Windhaven

  But as he was helping her off with her wings—and another boy was helping S'Rella—suddenly there was the sound of wind-on-wings again, and another thump, and Maris glanced over to see that Val had come in. They had lost sight of him near dusk, and she had assumed he was already down.

  He climbed awkwardly to his feet, the great silver wings bobbing on his back, and two young girls moved in on him. “Help you, flyer.” The refrain was almost a chant. “Help you, flyer,” and their hands were on him.

  “Get away,” he snapped, anger in his voice. The girls jumped back, startled, and even Maris looked up. Val was always so cool and controlled; the outburst was unlike him.

  “We just want to help you with your wings, flyer,” the bolder of the girls said.

  “Don't you have any pride?” Val said. He was unstrapping himself, without help. “Don't you have anything better to do than fawn over flyers who treat you like dirt? What are your parents?”

  The girl quailed. “Tanners, flyer.”

  “Then go and learn tanning,” he said. “It's a cleaner trade than slaving for the flyers.” He turned away from her, began to fold up his wings carefully.

  Maris and S'Rella were free of their own wings now. “Here,” said the boy who had been helping Maris, as he offered them to her, neatly folded. Suddenly abashed, she fumbled in her pocket and offered the boy an iron coin. She had always accepted the help without payment before, but something in what Val said had struck a chord.

  But the boy just laughed and refused to take her money. “Don't you know?” he said. “It's good luck to touch a flyer's wings.” And then he was off, and Maris saw as he darted toward his companions that the beach was full of children. They were everywhere, helping with the poles, playing in the sand, waiting for the chance to aid a flyer.

  But looking at them, Maris thought of Val, and wondered if there were others on the island who were not so thrilled by the flyers and the competition, others who stayed home to brood and sulk and resent the privileged caste that flew the skies of Windhaven.

  “Take your wings, flyer?” a voice said sharply, and Maris glanced over. It was Val, mocking. “Here,” he said, in his normal tone, and he offered her the wings he'd worn on the flight. “I imagine you'll want these for safekeeping.”

  She took the wings from him, holding one pair awkwardly in each hand. “Where are you going?”

  Val shrugged. “This is a fair-sized island. Somewhere there's a town or two, and a tavern or two, and a bed to sleep in. I have a few irons.”

  “You could come up to the lodge with S'Rella and me,” Maris said hesitantly.

  “Could I?” Val said, his voice perfectly level. His smile flickered at her. “That would be an interesting scene. More dramatic than my launching today, I'd guess.”

  Maris frowned. “I haven't forgotten that,” she said. “S'Rella could have hurt herself, you know. She was badly startled by that fool's leap of yours. I ought—”

  “I believe I've heard this before,” Val said. “Excuse me.” He turned and was gone, walking quickly up the beach with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

  Behind her, Maris heard S'Rella laughing and talking with the other young people, sharing with them her delight in her first long flight. When Maris approached, she broke off and ran to take her hand. “How was I?” she asked breathlessly. “How did I do?”

  “You know how you did—you just want me to praise you,” Maris said, her tone a mock-scold. “All right, I will. You flew as if you'd never done anything else in your life, as if you'd been born to it.”

  “I know,” S'Rella said shyly. Then she laughed in sheer joy. “It was marvelous. I never want to do anything but fly!”

  “I know how you feel,” Maris said. “But a rest will do us good right now. Let's go in and sit by the fire and see who else has come early.”

  But when she turned to go, S'Rella hung back. Maris looked at her curiously, and then understood; S'Rella was worried about the sort of reception she would find inside the lodge. She was an outsider, after all, and no doubt Val had been filling her with tales of his own rejection.

  “Well,” Maris said, “you might as well come in, unless you feel like flying back tonight. They'll have to meet you sometime.”

  S'Rella nodded, still a bit timorous, and they started up the pebbled incline toward the lodge.

  It was a small two-room building built of soft, weathered white rock. The main room, well-lit and overheated by a roaring fire, was noisy, crowded, and unappealing after the clean solitude of the open air. The faces of the flyers seemed to blur together as Maris looked around in search of special friends, S'Rella standing nervously behind her. They hung the wings on hooks along the walls, and began to fight their way across the room.

