“No,” S'Rella said.
“Then sleep.”
Later, while S'Rella slept, Maris looked up again at the window. The sun was half-risen, its reddened face streaked with heavy dark clouds. It was going to be a good, windy day. A fine day for flying.
The competition was already well under way when Maris and S'Rella arrived. They had been delayed in the tavern when Raggin demanded immediate payment of Val's bill, and it had taken a long argument to convince him that he would get everything due him. Maris made him promise to tend to Val's needs, and allow no one else up those stairs.
Sena was at her usual station by the judges, watching the early contestants fly the gates. Maris sent S'Rella off to join the other Woodwingers, and hurried up the cliff. Sena was relieved to see her. “Maris!” she exclaimed. “I was worried something was wrong. No one knew where you had gone. Are S'Rella and Val with you? It will be time soon. Sher is next up, in fact.”
“S'Rella is ready to fly,” Maris said. She told Sena about Val.
All the strength and vitality seemed to drain from the teacher as she listened. Her good eye clouded over with tears and she leaned more heavily on her cane, and suddenly she was very old indeed. “I did not believe,” she muttered weakly. “I did not—even when that terrible thing happened with the birds, even then—I could not think they would do such a thing.” Her face was the color of ash. “Help me, child. I must sit down.”
Maris put an arm about her for support and led her to the judges' table, where Shalli looked up, concerned. “Is everything all right?”
“No,” said Maris, easing Sena into a seat. “Val will not fly today,” she continued, swinging around to face the judges. “Last night he was attacked and beaten at the tavern where he had a room. An arm and a leg were broken.”
All of the judges looked shocked. “How terrible,” Shalli said. The Easterner swore, the Outer Islander shook his head, and the Landsman of Skulny rose. “This is dreadful. I won't allow this on my island. We'll find whoever did it, you have my promise on that.”
“A flyer did it,” Maris said, “or paid for it, anyway. They broke his right arm and his right leg. One-Wing. You understand.”
Shalli frowned. “Maris, this is a horrid thing, but no flyer would do such a thing. And if you mean to imply that Corm would—”
“Do you have proof a flyer was involved?” the Easterner interrupted.
“I know the tavern where Val One-Wing was staying,” the Landsman said. “The Iron Axe, was it not? That is a very bad place, with the worst sort of patrons, rough people. It could have been anyone. A drunken fight, a jealous lover, a gambling quarrel. I've seen many beatings come before me from that place.”
Maris stared at him. “You'll never find who did it, no matter what you promise,” she said. “That isn't what concerns me. I want to take Val's wings back to him tonight.”
“Val's—wings?”
“I'm afraid,” the Southerner said, “he must wait and try again next year. I am sorry he was hurt when he was so close to winning.”
“Close?” Maris looked the length of the table, found the box she sought, picked it up and rattled it at them. “Nine black stones to one white. That is more than close. Val had won. Even if he lost five to nothing today, he had won.”
“No,” Shalli said stubbornly. “Corm deserves his chance. I won't have you cheat him of it for One-Wing, no matter how sorry I feel for him. Corm is very good at the gates. He might have won ten to nothing, two stones from each of us, and then he would have kept his wings.”
“Ten to nothing,” Maris said. “How likely is that?”
“It is possible,” Shalli said.
“It is,” echoed the Easterner. “We can't give the victory to One-Wing. It would not be fair to Corm, who has flown well for many years. I think we must declare Val forfeit.”
Heads were bobbing up and down the table, but Maris only smiled. “I was afraid you might take this position.” She put her hands on her hips and defied them. “But Val will have his wings. Luckily there is a precedent. You set it yourselves last night, with S'Rella and Garth. Let the score stand and the match continue. Summon Corm.
“I will fly proxy for Val.”
And she knew they would not deny her.
Maris got her wings and joined the mill of contestants, impatient and increasingly nervous.
