Windhaven

  The girl looked at the coin and smiled. “Oh, she was a Westerner, young—twenty or twenty-five. Her hair was black, cut just like yours. She was very pretty. I don't think I've ever seen anyone as pretty. She had a nice smile, I thought, but the lodge men didn't like her. They said she didn't even bother thanking them for their help. Green eyes. She was wearing a choker. Three strands of colored sea-glass. Is that enough?”

  “Yes,” Maris said. “You're very observant.” She gave the girl the coin.

  “You know her?” Evan asked. “This flyer?”

  Maris nodded. “I've known her since the day she was born. I know her parents as well.”

  “Who is she?” he demanded, impatiently.

  “Corina,” said Maris, “of Lesser Amberly.”

  The runner remained at the door. Maris glanced back at her. “Yes?” she asked. “Is there more? We accept the invitation, of course. You may give the Landsman our thanks.”

  “There's more,” the girl blurted. “I forgot. The Landsman said, most respectfully, that you are requested to bring your wings, if that would not put too great a burden on your health.”

  “Of course,” Maris said numbly. “Of course.”

  She closed the door.

  The keep of the Landsman of Thayos was a grim, martial place that lay well away from the island's towns and villages in a narrow, secluded valley of its own. It was close to the sea, but shielded from it by a solid wall of mountains. By land, only two roads gave approach, and both were fortified by landsguard. A stone watchtower stood atop the tallest peak, a high sentinel for all the paths leading to the keep.

  The fortress itself was old and stern, built of great blocks of weathered black stone. Its back was to the mountain, and Maris knew from her last visit that much of it lay underground, in chambers chiseled from solid rock. Its exterior face showed a double set of wide walls—landsguard armed with longbows walked patrol on the parapets—ringing a cluster of wooden buildings and two black towers, the taller of which was almost fifty feet high. Stout wooden bars closed off the tower windows. The valley, so close to the sea, was damp and cold. The only ground cover was a tenacious violet lichen, and a blue-green moss that clung to the underside of boulders and half-covered the walls of the keep.

  Coming up the road from Thossi, Maris and Evan were stopped once at the valley checkpoint, passed, stopped again at the outer wall, and finally admitted to the keep. They might have been detained longer, but Maris was carrying her bright silver wings, and landsguard did not trifle with flyers. The inner courtyard was full of activity—children playing with great shaggy dogs, fierce-looking pigs running everywhere, landsguard drilling with bow and club. A gibbet had been built against one wall, its wood cracked and well-weathered. The children played all about it, and one of them was using a noose as a swing. The other two nooses hung empty, twisting ominously in the chill wind of evening.

  “This place oppresses me,” Maris told Evan. “The Landsman of Lesser Amberly lives in a huge wooden manor on a hill overlooking the town. It has twenty guest rooms, and a tremendous banquet hall, and wonderful windows of colored glass, and a beacon tower for summoning flyers—but it has no walls, and no guards, and no gibbets.”

  “The Landsman of Lesser Amberly is chosen by the people,” Evan said. “The Landsman of Thayos is from a line that has ruled here since the days of the star sailors. And you forget, Maris, that Eastern is not as gentle a land as Western. Winter lasts longer here. Our storms are colder and fiercer. Our soil has more metal, but it is not so good for growing things as the soil in the West. Famine and war are never very far away on Thayos.”

  They passed through a massive gate, down into the interior of the keep, and Maris fell silent.

  The Landsman met them in his private reception chamber, seated on a plain wooden throne and flanked by two sour-faced landsguard. But he rose when they entered; Landsmen and flyers were equal. “I'm pleased you could accept my invitation, flyer,” he said. “There was some concern about your health.”

  Despite the polite words, Maris did not like him. The Landsman was a tall, well-proportioned man with regular, almost handsome, features, his gray hair worn long and knotted behind his head in the Eastern fashion. But there was something disturbing about his manner, and he had a puffiness around his eyes, and a twitch at the corner of his mouth that his full beard did not quite conceal. His dress was rich and somber; thick blue-gray cloth trimmed with black fur, thigh-high boots, a wide leather belt inlaid with iron and silver and gemstones. And he wore a small metal dagger.

