Windhaven

  Maris laughed. Sher and Leya were two of the younger aspirants, inseparable friends. They were talented and enthusiastic, although they tired too easily and could be rattled by the unexpected. She had often wondered if their constant companionship gave them strength, or simply reinforced their similar faults. “Do you think they can win?”

  “No,” Sena said, without looking up. “But they are old enough to try, and lose. The experience will do them good. Temper them. If their dreams cannot withstand a loss, they will never be flyers.”

  Maris nodded. “And Liane is the one in doubt?”

  “I will not sponsor Liane,” Sena said. “He is not ready. I wonder if he will ever be ready.”

  Maris was surprised. “I've watched him fly,” she said. “He is strong, and at times he flies brilliantly. I grant you that he is moody and erratic, but when he is good he is better than S'Rella and Damen together. He might be your best hope.”

  “He might,” Sena said, “but I will not sponsor him. One week he soars like a nighthawk, and the next he stumbles and tumbles like a child thrown into the air for the first time. No, Maris. I want to win, but a victory by Liane would be the worst thing that could happen to him. I would venture to bet that he would be dead within the year. The sky is no safe haven for one whose skills come and go with his moods.”

  Reluctantly, Maris nodded. “Perhaps you are wise,” she said. “But who is your possible fifth, then?”

  “Kerr,” Sena said. Setting her bone needle aside, she inspected the shirt she had been working on, then spread it across her table and sat back to regard Maris evenly with her one good eye.

  “Kerr? He is nice enough, but he is nervous and overweight and uncoordinated, and his arms are not half as strong as they need to be. Kerr is hopeless, at least for the present. In a few years, perhaps . . .”

  “His parents want him to race this year,” Sena said wearily. “He has wasted two years already, they say. They own a copper mine on Little Shotan, and are most anxious for Kerr to have his wings. They support the academy handsomely.”

  “I see,” said Maris.

  “Last year I told them no,” Sena continued. “This year I am less certain of myself. Without a victory in this competition, the academy may lose its support from the Landsmen. Then only wealthy patrons will stand between us and closing. Perhaps it is best for everyone to keep them happy.”

  “I understand,” Maris said. “Though I do not entirely approve. Still, I suppose it cannot be helped. And it will do Kerr little enough harm to lose. At times he seems to enjoy playing the clown.”

  Sena snorted. “I think I must do it. Yet I hate it. I had hoped you could talk me out of it.”

  “No,” said Maris. “You overestimate my eloquence. I will give some advice, however. During these last weeks, reserve your wings solely for those who will challenge. They will need the seasoning. Occupy the others with exercises and lessons.”

  “I have done so in past years,” Sena said. “They also race mock contests against each other. I would have you contest with them too, if only to teach them how to lose. S'Rella challenged last year, and Damen has lost twice, but the others need the experience. Sher . . .”

  “Sena, Maris, come quick!” The shout came from the hall, and a breathless Kerr suddenly appeared in the doorway. “The Landsman sent someone, they need a flyer, they . . .” He panted, struggling with the words.

  “Go with him, quickly,” Sena told Maris. “I will hurry behind as fast as I am able.”

  The stranger who waited in the common room among the students was also panting; he had run all the way from the Landsman's tower. Yet speech seemed to burst from him. “You're the flyer?” He was young and obviously distraught, glancing about like a wild bird trapped in a cage.

  Maris nodded.

  “You must fly to Shotan. Please. And fetch their healer. The Landsman said to come to you. My brother is ill. Wandering in the head. His leg is broken—badly, I can see the bone—and he won't tell me how to fix it, or what to give him for his fever. Please, hurry.”

  “Doesn't Seatooth have its own healer?” Maris asked.

  “His brother is the healer,” volunteered Damen, a lean youth native to the island.

  “What's the name of the healer on Big Shotan?” Maris asked, just as Sena came limping into the room.

  The old woman immediately grasped the situation and took command. “There are several,” she said.

  “Hurry,” the stranger implored. “My brother might die.”