The gates had been erected during the night, nine flimsy wooden constructions planted firmly in the sand, in a course demanding a series of difficult turns and tacking maneuvers. The first gate, straight out from the flyers' cliff, consisted of two tall blackwood poles, each some forty feet high, set fifty feet apart in the sand. A rope had been tied from the top of one pole to the top of the other. To score, the flyer had to glide through that gate. Easy enough, but the next gate was only a few yards farther down the beach, not straight ahead but off to one side, so the flyer had to angle quickly before shooting past it. And the second gate was smaller, the poles just a little bit shorter and set just a little bit closer together. So it went, the course wandering out into the shallows and then veering sharply back onto land, a twisting, wing-snapping course, with each of the nine gates smaller than the one before, until the ninth and final gate, two poles barely eight feet off the ground, set exactly twenty-one feet apart. A flyer's wingspan was twenty feet. No one had ever flown more than seven gates. Even that was no mean task; of all the flyers to try the gates this morning, the best score was six, and that had been flown by the phenomenal Lane.
Challengers traditionally flew first in this test; the flyer was given the courtesy of knowing what score he had to beat. Wings on her shoulders, Maris watched the Woodwingers make their attempts.
Sher dove straight from the cliff through the first gate, coming in barely under the rope, banked sharply toward the second but continued to descend, fast, too fast. Panicking, the young Woodwinger leveled off quickly to avoid hitting the ground, and suddenly started to rise, passing over the second gate instead of through it. The flyer that Sher challenged managed only two gates, but that was enough for the victory.
Leya, watching Sher, chose a different strategy. She leapt from the cliff to circle widely above the beach, dropping down gradually so that she'd pass through the first gate level instead of in a descent. She began her turn well before she entered the gate proper, so that she actually swung around one pole gracefully, already heading for the second gate. She sailed smoothly through that as well, again beginning her turn early, but this time it was a sharper turn, more demanding, upwind. Leya made it well enough, and the third gate with it, but had nothing left to wrench herself around afterward. She flew peacefully out to sea, missing the fourth gate by a wide margin. A few of the spectators applauded her anyway, and her flyer rival could only manage two gates before he landed roughly in the sand. So Leya had her first triumph, though it was not enough to win a pair of wings.
Damen and Arak were announced by the crier. Both of them had trouble. Damen took the gates too fast, and couldn't recover after the second in time to turn for the third. Arak passed through the second gate too high; the upper edge of a wing grazed the rope, and it was enough to send him off balance and far off course. But even with the two-gate tie, Arak easily retained his wings.
Kerr, surprisingly, also managed a tie. Imitating Leya, he entered the first gate leveled and starting his turn, and handled the second easily enough. But like Leya he had trouble veering upwind into the third, and unlike Leya, he did not manage it. He thumped to a halt in the sand a few yards short of the gate, and the land-bound children rushed in from all sides to help him out of his wings. Jon of Culhall tried to avoid Kerr's fate by maintaining a higher altitude, but passed over and to the right of the third gate.
“Corm of Lesser Amberly,” the crier was announcing, “Val One-Wing, Val of South Arren.” Then a brief pause. “Maris of Lesser Amberly, flying proxy for Val, Maris of Lesser Amberly.”
She stood on the flyers' cliff, helpers unfolding her wings, l
ocking each strut in place. A few dozen yards away, Corm too stood and let them work. She looked over at him, and his eyes met hers, dark, intense. “Maris One-Wing,” he called bitterly. “Is this what you've come to? I'm glad Russ is not alive to see you.”
“Russ would be proud,” she threw back, angry, and knowing Corm had wanted to make her angry. Anger brought carelessness, and that was his only hope. Seven years ago she had outflown him, in a much fiercer contest. She was confident she could outfly him today as well. Precision, control, reflexes, a feel for the wind; that was all it required, and she had them in full measure.
