“Yes,” Sena agreed, glancing at Shalli's seat among the judges.
The crowd was growing impatient; the two flyers still had not launched. Corm's helpers had stepped back from him, and he stood with his silver wings fully extended, but Val had made no move to unfold his own. Instead he kept examining the joints of one wing, as if looking for something wrong. Corm said something to him, sharply, and Val looked up from what he was doing and made a broad gesture.
“All right,” Corm said clearly, and then he was running and an instant later he was aloft.
“There's Corm,” Shalli said. “Where's One-Wing?”
“Doesn't he know that this will cost him?” Sena muttered.
Maris gripped Sena tightly by the elbow. “He's going to do it again,” she said urgently.
“Do what?” Sena said, but even as she spoke a light broke over her face and Maris knew she understood.
Val jumped.
It was a long way down, and only sand and spectators below; trickier and more dangerous than the same stunt over water. But he was doing it, falling, his wings flapping behind him like a silver cape. Shalli and the Southern judge jumped to their feet, two of the landsguard rushed to the cliffside, even the crier gave a grunt of surprise. Maris heard people screaming, somewhere below.
Val's wings took flower.
For an instant it did not seem to be enough. He still fell, speed increasing, even with the wings fully extended. But then he yanked himself to one side and that did it; suddenly he was veering up sharply, angling over the beach and out toward sea. People were dropping to the sand, and someone was still screaming, but there was shouting as well.
Then silence, a hush, a long indrawn breath. Val skimmed the waves, gliding as if over ice, and smoothly began to rise. Serenely he flew out to where Corm, almost unnoticed, had just performed a difficult loop.
The applause began, and the cheering, and all along the shore land-bound began clapping and chanting the refrain, “One-Wing, One-Wing, One-Wing,” over and over. Even Lane's spectacular plunge had not thrilled them as Val had.
The judge from Eastern was laughing. “I never thought I'd see that again,” she exclaimed. “Damn, damn. Even Raven never did it better.”
Shalli looked miserable. “A cheap trick,” she said. “And dangerous as well.”
“Probably,” the Outer Islander agreed, “but I've never seen anything like it. How did he do it, anyway?”
The Easterner tried to explain, and the two of them fell to talking. In the distance, Val and Corm were going through their stunts. Val flew well, though Maris noted that his upwind turns were still not all they should be. Corm flew better, matching Val stunt-for-stunt and doing each of them just a little more gracefully, with the skill that comes with decades of flying. But he flew hopelessly, Maris thought; after Raven's Fall, no amount of finesse was going to redress the balance.
She was right. Shalli was the only exception. “Corm was much superior overall,” she insisted. “One foolhardy stunt does not change that.” She dropped a white stone into the box with an emphatic flick of her wrist.
But the other judges just smiled at her indulgently, and the four pebbles that followed hers were black.
“Garth of Skulny, S'Rella the Woodwinger!”
S'Rella and Garth, though totally different in appearance, looked almost alike this morning, Maris thought as she watched them prepare. Garth should have been elated by his victory yesterday, and the likelihood that his wings were safe, but if anything he seemed paler and more aged today. He hardly spoke to Riesa, and went about the motions of donning his wings with a wooden deliberateness. S'Rella bit her lip as she let the helpers unfold her wings, and looked as if she were holding back tears.
Neither of them attempted anything spectacular on launching. Garth banked right, S'Rella left, and they passed above the beach and the boats with approximately equal ease. A few of the locals waved to Garth and shouted his name as he sailed by overhead, but otherwise the crowd was silent, still breathless over Val's leap.
Sena shook her head. “S'Rella was never as pretty to watch as Sher or Leya, but she can fly better than that.” She had just stalled and lost altitude on a rather routine upwind turn, and Maris had to agree with the teacher's assessment. S'Rella was not flying well.
“She's just going through the motions,” Maris said. “I think she's still shaken by last night.”
Garth was taking full advantage of his opponent's lassitude. He soared with his usual quiet competence, performed graceful, languorous turns, and slid into a loop. It was not an especially good loop, but S'Rella was attempting none at all.
