Windhaven

  “There was no rule against multiple challenges then,” Maris said defensively.

  “I notice that there is such a rule now, though. Where was the fairness in that?”

  “It didn't matter. He lost to the second challenger.”

  “Yes. A girl who had been practicing with wings since she was seven, whose father was the senior flyer on Little Shotan, was able to defeat him after he had already outflown one other challenger,” Sena said. She made an angry noise and rose slowly from her chair. “And what incentive did he have to fly well against her? There was another waiting to challenge next, a dozen more after him. And you all told him he was only half a flyer anyway.” She moved toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Maris demanded.

  “To dinner,” Sena said gruffly. “I have news to tell my students.”

  Val arrived the next morning during breakfast. Sena sat spooning up her eggs in a grim silence while the students glanced at her curiously. Maris was seated well away from the teacher, listening to S'Rella and brawny young Liane try to convince a third student—a plain, quiet woman named Dana, the oldest of the Woodwingers—to remain at the academy. Last night at dinner, Sena had announced the names of the five she would sponsor in challenge. Dana, discouraged, was planning to return home and resume the life she had abandoned. S'Rella and Liane were not doing very well in their attempts to reconvert her. From time to time Maris would add a few words about the importance of desire, but she found it hard to care. Truth was that Dana had begun much too late and had never had real talent anyway.

  All conversation ended when Val entered.

  He took off his heavy woolen traveling cape and lowered his bag to the floor. If he took note of the sudden silence or the way the others stared at him, he gave no sign. “I'm hungry,” he said. “Have you any extra food?”

  That shattered the spell. Everyone began talking at once. Leya fetched him a platter of eggs and a mug of tea, and Sena rose and went to him, smiling, and led him back to her table, to sit and eat at her side. Maris watched in silence, staring and feeling uneasy, until S'Rella tugged at the sleeve of her shirt.

  “I said, do you think he will win again?” S'Rella asked.

  “No,” Maris said, too loudly. She rose abruptly. “No one has lost a brother lately. How could he possibly win?”

  That afternoon, he made her regret her words.

  Sher and Leya had been up all morning, flying practice circuits while Sena yelled instructions from below and Maris observed them from the air. In the afternoon, S'Rella and Damen were supposed to have use of the academy wings, but Sena had asked one of them to yield to Val, since he had been grounded for a month and needed the feel of the wind again. S'Rella had quickly volunteered.

  It was crowded on the observation platform when he emerged, wings strapped to his back and folded. Most of the students had come to see him fly. Maris, still winged, waited among them.

  “Damen,” Sena was saying, “I want you to practice skimming today. Fly as low over the water as you can. Keep your wings stiff and even. You wobble too much. You must improve, or someday you will fall in.” She looked at her other student. “Val, you'd be best to just unlimber now. Later there will be time for other exercises.”

  “No,” Val said. He was standing stiffly while two of the younger students unfolded and locked his wings. “I fly better when I must fly well. Set me a difficulty.” He looked at Damen, who was flexing in preparation for flight. “Or give me a race.”

  Sena shook her head. “You are premature, Val. I will say when the time has come for racing.”

  But Maris pushed forward, possessed of a sudden urge to see how good the infamous Val One-Wing really was. “Let them race, Sena,” she said. “Damen has had exercise enough. He needs a competition.”

  Damen looked from Maris to Sena and back again, clearly eager to race but unwilling to defy his teacher. “I don't know,” he said.

  Val shrugged. “As you will. I doubt you could give me much of a race in any case.”

  That was too much for Damen, who was fiercely proud of his status as one of Woodwings' best. “Don't flatter yourself, One-Wing,” he snapped. He lifted an arm and pointed across the waters, to where the waves broke and foamed against a ridge of half-submerged stone. “When we are both aloft and Maris gives the word, three times there and three times back. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Val said, studying the distant rocks.