Her wings were wide and tight, metal humming softly in the wind, and she felt utterly serene and sure of herself. She reached up, wrapped her hands around the grips, ran, jumped, soared. Up she flew, up and up, and she did a loop for the sheer joy of it and then dove, sliding down and down through the air, riding and shifting with the little eddies and currents, angling toward the gates. She was banked sharply and wheeling as she went through the first gate, her wings drawing a silver line from the top of one pole to the bottom of the other, but she stabilized gracefully and swayed the other way for the approach to the second, slid through it fluidly. It was the feel of it, the love of it, not the thought; it was instinct and reflex and knowing the wind, and Maris was the wind. The third gate was next, the difficult upwind turn, but she snapped around easily, quickly, cleanly, then looped above the water to correct her angle on the fourth gate, and she was through that too, and the fifth was a wide lazy downwind turn, and the sixth was almost straight ahead, not a difficult angle at all, but small, so she dropped a little and skimmed low over the sand, her wings taut and full, and the spectators were shouting and cheering.
In a heartbeat it was over.
Just as the sixth gate loomed ahead of her, she hit a sink, a sudden cold downdraft that had no right being there. It pushed at her, clutched at her, just for an instant, but that was long enough for her wings to brush the ground, and then her legs were trailing through the wet sand and she slid along bumpily before finally jolting to a halt in the shadow of the gate.
A small blond girl ran up to her and helped her to her feet, then began folding up her wings. Maris stood breathless and exhilarated. Five, then, five it was. Not the best score of the day, but a good score, and it was enough. Corm trailed Val by such a margin that it would not be enough for him to beat her. He had to humiliate her, crush her, collect two pebbles from each of the judges. And that he could not do.
He knew it too. Disheartened by her flight, he did not even come close. He failed on the fourth gate, a decisive victory for her, for Val. She felt elated as she trudged across the beach, wings folded on her back.
Criers' calls ran up and down the shore. S'Rella stood poised on the precipice, the sun shining off the bright metal of her wings, and behind her Maris glimpsed wiry, black-haired Jirel of Skulny.
S'Rella leaped, and Maris stood to watch, her heart flying with her, hoping, hoping. S'Rella banked and circled, a leisurely approach instead of the wild rush Maris had employed, and came gliding down smoothly on the same tack Leya and Kerr had used in their turns. Through the first gate, turning, leveling, wheeling now in the opposite direction—Maris felt her breath stop for a minute—and through the second gate, and now a very sharp turn upwind, a clean knife-thrust of a turn as if the wind itself had changed direction at her command, and through the third gate, still in control, and another hard veer and she was through the fourth gate—people began to rise and cheer—and the fifth was as easy for her as it had been for Maris, and now it was the sixth that she was moving in on, the sixth on which Maris had failed, and her wings were swaying a bit but then they stilled and she came in higher than Maris, and the sink shook her but didn't ground her, and then she was through the sixth gate too—shouts everywhere—and the seventh demanded a split-second bank at just the right angle, and S'Rella did that as well, and she came around toward the eighth—
—and it was too narrow, the poles set too close together, and S'Rella was just a bit too far to one side. Her left wing hit the pole with a snap, and the wing-struts shattered even as the pole did, and S'Rella went sprawling on the ground.
And Maris was only one of dozens running toward her.
When she got there, S'Rella was sitting up, laughing and breathing hard, surrounded by land-bound who were shouting at her, yelling hoarse-voiced congratulations. The children pressed close to touch her wings. But S'Rella, her face reddened by the wind, couldn't seem to stop laughing.
Maris pushed her way through the crowd and hugged her, and S'Rella giggled through it all. “Are you all right?” Maris asked, pushing her away and holding her at arm's length. S'Rella nodded furiously, still giggling. “Then what . . . ?”
S'Rella pointed at her wing, the wing that had struck the gate. The fabric, virtually indestructible, was undamaged, but a support strut had broken. “That's easily fixed,” Maris said after she'd looked it over. “No problem.”
“Don't you see?” S'Rella said, jumping to her feet. Her right wing bobbed with the motion, taut and vibrant, but her left hung limp and broken, silver tissue dragging on the sand.
Maris looked and began to laugh. “One-Wing,” she said helplessly, and they collapsed into each other's arms again, laughing.
“Jirel didn't disgrace you,” Maris said to Garth that night, as she sat with him by his fire. He was up and about again, looking better, and drinking ale once more. “She was an admirable proxy, flew five gates, as good as I'd done. But five isn't seven, of course, and it wasn't enough. Even the Landsman couldn't call it a tie.”