“This one will be easy to judge,” the Landsman of Skulny said with relief. He was already looking about for a white pebble. Maris could only hope that he would not drop two.
“Look at that,” Sena snorted with disgust. “My best student, and she's wandering all over the sky like some eight-year-old on her first flight.”
“What's Garth doing?” Maris wondered aloud. His wings were moving out to sea, tilting first one way and then the other, almost shaking. “That's an awful wobble.”
“If the judges notice,” Sena said sourly. “Look, he's righted it now.”
He had; now the great silver wings had straightened, and Garth was sailing steadily away from them, riding on the wind, sinking slightly.
“He's just flying,” Maris said, puzzled. “He isn't doing any stunts.”
Garth continued to move off, toward the deep waters beyond the breakers. He flew gracefully, but so straight; it was no great task to be graceful when yielding to the wind. Gradually he was descending. Now he was about thirty feet above the water, and still he sank. His flight seemed so calm, so peaceful.
Maris gasped. “He's falling,” she said. She turned to the judges. “Help him,” she shouted. “He's falling!”
“What's she yelling about?” the Easterner asked.
Shalli put her telescope to her eye, found Garth in it. He was skimming the waves now. “She's right,” she said, in a small voice.
Instantly there was chaos. The Landsman jumped to his feet and began to wave his arms and shout orders, and two of the landsguard went sprinting off down the stairs, and the others all started running somewhere. The crier cupped her huge hands and shouted, “Help him! Help the flyer! People in the boats, help the flyer!” Down on the beach other criers repeated the chant, and spectators ran for the shore, shouting and pointing.
Garth hit the water. His forward motion sent him skipping over the surface, once, twice, and sheets of spray fanned out from his wings, but he lost speed rapidly, slowed, stopped.
“It's all right, Maris,” Sena was saying, “it's all right. Look, they'll get him.” A small sailboat, alerted by the shouts of the criers, was moving in on him rapidly. Maris watched it apprehensively. It took them a minute to reach him, another minute to fish him out in a net they tossed over the side. But from this distance, she had no way of telling whether he was dead or alive.
The Landsman lowered his telescope. “They got him, and the wings too.”
S'Rella was flying low above the sailboat that had rescued Garth. Too late she had realized what was happening, and started after him, but it was unlikely she would have been able to help in any event.
The Landsman, grim, ordered another of his landsguard down to find out Garth's condition, and walked back to his seat. The judges talked nervously among themselves and Maris and Sena shared an anxious silence until the man returned, ten minutes later. “He is alive and recovering, though he swallowed some water,” the landsguard announced. “They are taking him back to his house.”
“What happened?” the Landsman demanded.
“His sister says he has been ill for some time,” the man replied. “It seems he had an attack.”
The Landsman swore. “He never told me any such thing.” He glared at the four flyer judges. “Must we score this?”
“I'm afraid we must,” Shalli said gently. She picked up
a black pebble.
“Her?” the Landsman said. “Garth outflew her easily, until he was taken sick. You mean to give the girl the victory?”
“You can't be serious, sir,” the big man from the Outer Islands said. “Your Garth fell into the ocean. He might have stunted as well as Lane and he'd still lose.”
“I must agree,” the Easterner said. “Landsman, you are not a flyer, you do not understand. Garth is fortunate to be alive. If he had fallen while flying a mission, with no ship to save him, he would have been food for a scylla.”
“He was sick,” the Landsman insisted, frantic not to lose the wings for Skulny.
“It does not matter,” the quiet Southern judge put in, and she cast the first pebble into the voting box with a flick of her thumb. It was black. Three other black stones followed in quick succession, Shalli placing hers with obvious dismay, until the Landsman defiantly added a white.
Garth's fall intensified the bitterness of flyers and Woodwingers both. The afternoon games, stunts conducted in an increasingly dark and stormy cloud, had little zest to them. An Easterner from Kite's Landing was the grand winner, but she had scant competition, as many of the flyers decided to drop out at the last moment. A few of those not directly involved in challenges were even seen taking wing for their home islands. Kerr, the only Woodwinger who bothered to attend the games, reported that the spectators had grown sparse as well, and all their talk was of Garth.