  Sena pursed her lips but said nothing. Hearing no further objections, Damen grinned and ran and leapt. The wind took him and lifted. He soared upward, did a stately circle over the shoreline, and passed above them, his shadow rippling across the stone. Val moved to the edge, his wings fully extended now.

  “Your knife, Val,” S'Rella said suddenly. The rest of them looked. His ornate blade, obsidian with beaten silver edges, was still in its sheath at his hip.

  Val reached down and pulled it free, looking at it curiously. “What of it?”

  “Flyer tradition,” Sena said. “No blade may be carried into the sky. S'Rella, take it. We will keep it safe for you.”

  S'Rella moved to obey, but Val gestured her away. “This was my father's knife, the only decent thing he ever owned. I carry it everywhere.” He slid it back into its sheath.

  “It's flyer tradition,” S'Rella said, her voice puzzled.

  Val smiled sardonically. “Ah. But I am only half a flyer. Move back, S'Rella.” And when she moved back, he threw himself into the air.

  Maris walked to the outer edge of the platform, to stand beside Sena and S'Rella, all of them watching Val as he spiraled upward to join Damen. Behind her, she could hear the others talking about him. “One-Wing,” a voice said, Liane perhaps. Damen had called him that too, after Val had mocked him. The Easterner wasted no time making enemies, Maris thought. She said as much to Sena.

  “The flyers wasted no time making an enemy of him,” Sena replied. Even her bad eye was turned upward, toward the sky, where Damen and Val now wheeled in great circles around each other, like two birds of prey searching for a weakness. “You are to say the word, Maris,” Sena reminded her.

  Maris cupped her hands. “Fly,” she shouted, as loud as she could shout it. The wind took it and carried it up to them.

  Damen came out of his circle first, sweeping around and over the water in a slow, leisurely manner, as if he had all the time in the world. Val One-Wing came just behind him, wide silver wings weathervaning a bit, tilting first one way and then the other, as if he were not quite balanced. Both flyers kept low. Maris put a hand up to shade her eyes against the sunlight flashing from their wings.

  Halfway to the first turn, Damen was widening his lead and Val began to rise. “The wind is picking up,” Sena commented. Maris nodded. It felt like a crosswind as well. They'd have to fly; it would be no simple matter of letting the breeze carry them where they wished to go.

  Damen reached the rocks well ahead of his competition, and began his turn. A ragged shout went up from the Woodwingers; Damen was winning. But he lost time on his turn; he came around slow and too wide, faltering at one point when he faced head on into the wind, before he took command of it again. He seemed less steady coming back.

  Val began to tack well before the turn, changing his course as he climbed, not all at once but in a series of small increments. He was much higher than Damen now, but substantially behind. When he came around at last, Damen was already halfway back. But Val's turn was sharper and cleaner than his rival's.

  “Damen's beating him,” Liane called out. Damen swept by above them. “Hey, Damen!” Liane bellowed, hands cupped around his mouth. “Go!” Damen came around slowly—again the turn was too wide—and dipped his wing to acknowledge the cheers, but the gesture cost him. He lost the wind for an instant and slid down sharply and dangerously and when he passed in front of them, suddenly the bulk of the great rock fortress was between him and the prevailing wind. He drifted lazily, losing speed, and had to struggle to pull himself back up
again.

  Val made no such mistake. He turned tightly, keeping high enough above them so he lost no portion of the wind, however small. And suddenly he seemed to be moving much faster as well.

  “Val has won it,” Maris said suddenly. She hadn't meant to speak aloud, but no sooner had it come to her than the words were out.

  Sena was smiling. S'Rella looked baffled. “But, Maris, look. Damen is well ahead.”

  “Damen is just riding on the winds,” Maris said. “Val is using them. He was searching for the right wind, and now he's found it. Watch, S'Rella.”

  It didn't take long. Damen's lead shrank steadily as the two flyers moved out toward the rocks once more, and the Woodwinger slid badly off course when he tried to come around more sharply than before. By the time he'd corrected himself, Val had reached the turnaround point. A few moments later, Damen seemed visibly startled as the shadow of Val's wings fell upon his own. Then the shadow moved in front of him.