“Good,” Garth said. “S'Rella deserves the wings. I like S'Rella. Make her promise to come visit me too.”
Maris smiled. “I will,” she said. “She's sorry she couldn't come tonight, but she wanted to go straight down to Val. I'm to join her after I leave here. I don't relish it, but . . .” She sighed.
Garth took a healthy swig of ale and stared into the fire for a long moment. “I feel sorry for Corm,” he said. “Never liked him, but he knew how to fly.”
“Don't fret,” Maris said. “He's bitter but he'll recover. Shalli's pregnancy will soon be too advanced for her to fly, so Corm will have the use of her wings for a few months, and if I know him he'll bully her into sharing even after the baby comes. Next year he can challenge. It won't be Val, either. Corm is cleverer than that. I'll wager he names someone like Jon of Culhall.”
“Ah,” Garth said, “if the damned healers ever cure me, I may name Jon myself.”
“He'll be a popular choice next year,” Maris agreed. “Even Kerr wants another chance at him, though I doubt Sena will sponsor him again until he's a lot more seasoned. She'll have better prospects to choose from next year. With the double victory by S'Rella and Val, Woodwings is suddenly thriving again. She'll soon have more students than she knows what to do with.” Maris chuckled. “You and Corm weren't the only flyers grounded, either. Bari of Poweet lost her wings in an out-of-family challenge, and Big Hara went down to her own daughter.”
“A flock of ex-flyers,” Garth grumbled.
“And a lot of one-wings,” Maris added, smiling. “The world is changing, Garth. Once we had only flyers and land-bound.”
“Yes,” Garth said, gulping down some more ale. “Then you confused everything. Flying land-bounds and grounded flyers. Where will it end?”
“I don't know,” Maris said. She stood up. “I'd stay longer, but I must go talk to Val, and I'm long overdue on Amberly. With Shalli pregnant and Corm wingless, the Landsman will no doubt work me to death. But I'll find time to visit, I promise.”
“Good.” He grinned up at her. “Fly well, now.”
When she left, he was shouting to Riesa for another ale.
Val was propped up awkwardly in bed; his head raised just enough so that he could eat, he was spooning soup into his mouth with his left hand. S'Rella sat by his side, holding the bowl. They both looked up when Maris entered, and Val's hand tremble
d, spilling hot soup on his bare chest. He cursed and S'Rella helped him mop it up.
“Val,” Maris said evenly, nodding. On the floor by the door she set the wings she had carried, once belonging to Corm of Lesser Amberly. “Your wings.”
The swelling in his face had subsided enough so that Val was beginning to look like himself again, although his puffed lip gave him an atypical sneer. “S'Rella told me what you did,” he said with difficulty. “Now I suppose you want me to thank you.”
Maris folded her arms and waited.
“Your friends the flyers did this to me, you know,” he said. “If the bones mend crooked, I'll never use those damn wings you got me. Even if they heal properly, I'll never be as good as I was.”
“I know that,” Maris said, “and I'm sorry. But it wasn't my friends who did this, Val. Not all flyers are my friends. And they aren't all your enemies.”
“You were at the party,” Val said.
Maris nodded. “It won't be easy, and most of the burden is on you. Reject them if you like, hate all of them. Or find the ones worth knowing. It's up to you.”
“I'll tell you who I'm going to find,” Val said. “I'm going to find the ones who did this to me, and then I'm going to find whoever sent them.”
“Yes,” Maris said. “And then?”
“S'Rella found my knife,” Val said simply. “I dropped it in the bushes last night. But I cut one of them, well enough so I'll know her by the scar.”
“Where are you going, when you heal?” Maris said.
Val seemed thrown off-stride by the sudden change of subject. “I had thought Seatooth. I've heard the stories, about how much the Landsman there wants a flyer. But S'Rella tells me that the Landsman of Skulny is anxious as well. I'll talk to them both, see what they offer.”
“Val of Seatooth,” Maris said. “It has a nice sound to it.”