Sena tried to encourage the students, but it was a formidable task. Sher and Leya were philosophical about their chances, neither expecting to win, but Damen was in a dismal condition and Kerr seemed ready to slink off and throw himself into the sea. S'Rella was nearly as despondent. She was tired and withdrawn for most of the afternoon, and that evening she quarreled with Val.
It was just after dinner. Damen was setting up his geechi board and looking for an opponent, and Leya had gotten out her pipes again. Val found S'Rella sitting with Maris on the beach, and joined them uninvited. “Let's walk down to the tavern,” he suggested to S'Rella, “and celebrate our victories. I want to get free of these losers and hear what people are saying about us, maybe even get down some bets for tomorrow.”
“I've got no victory to celebrate,” S'Rella replied sullenly. “I flew horribly. Garth was much better than I was. I didn't deserve to win.”
“You win or you lose, S'Rella,” Val said. “What you deserve has nothing to do with it. Come on.” He tried to take her by the hand and pull her to her feet, but S'Rella yanked loose of him angrily.
“Don't you even care about what happened to Garth?”
“Not particularly. You shouldn't either. As I recall, the last thing you said to him was how much you hated him. It would have gone better for you if he'd drowned. Then they would have to give you his wings. As it is, they'll try to find some way to cheat you out of them.”
Maris, listening, began to lose her temper. “Stop it, Val,” she said.
“Keep out of this, flyer,” he snapped. “This is between us.”
S'Rella jumped to her feet. “Why are you always so hateful? You're cruel to Maris all the time, and she's only tried to help you. And the things you've been saying about Garth—Garth was nice to me, and what did I do, I challenged him, and now he almost died and you're saying awful things about him. Don't you say another word! Don't you!”
Val's face became an expressionless mask. “I see,” he said flatly. “Suit yourself. If you care so much for flyers, go visit Garth and tell him to keep his wings. I'll celebrate by myself.” He turned away and began to stride across the sand, toward the sea road that would take him to his tavern.
Maris took S'Rella's hand. “Would you like to visit Garth?” she said impulsively.
“Could we?”
Maris nodded. “He and Riesa share a big house a half mile up the hill road. He likes to stay close to the sea and the lodge. We could go see how he is.”
S'Rella was eager, and they set off at once. Maris had been a bit afraid of the reception they might receive when they arrived, but her own concern about Garth's condition was great enough that she was willing to take the risk. She needn't have worried. Riesa beamed at them when she opened the door, and all at once began to cry, and Maris had to take her in her arms and comfort her. “Oh, come see him, come see him,” Riesa kept saying through her tears. “He'll be so glad.”
Garth was propped up in bed against a mountain of pillows, a shaggy woolen blanket thrown over his legs. His face was frighteningly pale and puffy, but when he saw them in the doorway his smile was real enough. “Ah,” he boomed, his voice loud as ever, “Maris! And the little demon who's out to take my wings.” He waved them to his side. “Come and sit and talk to me. Riesa does nothing but fuss and fret, and she won't even bring me any of her ale.”
Maris smiled. “You don't need any ale,” she said primly as she walked to his bedside and kissed him lightly on the brow.
S'Rella hung back by the door, however. When he saw that, Garth's face turned serious. “Ah, S'Rella,” he said, “don't be frightened. I'm not angry with you.”
She came forward to stand by Maris. “You're not?”
“No,” Garth said firmly. “Riesa, bring them seats.” His sister did as he asked, and when they were seated, Garth resumed. “Oh, I was furious when you challenged me—hurt, too—I can't deny that.”
“I'm sorry,” S'Rella blurted. “I didn't want to hurt you. I don't hate you—what I said that night at the lodge.”