  “I don't think he'll die of a broken leg,” Maris began, but Sena silenced her with a gesture.

  “Then you're a fool,” the youth said. “He has a fever. He raves. He fell down the cliff face climbing after kite eggs, and he lay alone for almost a day before I found him. Please.”

  “There's a healer on the near end named Fila,” Sena said. “She's old and crotchety and doesn't care for sea travel, but her daughter lives with her and knows her arts. If she can't come, she'll tell you the name of another who can. Don't waste your time in Stormtown. The healers there will all want to weigh your metal before they gather their herbs. And stop at the South Landing and tell the ferry captain to wait for an important passenger.”

  “I'll go at once,” Maris said, with only the briefest of glances for the stew pot that was steaming over the fire. She was hungry, but it could wait. “S'Rella, Kerr, come help me with my wings.”

  “Thank you,” the stranger muttered, but Maris and the students were already gone.

  The storm had finally broken outside. Maris thanked her luck, and flew straight across the salt channel, skimming a few feet above the waves. There were dangers in flying so low, but she had no time to try for altitude, and scyllas rarely came so close to land anyway. The flight was short enough. Fila was easy to find but—as Sena had predicted—reluctant to come. “The waters make me sick,” she muttered sourly. “And that boy on Seatooth, he thinks he's better than me anyway. Always has, the young fool, and now he comes crying to me for help.” But her daughter apologized for her, and soon after left for the ferry.

  On the way back, Maris indulged herself, enjoying the sensuous feel of the winds as if to make up for the brusque way that she had used them to travel to Big Shotan. The stormclouds were gone now; the sun was shining brightly on the waters, and a rainbow arched across the eastern sky. Maris went in search of it, soaring up on a warm current of air that rose from Shotan, frightening a flock of summerfowl when she joined them from below. She laughed as they scattered in confusion, banking at the same time, her body responding out of habit to the subtle, shifting demands of the winds. They went in all directions, some toward Seatooth, some toward Eggland or Big Shotan, some out toward the open sea. And farther out she saw—she narrowed her eyes, trying to be sure. A scylla, its long neck rearing out of the water to snap some unwary bird from the sky? No, there were several shapes. A hunting pack of seacats, then. Or ships.

  She circled and glided out over the ocean, leaving the islands behind her, and very shortly she was sure. Ships all right, five of them sailing together, and when the wind had brought her closer she could see the colors as well, the faded paint on the canvas sails, the ragged streamers flapping and fluttering above, the hulls all black. Local ships were less gaudy; these had come a long way. A trading fleet from Eastern.

  She swooped low enough to see the crew hard at work replacing sails, pulling in lines and shifting desperately to stay on the good side of the wind. A few looked up and shouted and waved at her, but most concentrated on their labors. Sailing the open seas of Windhaven was always a dangerous business, and there were many months in the year when travel between distant island groupings was made flatly impossible by the raging storms. To Maris the wind was a lover, but to the sailors it was a smiling assassin, pretending friendship only to gain the chance to slash a sail or drive a ship to splinters against an unseen rock. A ship was too large to play the games the flyers played; a ship at sea was always in a state of battle.
>
  But these ships were safe enough now; the storm was past, and it would be sunset at least before another one would be upon them. There would be celebration in Stormtown tonight; arrival of an Eastern trade fleet this size was always an occasion. Fully a third of the ships that tried the hazardous crossing between archipelagos were lost at sea. Maris guessed the fleet would make port in less than an hour, judging from their position and the strength of the winds. She wheeled above them once more, made very aware of her grace and freedom in the sky by their struggles below, and decided to carry the news to Big Shotan instead of returning immediately to Seatooth. She might even wait for them, she thought, curious about their cargo and their news.

  Maris drank too much wine in the boisterous tavern on the waterfront; it was pressed on her by the delighted customers, for she had been the first to bring word of the approaching fleet. Now everyone was at the docks, drinking and carousing and speculating about what the traders might be bringing.

  When the cry went up—first one voice, then many—that the ships were docking, Maris stood up, only to lurch forward as she lost her balance, made dizzy by the wine. She would have fallen, but the crush of bodies around her, rushing toward the door, kept her upright and bore her along.