  A heavy-set, middle-aged man with a full beard was pouring some liquid into the huge, fragrant stewpot hung over the fire, and roaring insults at someone demanding nourishment. Something about him drew Maris' eyes back after they had passed over him, and with a strange little shock she recognized the overweight cook. When had Garth grown so old and fat?

  She started toward him when thin arms went around her from behind, hugging her fiercely, and she caught the faint whisper of a flowery scent.

  “Shalli!” she said, turning. She noticed the rounded stomach. “I didn't expect to see you here—heard you were preg—”

  Shalli stopped her lips with a finger. “Hush. I get enough of that from Corm. And I tell him that our little flyer has to learn about flying from the very beginning. But I am careful, truly. I took the flight slow and easy. I couldn't miss this! Corm wanted me to take a boat. Can you imagine?” Shalli's beautiful, mobile face went from one comic expression to another as she spoke.

  “You're not going to compete?”

  “Oh, no. It wouldn't be fair, me with the extra ballast!” She patted the small mound and laughed. “I'm to judge. And I've promised Corm that after this I'll stay home and be a good little mother 'til the baby comes, unless there's an emergency.”

  Maris felt a pang of guilt, knowing that the “emergencies” Shalli had to fly were caused by her own absence from Amberly. But after the competition, she swore to herself, she'd stay home and tend to her duties.

  “Shalli, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine,” Maris said. S'Rella was hanging back shyly, so Maris pulled her gently forward. “This is S'Rella, our most promising student. She flew here from Woodwings with me today, her longest flight so far.”

  “Ooh.” Shalli arched her brows.

  “S'Rella, this is Shalli. From Lesser Amberly, like me. She used to fly guard on me, when I was just learning how to use the wings.”

  They exchanged polite greetings. Then Shalli, giving S'Rella a measuring look, said, “Good luck in the competitions. You'd better not beat Corm, though. I think I'd go mad if he was around the house every day for a year.”

  Shalli smiled, but S'Rella seemed to take the jest in earnest. “I don't want to hurt anyone,” she said, “but someone has to lose. I want to win as much as any flyer.”

  “Mmm, well, it's not quite the same,” Shalli murmured. “But I was only joking, child. You wouldn't want to challenge Corm, really. You wouldn't have a very good chance.” She glanced across the room. “Excuse me, please—I see that Corm has found a cushion for me, and now I suppose I must go and sit on it if I'm not to hurt his feelings. I'll talk to you later, Maris. S'Rella, it was nice to meet you.”

  They watched her moving easily through the crowded room, away from them.

  “Would I?” S'Rella asked, her tone troubled.

  “Would you what?”

  “Have a chance against Corm.”

  Maris looked at her unhappily, not knowing what to say. “He's very good,” she managed finally. “He's been flying for almost twenty years now, and he's won prizes in lots of these competitions. No, you're probably not his match. But that's no disgrace, S'Rella.”

  “Which one is he?” S'Rella said, frowning.

  “Over by
Shalli—see—the dark-haired one in black and gray.”

  “He's handsome,” S'Rella said.

  Maris laughed. “Ah, yes. Half the land-bound girls on Amberly were in love with him when he was younger. They were all heartbroken when he and Shalli wed.”

  That drew a small smile back to S'Rella's face. “On my home island, all the boys used to dream about S'Landra, our flyer. Were you in love with Corm too?”

  “Never. I knew him too well.”

  “MARIS!” The bellow rang from the rafters, attracting attention all over the lodge. Garth was yelling at her from across the room, gesturing her closer.

  She grinned. “Come,” she said, pulling S'Rella after her through the press, nodding polite hellos at old acquaintances as she went.

  Garth crushed her in a formidable hug when she reached him, then pushed her back to look at her. “You look tired, Maris,” he told her. “Flying too much.”

  “And you,” she said, “have been eating too much.” She jabbed a finger into his stomach where it hung over his belt. “What's this? Are you and Shalli going to give birth together?”

  Garth snorted with laughter. “Ah,” he growled, “my sister's fault. She brews her own ale, you know. Got a right little business going. I have to help her out, of course, buy a little now and again.”