  The students were quiet, even Liane.

  “Give him my congratulations,” Maris said. She turned and went back inside.

  Her room was cold and damp. Maris built a fire in the hearth, and decided to heat the kivas she had bought in Stormtown. She was on her third cup, relaxing at last, when Sena entered unasked, and took a seat.

  “How do the practices go?” Maris said.

  “He has them all racing,” Sena said. “Damen took it well enough, but he had no taste for another race, so he gave up his wings for the afternoon. They were all eager to try him.” She smiled, clearly proud of their eagerness. “He defeated Sher and Jan handily, humiliated Kerr and Egon. Egon almost fell into the ocean. S'Rella flew him a close race, though. Stole all the tricks he used to defeat Damen. She's a clever girl, S'Rella.”

  “He flew six races?” Maris said.

  “Seven,” Sena said, smiling. “Liane almost beat him. The wind is gusting now, very turbulent. It knocked Val around a bit. He's lean, not as strong as he could be. I'll have him work on that. Pullups, pushups. And of course he was tired by then, but Liane insisted. Liane can handle rough winds. He's muscled like a scylla. Sometimes, the way he wrenches his wings around, I think he's yanking himself through the sky on sheer brawn. Val beat him anyway, though. Very close. Then Leya wanted to race, but the storm was about to break and I chased them all inside. What do you think of One-Wing now, Maris?”

  Maris poured the teacher a mug of kivas while she thought.

  “I think he can fly,” Maris said at last. “I still don't like what he did to Ari. And I didn't like that business with his knife today, either. Yet I can't deny his skill.”

  “Will he win?”

  Maris tasted her drink, let the sweet warmth flow down and into her. She closed her eyes briefly and leaned back. “Perhaps,” she said. “I can think of a dozen flyers who don't handle themselves as well as he did today. I can also think of a dozen who are better than he, who know all his tricks and more. Tell me whom he's to challenge and I'll tell you his chances. Beyond that—well, speed is only one skill of a flyer. The competition will judge grace and precision as well.”

  “Fair enough,” Sena said. “Will you help me ready him?”

  Maris stared down at the gray stone floor. “You place me in a difficult position,” she said. “And for the sake of someone I don't even like.”

  “So only those you approve of deserve to fly?” Sena said. “Is that the principle you struggled for seven years ago?”

  Maris raised her head, meeting Sena's gaze. “You know better. Those who fly best deserve the wings.”

  “And you admit Val is skilled,” Sena said. She sipped at her kivas while she waited for an answer.

  Maris nodded reluctantly. “But if he should win, the others will not forget the past. You call him Val, but he'll always be One-Wing to them.”

  “I am not asking you to fly guard on him for the rest of his career,” Sena said tartly. “I ask only that you help me now, help Val to get his wings.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing more than you have already done for the others. Show him his mistakes. Teach him the things your years as a flyer have taught you, as you would teach a child of your own. Advise him. Push him. Challenge him. He is too skilled to gain much by pitting himself against my Woodwingers, and you saw today how little he is willing to listen to me. I am old and crippled, and I fly only in my dreams. But you are an active flyer, and reputed one of the best. He will heed you.”

  “I wonder,” Maris said. She drained the last inch of kivas from her mug and set it aside. “Well, I suppose I must give him my advice, if he will take it.”

  “Good,” Sena said. She nodded briskly and stood up. “I thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to tend to.” At the door she paused and half-turned. “I know this is hard for you, Maris. Perhaps if you knew Val better, you might feel some sympathy between you. He admires you, I know.”

  Maris was startled by that, but tried not to show it. “I can't admire him,” she said. “And the more I see of him, the less I see to sympathize with or like.”

  “He is young,” Sena said. “His life has not been easy, and he is obsessed with winning back his wings—not so very different from you, some years back.”

  Maris choked down her anger to keep from launching into a tirade about just how different Val One-Wing was from her younger self; she would only sound spiteful.