  The scene outside was wild and noisy and for a moment Maris wondered whether she had been right to stay; she could see nothing, learn nothing in this excited, milling crowd. Shrugging, she slowly fought her way free of the mob, and sat down on an overturned barrel. She might as well stay out of it and keep her eyes open for anyone from the ship who could supply her with news. She leaned back against a smooth stone wall and folded her arms to wait.

  She woke unwillingly, annoyed by someone who would not stop pushing at her shoulder. She blinked her eyes several times, looking up into the face of a stranger.

  “You are Maris,” he said. “Maris the flyer? Maris of Lesser Amberly?” He was a very young man, with the severe, sculpted face of an ascetic: a closed, guarded face that gave away nothing. Set in such a face, his eyes were startling—large, dark, and liquid. His rust-colored hair was pulled back sharply from a high forehead, and knotted at the back of his skull.

  “Yes,” she said, straightening. “I'm Maris. Why? What happened? I must have fallen asleep.”

  “You must have,” he said flatly. “I came in on the ship. You were pointed out to me. I thought perhaps you had come to meet me.”

  “Oh!” Maris looked quickly around. The crowds had thinned and all but vanished. The docks were empty except for a group of traders standing on a gangplank, and a work-crew of stevedores unloading chests of cloth. “I sat down to wait,” she muttered. “I must have closed my eyes. I didn't get much sleep last night.”

  There was something naggingly familiar about him, Maris thought groggily. She looked at him more closely. His clothing was Eastern in cut, but simple: gray fabric without ornamentation, thick and warm, a hood hanging down behind him. He had a canvas bag under one arm and wore a knife in a leather sheath at his waist.

  “You said you were from the ship?” she asked. “Pardon, I'm still only half awake. Where are the other sailors?”

  “The sailors are drinking or eating, the traders off haggling, I would say,” he answered. “The voyage was difficult. We lost one ship to a storm, though all but two of the crew were pulled from the water safely. Conditions afterward were crowded and uncomfortable. The sailors were glad to come ashore.” He paused. “I am no sailor, however. My apologies. I made a mistake. I do not think you were sent to meet me.” He turned to go.

  Suddenly Maris realized who he must be. “Of course,” she blurted. “You're the student, the one from Airhome.” He had turned back to her. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I'd forgotten all about you.” She jumped down from the barrel.

  “My name is Val,” he said, as if he expected it to mean something to her. “Val of South Arren.”

  “Fine,” Maris said. “You know my name. I'm sure—”

  He shifted his bag uneasily. The muscles around his mouth were tense. “They also call me One-Wing.”

  Maris said nothing. But her face gave her away.

  “I see you know me after all,” he said, a bit sharply.

  “I've heard of you,” Maris admitted. “You intend to compete?”

  “I intend to fly,” Val said. “I have worked for this for four years.”

  “I see,” Maris said coolly. She looked up at the sky, dismissing him. It was nearly dusk. “I've got to get back to Seatooth,” she said. “They'll be thinking I fell into the ocean. I'll tell them you arrived.”

  “Aren't you even going to speak to the captain?” he asked sardonically. “She's in the tavern across the way, telling stories to a gullible crowd.” He canted his head at one of the dockside buildings.

  “No,” Maris said, too quickly. “But thanks.” She turned away, but stopped when he called after her.

  “Can I hire a boat to take me to Seatooth?”

  “You can hire anything in Stormtown,” Maris answered, “but it will cost you. There's a regular ferry from South Landing. You'd probably do best to stay the night here and take the ferry in the morning.” She turned again and moved off down the cobbled street, toward the flyers' quarters where she had stored her wings. She felt a bit ashamed of leaving him so abruptly when he had come so far in his desire to be a flyer, but she did not feel ashamed enough to turn back. One-Wing, she thought furiously. She was surprised he admitted to the name, and even more surprised that he would come to try again at a competition. He must know how he would be met.