  “I appreciate your concern,” Maris replied. “I was badly injured, but I have recovered my health now. You have a great treasure here on Thayos in Evan. I have met many healers, but few as skilled as he.”

  The Landsman sank back into his chair. “He will be well rewarded,” he said, as if Evan was not even present. “Good work deserves a good reward, eh?”

  “I will pay Evan myself,” Maris said. “I have sufficient iron.”

  “No,” the Landsman insisted. “Your near-death in my service gave me great distress. Let me show my gratitude.”

  “I pay my own debts,” Maris said.

  The Landsman's face grew cold. “Very well,” he said. “There is another matter we must discuss, then. But let it wait for dinner. Your walk must have left you hungry.” He stood up abruptly. “Come, then. You'll find I set a good table, flyer. I doubt you've ever had better.”

  As it turned out, Maris had eaten better on countless occasions. The food was plentiful, but badly prepared. The fish soup was far too salty, the bread was hard and dry, and the meat courses had all been boiled until even the memory of taste had fled. Even the beer tasted sour to her.

  They ate in a dim, damp banquet hall, at a long table set for twenty. Evan, looking desperately uncomfortable, was placed well down the table, among several landsguard officers and the Landsman's younger children. Maris occupied a position of honor at the Landsman's side next to his heir, a sharp-faced, sullen woman who did not speak three words during the entire meal. Across from her the other flyers were seated. Closest to the Landsman was a weary gray-faced man with a bulbous nose; Maris recognized him vaguely from past encounters as the flyer Jem. Third down was Corina of Lesser Amberly. She smiled at Maris across the table. Corina was terribly pretty, Maris thought, remembering what the runner had said. But then her father, Corm, had always been handsome.

  “You look well, Maris,” Corina said. “I'm glad. We were very worried about you.”

  “I am well,” Maris said. “I hope to be flying again soon.”

  A shadow passed across Corina's pretty face. “Maris . . . ,” she started. Then she thought better. “I hope so,” she finished weakly. “Everyone asks about you. We'd like you home again.” She looked down and occupied herself with her meal.

  Between Jem and Corina sat the third flyer, a young woman strange to Maris. After an abortive attempt to start a conversation with the Landsman's daughter, Maris fell to studying the stranger over her food. She was the same age as Corina, but the contrast between the two women was marked. Corina was vibrant and beautiful; dark hair, clean healthy skin, green eyes sparkling and alive, and an air of confidence and easy sophistication. A flyer, daughter of two flyers, born and raised to the privileges and traditions that went with the wings.

  The woman next to her was thin, though she had a look of stubborn strength about her. Pockmarks covered her hollow cheeks, and her pale blond hair was knotted in an awkward lump behind her head and pulled back in such a way as to make her forehead seem abnormally high. When she smiled, Maris saw that her teeth were crooked and discolored.

  “You're Tya, aren't you?” she said.

  The woman regarded her with shrewd black eyes. “I am.” Her voice was startlingly pleasant; cool and soft, with a faint ironic undertone.

  “I don't think we've ever met,” Maris said. “Have you been flying long?”

  “I won my wings two years ago, on North Arren.”

/>   Maris nodded. “I missed that one. I think I was on a mission to Artellia. Have you ever flown to Western?”

  “Three times,” Tya replied. “Twice to Big Shotan and once to Culhall. Never to the Amberlys. Most of my flying has been in Eastern, especially these days.” She gave her Landsman a quick sharp glance from the corner of her eyes, and smiled a conspiratorial smile at Maris.

  Corina, who had been listening, tried to be polite. “What did you think of Stormtown?” she asked. “And the Eyrie? Did you visit the Eyrie?”

  Tya smiled tolerantly. “I'm a one-wing,” she said. “I trained at Airhome. We don't go to your Eyrie, flyer. As to Stormtown, it was impressive. There's no city like it in Eastern.”

  Corina flushed. Maris was briefly annoyed. The friction between flyers born to wings and the upstart one-wings depressed her; the skies of Windhaven were not the friendly place they had once been, and much of that was her doing. “The Eyrie isn't such a bad place, Tya,” she said. “I've made a lot of friends there.”