  The silence lengthened, and then Maris heard Sena's soft, uncertain footsteps taking her away.

  The next day the final training began.

  From sun-up until sundown the six challengers flew. Of those who would not compete this year, some went home to visit families on Seatooth or the Shotans or other nearby islands. The others, whose homes lay long, dangerous distances away, sat perched on bare rock to watch their fortunate companions and dream of the day when they, too, would have a chance to win their own wings.

  Sena stood below on the launching deck, shouting up advice and encouragement to her fledglings, sometimes leaning on a wooden cane, more often using it to gesture and command. Maris, winged, flew guard; circling, watching, yelling cautions. She put S'Rella, Damen, Sher, Leya, and Kerr through their paces, racing against them two at a time, calling upon them to perform the sort of aerial acrobatics that might impress the judges.

  Val was given a chance to use a pair of wings as often as any of the others, but Maris found herself observing him in silence. He had been in competition twice before, she reasoned; he knew what would be expected. To treat him as she did the other Woodwingers would be to condescend. But, mindful of her promise to Sena, she studied his flying closely, and that night at dinner she sought him out.

  Only one hearth was lit in the common room, and the benches seemed strangely empty. When Maris arrived, one table was crowded with the students who would not be competing, and Sena sat at a second, talking in an animated fashion with Sher, Leya, and Kerr. S'Rella and Val were alone at the third table.

  Maris let Damen fill her platter with his fish stew, then drew herself a glass of white wine and went to join them.

  “How is the food?” she asked, as she sat down across from Val.

  He looked at her evenly, but she could read nothing in his large, dark eyes. “Excellent,” he said. “But even at Airhome, we never had cause to complain about the meals. Flyers eat well. Even those with wooden wings.”

  S'Rella, seated next to him, pushed a chunk of hookfin across her plate with marked indifference. “This isn't that good,” she said. “Damen always makes everything so bland. You should be here when I'm cook, Val. Southern food has a lot of spices.”

  Maris laughed. “Too many, if you want my opinion.”

  “I'm not talking about spices,” Val said. “I'm talking about food. This stew has four or five different kinds of fish in it, and chunks of vegetables, and I think there's wine in the sauce. There's plenty of it, and not a bit of it is rotten. Only flyers and Landsmen and rich traders would quibble about foo
d like this.”

  S'Rella looked wounded. Maris frowned and put down her knife. “Most flyers eat simply, Val. We can't afford to get fat.”

  “I've been served fish that stank, and I've eaten fish stew that was entirely fishless,” Val said coolly. “I grew up on scraps and leavings from flyer plates. I will be happy to spend the rest of my life eating as simply as a flyer.” There was an infinite amount of sarcasm in the way he said simply.

  Maris flushed. Her own true parents had not been wealthy, but her father had fished the sea off Amberly and they had always had enough to eat. After his death, when she had been adopted by the flyer Russ, she had always had enough of everything. She drank some of her wine and changed the subject. “I wanted to talk to you about your turns, Val.”

  “Oh?” He swallowed his last piece of fish and shoved the empty plate away. “Am I doing anything wrong, flyer?” His voice was so flat that Maris found it difficult to tell if the sarcasm was still there or not.

  “Not wrong, not exactly. But given a choice, I notice that you always turn downwind. Why?”

  Val shrugged. “It's easier.”

  “Yes,” Maris said. “But not better. You'll come out of a downwind turn with more speed, but it will also take more room. And you tend to roll more on a downwind turn, particularly in high winds.”

  “An upwind turn is difficult in high winds,” Val said.

  “It requires more strength,” Maris agreed. “But you need to work on your strength. You should not avoid difficulty. A habit like always turning downwind may seem harmless, but the time will come when you have to turn upwind, and you should be able to do it well.”

  Val's expression was as guarded as ever. “I see,” he said.

  Emboldened, Maris raised a touchier subject. “Something else. I saw that you wore your knife again today during practice.”