He waved her quiet. “I know that. And you needn't be sorry. The water was terribly cold out there, but maybe it woke me up a bit, and I've had all afternoon to lie here and think. I've been a fool, and I'm lucky I have the breath to say so. I did wrong to keep it secret, the way that I was feeling, and you did right to name me when you knew.” He shook his head. “I couldn't accept being land-bound, you know. I love the flying too much, all my friends, the travel. But it's over, my little swim proved that, the only question is whether I'm to be a live land-bound or a drowned flyer at the end of it all. Before today, I'd always managed to shrug off the pain, get where I was going. But this morning—ah, it was miserable, shooting pains in my arms and legs. But I don't want to talk about that. Bad enough it happened.” He reached across and took S'Rella by the hand. “What I mean to say, S'Rella, is that I can't compete tomorrow, and I wouldn't if I could. Riesa and the sea have brought me to my senses. The wings are yours.”
S'Rella could hardly believe him. She stared at him wide-eyed, and a tremulous smile broke across her face.
“What will you do, Garth?” Maris asked.
He grimaced. “That depends on the healers,” he said. “Seems to me I have three choices. Maybe I'll be a corpse, and maybe I'll be a cripple, but if I can find a healer who knows what he's about, I thought I might try my hand at trade. I've got enough iron put aside to buy myself a ship, and I could travel that way, see other islands—though I'm half scared out of my wits at the idea of traveling by sea.” He chuckled. “You and Dorr used to kid me about being a trader. You remember, Maris? Said I'd trade my wings if the deal was good enough, just because I liked to swap a little now and again. Well, some trader I turned out to be. Here S'Rella gets my wings and doesn't give me anything.” He laughed, and Maris found herself joining him.
They talked for over an hour, about traders and sailors and finally flyers, relaxing as they laughed at Garth's jokes and exchanged gossip. “Corm is livid about your friend Val,” Garth said at one point, “and I can't say I blame him. He's a good enough flyer that he never considered that he might lose his wings, and here it seems he's lost them, and to One-Wing of all people. Did you have anything to do with that, Maris?”
She shook her head. “Hardly. All Val's idea. He'll never admit it, but I think he wanted to beat a flyer of the top rank to make them forget about Ari. The fact that Corm's wife sits among the judges just added an extra flair to the feat, and of course it gave him a convenient excuse if he lost. He could blame a defeat on f
lyer prejudice.”
Garth nodded and made a rude joke about Corm, then turned to his sister. “Riesa, why don't you show S'Rella our house?”
Riesa took the hint. “Yes, do come see,” she said. S'Rella followed her from the room.
“She's nice,” Garth said when they were gone, “and she does remind me an awful lot of you, Maris. Do you remember when we first met?”
Maris smiled at him. “I remember. It was my first flight to the Eyrie and there was a party that night.”
“Raven was there too. That was where he did his trick.”
“I've never forgotten it,” Maris said.
“Did you teach it to One-Wing?”
“No.”
Garth laughed. “Everyone is certain you did. We all remember how impressed you were by Raven. Coll even made a song about him, didn't he?”
Maris smiled. “Yes.”
Garth started to say something else, then thought better of it. For a long moment the room was filled with silence, and the smile slowly faded on Garth's face.
He began to cry, fighting it and losing; he reached out his big hands for her, and Maris came and sat on the edge of the bed and hugged him, and ran her hands across his brow. “I knew—I didn't want S'Rella to see me—ah, Maris, it's so damned rotten, so damned—”
“Oh, Garth,” she whispered, kissing him lightly and fighting to hold back her own tears. She felt so helpless. Briefly she thought of what it would be like if she were in Garth's place. She trembled and pushed the thought away and hugged him again all the harder.
“Come and see me,” he said. “I—you know how—when you don't fly, you can't go to the Eyrie—you know—bad enough to lose your freedom, and the wind—but I don't want to lose you too, and my other friends, just because—oh, damn, damn these tears—visit me, Maris, promise, promise.”
“I promise, Garth,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “Unless you gain so much weight that I can't stand to look at you.”
Beneath his tears, he laughed. “Ah,” he said. “Here—and just when I thought I could get fat in peace. You—”