fly like this the entire length of the crossing. How do Lithans do this!? Am I simply not a good enough flyer? My wings flutter, but it feels like I can no longer push myself.

Dread runs through me, more chilling than the air around me. What if I can’t make the crossing? What is my plan ‘B’ supposed to be? How could I—

As my mind races, I feel a calmness overtake me just below the top of the cloud deck. A warm breeze pushes against me and my wings relax, allowing my flight to stabilize and glide along with minimal effort.

…I did it. I’ve made it to the calm winds!

And just in time!! I was so close to giving up and turning around! My muscles are still sore from losing control, but I think if I exert myself as little as possible, I can still make the flight.

I’m not sure how long this is going to take. I think I recall reading in a book somewhere that for airships, it can take the better part of a day to fly the entire crossing. I fly much faster than an airship though, so it should only take… a few hours?

Let’s go with that. My course is locked in — there’s no turning back.

I flew for longer than I’d ever flown before, giving me plenty of time to ruminate on things.

There wasn’t much to look at, after all. Above me were nothing but gray clouds, and below me was the drop to the true surface of the moon. Down there, it’s said that the moon is almost entirely covered in water, as far as the eye can see. Now that I’ve been up here flying above it, I can’t disagree. Pale blue stretches out in all directions to the horizon, completely unbroken with not a speck of land in sight.

Where did all the water come from? Could the continents have truly existed down there during ancient times? If so, why didn’t they all drown in the water?

After a while, I grew tired of pondering questions without answers.

For now, I’ve come upon a large fog bank that appeared suddenly and obscured my vision entirely. I want to drop below it and get a better angle on where I’m heading, but during my flight, I discovered the band of calm winds only exists in a very narrow space — if I fly so much as a few feet up or down, the winds begin to pick up considerably. It’s fortunate that I even fit into this space at all.

I swivel my wings, trying to ward away soreness. Another warm breeze blows on me from below, giving me a moment to glide through the air and stretch out my wings. I may have been spry when I took off from the mountain top yesterday morning, but nearly 2 full days of non-stop flying have begun to take a toll on me. How much longer can I really go on like this, even in calm winds?

A terrible thought crosses my mind. What if I’ve been flying in circles just offshore Archer’s Point this whole time? I’ve tried to fly straight as a rapier, but how can I be certain? Without any points of reference to guide me in the strait, who’s to say I haven’t been chasing my tail this whole time? If I’m truly lost, how could I possibly get myself back over land?

I become restless, anxious to drop down to see if the fog bank clears below. I know better than to the test the gales that exist all around me — to do so at this stage would be certain death. But how much is too much? When’s the point where I have to admit to myself I’ve been going the wrong way?

Then, as if the Goddess herself saw my apprehension and reacted, the fog abruptly ceases.

Sunlight shines down through patchy cloud work, temporarily blinding me after my trek through the gloom of the clouds. An uncomfortable moment later my vision adjusts, and my concerns about where I’m heading dissolve like the fog around me.

For the first time in what must be hours, I see something more than endless blue and gray. A great curve of land off on the horizon, and a small extension of brown and gold jutting into the expanse. Its identity can’t be mistaken:

Archer’s Landing.

The bottom tip of the Northern Continent.