  “You're not a one-wing,” Tya said.

  “Oh? Val One-Wing himself once told me I was the first one-wing, whether I admitted it or not.”

  Tya looked at her speculatively. “No,” she said finally. “No, that isn't right. You're different, Maris. Not one of the old flyers, but not a one-wing either. I don't know what you are. It must be lonely, though.”

  They finished the meal in a strained, awkward silence.

  When the dessert cups had been cleared away, the Landsman dismissed family, counselors, and landsguard, so only the four flyers and Evan remained. He tried to dismiss Evan as well, but the healer would not go. “Maris is still in my care,” he said. “I stay with my patient.” The Landsman gave him an angry stare, but elected not to press the point.

  “Very well,” he snapped. “We have business to discuss. Flyer business.” He turned his hot eyes on Maris. “I will be direct. I have received a message from my colleague, the Landsman of Lesser Amberly. He inquires after your health. Your wings are needed. When will you be well enough to return to Amberly?”

  “I don't know,” Maris said. “You can see that I've recovered. But the flight from Thayos to Amberly is taxing for any flyer, and I do not have my full strength back yet. I will depart Thayos as soon as I can.”

  “A long flight,” the flyer Jem agreed, “especially for one who does not make even short flights.”

  “Yes,” the Landsman said. “You and the healer have done a lot of walking. You seem healthy again. Your wings are repaired, I am told. Yet you do not fly. You have never come to the flyers' cliff. You do not practice. Why?”

  “I am not ready,” Maris said.

  “Landsman,” said Jem, “it is as I told you. She has not recovered, no matter how it seems. If she were able, she would be flying.” He shifted his gaze to her. “I'm sorry if I hurt you,” he said, “but you know I speak the truth. I am a flyer too. I know. A flyer flies. There is no way to keep a healthy flyer on the ground. And you, you are no ordinary flyer—they used to tell me that you loved flying above all else.”

  “I did,” said Maris. “I do.”

  “Landsman . . .” Evan began.

  Maris turned her head to look at him. “No, Evan,” she said, “the burden isn't yours. I will tell them.” She faced the Landsman again. “I am not entirely recovered,” she admitted. “My balance . . . there is something wrong with my balance. But it is healing. It is not so bad as it once was.”

  “I'm sorry,” Tya said quickly. Jem nodded.

  “Oh, Maris,” Corina said. She looked grief-stricken, suddenly close to tears. Corina had none of her father's malice, and she knew what balance meant to a flyer.

  “Can you fly?” the Landsman said.

  “I don't know,” Maris admitted. “I need more time.”

  “You have had time enough,” he said. He turned to Evan. “Healer, can you tell me that she will recover?”

  “No,” Evan said sadly. “I cannot tell you that. I do not know.”

  The Landsman scowled. “This affair belongs to the Landsman of Lesser Amberly, but the burden is on me. And I say that a flyer who cannot fly is no flyer at all, and has no need of wings. If your recovery is that uncertain, only a fool would wait for it. I ask you again, Maris—can you fly?”

  His eyes were fixed on her, and the corner of his mouth moved in a malicious little twitch, and Maris knew she had run out of time. “I can fly,” she said.

  “Good,” the Landsman said. “Tonight is as good as any other time. You say you can fly. Very well. Get your wings. Show us.”

  The walk through the damp, dripping tunnel was as long as Maris remembered it, and as lonely, though this time she had company. No one talked. The only sound was the echo of their footsteps. Two landsguard walked ahead of the party with torches. The flyers wore their wings.

  It was a cold, starry night on the far side of the mountain. The sea moved restlessly below them, a vast, dark, melancholy presence. Maris climbed the stairs to the flyers' cliff. She climbed slowly, and when she reached the top her thighs ached and her breathing was labored.

  Evan took her hand briefly. “Can I persuade you not to fly?”

  “No,” she said.

  He nodded. “I thought not. Fly well, then.” He kissed her, and stepped away.