  “You're probably her best customer,” Maris said. “When did you grow the beard?”

  “Oh, a month ago, two, something like that. I haven't seen you in a half-year, it seems.”

  Maris nodded. “Dorrel was fretting over you the last time we were at the Eyrie together. Something about a date to get drunk, and you didn't make it.”

  He frowned. “Ah,” he said, “yes, I know all about it. Dorrel goes on endlessly. I was ill, that's all, no great mystery.” He turned back to the fire and gave his stew a stir. “There'll be food soon. Hungry? I made this myself, Southern style, with lots of spices and wine.”

  Maris turned. “You hear that, S'Rella? You'll get some decent food, it sounds like.” She ushered the girl forward to face Garth. “S'Rella's a Woodwinger, and one of the best. She'll be taking some poor soul's wings this year. S'Rella, this is Garth of Skulny, one of our hosts here and an old friend.”

  “Not that old,” Garth protested. He smiled at S'Rella. “Why, you're as beautiful as Maris used to be, before she got thin and tired. Do you fly as well?”

  “I try to,” S'Rella said.

  “Modest, too,” he said. “Well, Skulny knows how to treat flyers, even fledglings. Anything you want, you tell me about it. Are you hungry? This will be ready soon. In fact, maybe you can help me with the spices. I'm not really from Southern, you know, maybe I didn't get it right.” He took her by the hand and drew her closer to the fire, then forced a spoonful of stew at her. “Here, try this, tell me what you think.”

  As S'Rella tasted, Garth glanced at Maris and pointed. “Look, you're wanted,” he said. Dorrel was standing in the doorway, still holding his folded wings, shouting to her above the din of the party. “Go on,” Garth said gruffly. “I'll keep S'Rella occupied. I'm the host, after all.” He pushed her toward the door.

  Maris smiled at him, then began to work her way back across the floor, which had grown even more crowded. Dorrel, after hanging up his wings, met her. He threw his arms around her and kissed her briefly. Maris found herself trembling as she leaned against him.

  When they broke apart, there was concern in his eyes. “What's wrong?” he said. “You were shaking.” He looked at her hard. “And you look worn out, exhausted.”

  Maris forced a smile. “Garth said the same thing. No, really, I'm fine.”

  “No, you're not. I know you too well, love.” He put his hands on her shoulders, his gentle, familiar hands. “Really. Can't you tell me?”

  Maris sighed. She did feel tired, she realized suddenly. “I guess I don't know myself,” she muttered. “I haven't been sleeping well this past month. Nightmares.”

  Dorrel put an arm around her and led her through the press of flyers to a wide wooden table against the wall, covered with wines, liquors, and food. “What kind of nightmares?” he asked. He poured them each glasses of rich red wine, and carved out two wedges of a white, crumbly cheese.

  “Only one. Falling. I fall through still air, hit the water, and die.” She bit off a mouthful of cheese and washed it down with a gulp of the wine. “Good,” she said, smiling.

  “Should be,” Dorrel replied. “It's from Amberly. But you can't really be worried about this dream, can you? I didn't think you were superstitious.”

  “No,” Maris said, “that's not it at all. I can't explain. It just—bothers me. And that's not all.” She hesitated.

  Dorrel watched her face, waiting.

  “This competition,” Maris said. “There could be trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Remember when I saw you at Eyrie? I mentioned that one of the students from Airhome had taken ship for Woodwings?”

  “Yes,” Dorrel said. He sipped at his own wine. “What of it?”

  “He's on Skulny now, and he's going to challenge, and it isn't just any student. It's Val.”

  Dorrel's face was blank. “Val?”

  “One-Wing,” Maris said quietly.

  He frowned. “One-Wing,” he repeated. “Well, I understand why you're upset. I would never have expected him to try again. Does he expect to be welcomed?”

  “No,” Maris said. “He knows better. And his opinion of flyers is no better than their opinion of him.”

  Dorrel shrugged. “Well, it will be unpleasant, but it needn't ruin the competition,” he said. “He'll be easy enough to ignore, and I don't imagine we have to worry about him winning again. No one has lost a relative lately.”