  “You knew!” Maris shouted, angry enough not to care if the students heard her. “You knew and you didn't tell me.”

  “Of course I knew,” Sena said. Her own voice was even, and her good eye was as impassive and fixed as her bad one. “I did not tell you earlier because I expected you would react like this.”

  “Sena, how could you?” Maris demanded. “Do you really intend to sponsor his challenge?”

  “If he is good enough,” Sena replied. “I have every reason to think he will be. I have serious qualms about sponsoring Kerr, but none whatsoever about Val.”

  “Don't you know how we feel about him?”

  “We?”

  “The flyers,” Maris said impatiently. She paced back and forth before the fire, then paused to face Sena again. “He can't possibly win again. And if he did, do you think it would keep Woodwings open? The academies are still living down his first win. If he won again, the Landsman of Seatooth would—”

  “The Landsman of Seatooth would be proud and pleased,” Sena said, interrupting. “Val intends to take up residence here if he wins, I believe. It's not the land-bound who call him One-Wing—only you flyers do that.”

  “He calls himself One-Wing,” Maris said, her voice rising once more. “And you know why he got the name. Even during the year he wore his wings, he was never more than half a flyer.” She resumed her pacing.

  “I'm less than half a flyer myself,” the older woman said quietly, looking into the flames. “A flyer without wings. Val has a chance to fly again, and I can help him.”

  “You'd do anything to have a Woodwinger win in the competition, wouldn't you?” Maris said accusingly.

  Sena turned up her wrinkled face, her good eye bright and sharp on Maris. “What did he do to make you hate him so?”

  “You know what he did,” Maris said.

  “He won a pair of wings,” Sena said.

  She seemed suddenly a stranger. Maris spun away from her, turning her back on the older woman to avoid the blind stare of that white and hideous eye. “He drove a friend of mine to suicide,” she said in a low, intense voice. “Mocked her grief, took her wings, and all but pushed her off that cliff with his own hands.”

  “Nonsense,” Sena said. “Ari took her own life.”

  “I knew Ari,” Maris said softly, still facing the fire. “She hadn't had her wings very long, but she was a true flyer, one of the best. Everyone liked her. Val coul
d never have defeated her in fair flight.”

  “Val did defeat her.”

  “She talked to me at the Eyrie, just after her brother died,” Maris said. “She had seen it all. He was out in his boat, the lines out for moonfish, and she was flying above, keeping an eye on him. She saw the scylla coming, but she was too far away, the winds tore the warning from her mouth. She tried to fly closer, but not in time. She saw the boat smashed to splinters, and the scylla's neck came craning up out of the water with her brother's body in its jaws. Then it dove.”

  “She should not have gone to the competition,” Sena said simply.

  “It was only a week off,” Maris said. “She didn't intend to go, that day she was at the Eyrie, but she was so forlorn. Everyone thought it would help cheer her up. The games, the races, the singing and the drinking. We all urged her to go, never dreaming that anyone would challenge her. Not in her condition.”

  “She knew the rules the Council set,” Sena insisted. “Your Council, Maris. Any flyer who appears at the competition is subject to challenge, and no healthy flyer may absent himself more than two years running.”

  Maris turned back to face the teacher once again, scowling. “You talk of law. What of humanity? Yes, Ari should have stayed away. But she desperately wanted to go on with her life, and she needed to be among her friends and forget her pain for a while. We watched over her. She was clumsy then, as if she often forgot where she was and what she was doing, but we kept her safe. She was enjoying the competition. No one could believe it when that boy challenged her.”

  “Boy,” Sena repeated. “You used the right word, Maris. He was fifteen.”

  “He knew what he was doing. The judges tried to explain things to him, but he would not withdraw his challenge. He flew well and Ari flew badly, and that was it. One-Wing had her wings. It was only a month later that she killed herself.”

  “Val was half an ocean away at the time,” Sena said. “The flyers had no cause to blame him, and shun him so. And no cause to do what they did the year after, at the competition on Culhall. Challenge after challenge after challenge, from retired flyers and flyer-children just come of age, and the best and the most talented at that.”