  The Landsman stood against the cliff, flanked by his landsguard. Tya and Jem unfolded her wings. Corina hung back until Maris called to her. “I'm not angry,” Maris said. “This is not your doing. A flyer isn't responsible for the messages she bears.”

  “Thank you,” Corina said. Her small, pretty face was pale in the starlight.

  “If I fail, you are to bring my wings back to Amberly, yes?”

  Corina nodded reluctantly.

  “Do you know what the Landsman intends to do with them?”

  “He will find a new flyer, perhaps someone who has lost his wings by challenge. Until someone is found . . . well, Mother is ill, but Father is still fit enough to fly.”

  Maris laughed lightly. “There's a wonderful irony in that. Corm has always wanted my wings—but I'm going to do my best to keep them from him once again.”

  Corina smiled.

  Her wings were fully extended; Maris could feel the familiar, insistent push of the wind against them. She checked her straps and struts, motioned Corina out of her way, and walked to the brink of the precipice. There she steadied herself and looked down.

  The world reeled dizzily, drunkenly. Far below, breakers crashed against black rocks, sea and stone locked in eternal war. She swallowed hard, and tried to keep from lurching off the cliff. Slowly the world grew solid and steady again. No motion. It was just a cliff, like any other cliff, and below the endless ocean. The sky was her friend, her lover.

  Maris flexed her arms, and took the wing-grips in hand. Then she took a deep breath and leaped.

  Her kick sent her clean away from the cliff, and the wind grabbed her, supporting her. It was a cold, strong wind; a wind that cut through to the bone, but not an angry wind, no, an easy wind to fly. She relaxed and gave herself to it, and she glided down and around in a long graceful curve.

  But the current pushed around again toward the mountain, and Maris glimpsed the Landsman and the other flyers waiting there—Jem had unfolded his own wings and was preparing to launch—before she decided to turn away from them. She twisted her body, tried to bank.

  The sky lurched and turned fluid on her. She banked too far, stalled, and when she tried to correct by throwing her weight and strength back in the other direction, she tilted wildly. Her breath caught in her throat.

  The feel was gone. Maris closed her eyes for an instant, and felt sick. She was falling, her body screamed at her. She was falling, her ears rang, and the feel was gone from her. She had always known: subtle changes in the wind, shifts she had to react to before she was half-aware of them, the taste of a building storm, the omens of still air. Now it was all gone. She flew through an endless empty ocean of air, feeling n
othing, dizzy, and this strange savage wind she could not understand had her in its grasp.

  Her great silver wings tilted back and forth wildly as her body shook, and Maris opened her eyes again, suddenly desperate. She steadied herself and tried to fly on vision alone. But the rocks moved, and it was too dark, and even the bright cold stars above seemed to dance and shift and mock her.

  Vertigo reached up and swallowed her whole, and Maris released her wing-grips—she had never done that before, never—and now she was not flying, but only hanging beneath her wings. She doubled over in the straps, retching, and sent the Landsman's dinner down into the ocean. She was trembling violently.

  Jem and Corina were both airborne and coming after her, Maris saw, but she did not care. She was weak, drained, old. There were boats below her, gliding across the black ocean. She took her wing-grips in hand again, tried to pull up, but all she accomplished was a sharp downwind turn that sheered into a plunge. She tried to correct, and couldn't.

  She was crying.

  The sea came up at her. Shimmering. Shifting.

  Her ears hurt.

  She could not fly. She was a flyer, had always been a flyer, windlover, Woodwinger, skychild, alone, home in the sky, flyer, flyer, flyer—and she could not fly.

  She closed her eyes again, so the world would stand still.

  With a slap and a spray of salt water, the sea took her. It has been waiting, she thought. All those years.

  “Leave me alone,” she said that night, when they finally returned to his home. Evan took her at her word.

  Maris slept most of the next day.

  The following day Maris woke early, when the ruddy light of dawn first broke across the room. She felt terrible, cold and sweaty, and a great weight pressed across her chest. For a moment, she could not think what was wrong. Then she remembered. Her wings were gone. She tried to think about it, and the despair welled up inside her, and the anger, and the self-pity, and soon she curled up under the blankets once again and tried to go back to sleep. When she slept, she did not have to face it.