  Maris drew back a little. Dorrel's voice abruptly seemed so hard, and the gibe sounded so cruel from his lips—and yet, it was almost identical to what she'd said at the academy on the day Val had arrived. “Dorr,” she said, “he's good. He's been training for years. I think he's going to win. He has the skills. I know, I've flown against him.”

  “You've flown against him?” Dorrel said.

  “In practice,” Maris said. “At Woodwings. What—”

  He drained his wine and set the glass aside. “Maris,” he said, his voice low but strained. “You're not going to tell me you've been helping him too. One-Wing?”

  “He was a student, and Sena asked me to work with him,” Maris said stubbornly. “I'm not there to play favorites and help only those I like.”

  Dorrel swore and took her by the arm. “Come outside,” he said. “I don't want to talk about this in here, where someone might hear.”

  It was cool outside the lodge, and the wind coming in off the sea had the tang of salt to it. Along the beach, the poles were up and the lanterns had been lit to welcome night-flying travelers. Maris and Dorrel walked away from the crowded lodge and sat together on the sand. Most of the children had gone now, and they were alone.

  “Maybe this is what I feared,” Maris said, with a tinge of bitterness in her tone. “I knew you'd balk at that. But I can't make exceptions—we can't make exceptions. Can't you understand that? Can't you try to understand?”

  “I can try,” he said. “I can't promise to succeed. Why, Maris? He's no ordinary land-bound, no little Woodwings dreaming of being a flyer. He's One-Wing, half a flyer even when he had his wings. He killed Ari. Have you forgotten that?”

  “No,” Maris said. “I'm not happy about Val. He's hard to like, and he hates flyers, and there's always the specter of Ari peering over his shoulder. But I have to help him, Dorr. Because of what we did seven years ago. The wings must go to those who can use them best, even if they are . . . well, like Val. Vindictive, and angry, and cold.”

  Dorrel shook his head. “I can't accept that,” he said.

  “I wish I knew him better,” Maris said, “so I could understand what made him the way he is. I think he hated the flyers even before they named him One-Wing.” She
reached over and took Dorrel by the hand. “He's always accusing, making venomous little jests, when he isn't shielding himself in ice. According to Val, I'm a One-Wing too, even if I pretend that I'm not.”

  Dorrel looked at her and squeezed her hand tight within his own. “No,” he said. “You are a flyer, Maris. Have no fear of that.”

  “Am I?” she said. “I'm not sure what it means to be a flyer. It's more than having wings, or flying well. Val had wings, and he flies well enough, but you yourself said he was only half a flyer. If it means . . . well, accepting everything the way it is, and looking down on the land-bound, and not offering help to the Woodwingers for fear they'll hurt a fellow flyer, a real flyer . . . if it means things like that, then I don't think I am a flyer. And sometimes I wonder if I'm not beginning to share Val's opinions of those who are.”

  Dorrel let go her hand but his eyes were still on her. Even in the dark she could feel the anguished intensity of his gaze. “Maris,” he said softly. “I'm a flyer, born to my wings. Val One-Wing surely despises me for it. Do you?”

  “Dorr,” she said, hurt. “You know I don't. I've always loved and trusted you—you're my best friend, truly. But . . .”

  “But,” he echoed.

  She could not look at him. “I wasn't proud of you when you refused to come to Woodwings,” she said.

  The distant sounds of the party and the melancholy wash of the waves against the beach seemed to fill the world. Finally Dorrel spoke.

  “My mother was a flyer, and her mother before her, and on back for generations the pair of wings that I bear has been in my family. That means a great deal to me. My child, should I ever father one, will fly, too, someday.

  “You weren't born to that tradition, and you've been the dearest person in the world to me. And you've always proved that you deserved wings at least as much as any flyer's child. It would have been a horrible injustice if you'd been denied them. I'm proud that I could help you.

  “I'm proud that I fought with you in Council to open the sky, but now you seem to be telling me that we fought for different things. As I understood it, we were fighting for the right of anyone who dreamed hard enough and worked long enough to become a flyer. We weren't out to destroy the great tradition of the flyers, to throw the wings out and let land-bound and would-be flyers alike fight over them like scavenging gulls over a pile of fish.