Maris began to circle, deliberately slowing her progress, aware of how easy it would be to overshoot her destination. Conflicting air currents whispered past her ears, taunting her with promises of a northbound gale somewhere above, and she rose again, seeking it in the colder air far above the sea. Now Big Shotan's coast and Seatooth and Eggland were all spread out before her on the metallic gray ocean like toys on a table. She saw the tiny shapes of fishing boats bobbing in the harbors and bays of Shotan and Seatooth, and gulls and scavenger kites by the hundreds wheeling around the sharp crags of Eggland.
She had lied to S'Rella, Maris realized suddenly. She did have a home, and it was here, in the sky, with the wind strong and cold behind her and her wings on her back. The world below, with its worries about trade and politics and food and war and money, was alien to her, and even at the best of times she always felt a bit apart from it. She was a flyer, and like all flyers, she was less than whole when she took off her wings.
Smiling a small, secret smile, Maris went to deliver her message.
The Landsman of Big Shotan was a busy man, occupied by the endless task of ruling the oldest, richest, and most densely populated island on Windhaven. He was in conference when Maris arrived—some sort of fishing dispute with Little Shotan and Skulny—but he came out to see her. Flyers were the equals of the Landsmen, and it was dangerous even for one as powerful as he to slight them. He heard Sena's message dispassionately, and promised that word would travel back to Eastern the next morning, on the wings of one of his flyers.
Maris left her wings on the wall of the conference room in the Old Captain's House, as the Landsman's ancient sprawling residence was named, and wandered into the streets of the city beyond. It was the only real city on Windhaven; oldest, largest, and first. Stormtown, it was called; the town the star sailors built. Maris found it endlessly fascinating. There were windmills everywhere, their great blades churning against the gray sky. There were more people here than on Lesser and Greater Amberly together. There were shops and stalls of a hundred different sorts, selling every useful good and worthless trinket imaginable.
She spent several hours in the market, browsing happily and listening to the talk, although she bought very little. Afterward she ate a light dinner of smoked moonfish and black bread, washed down with a mug of kivas, the hot spice wine that Shotan prided itself on. The inn where she took her meal had a singer and Maris listened to him politely enough, though she thought him much inferior to Coll and other singers she had known on Amberly.
It was close to dusk when she flew from Stormtown, in the wake of a brief squall that had washed the city streets with rain. She had good winds at her back all the way, and it had just turned dark when she reached the Eyrie.
It hulked out of the sea at her, black in the bright starlight, a weathered column of ancient stone whose sheer walls rose six hundred feet straight up from the foaming waters.
Maris saw lights within the windows. She circled once and came down skillfully in the landing pit, full of damp sand. Alone, it took her several minutes to remove and fold her wings. She hung them on a hook just inside the door.
A small fire was blazing in the hearth of the common room. In front of it, two flyers she knew only by sight were engrossed in a game of geechi, shoving the black and white pebbles around a board. One of them waved at her. She nodded in reply, but by then his glance had already gone back to his game.
There was one other present, slumped in an armchair near the fire with an earthenware mug in his hand, studying the flames. But he looked up when she entered. “Maris!” he said, rising suddenly and grinning. He set his mug aside and started across the room. “I hadn't expected to see you here.”
“Dorrel,” she said, but then he was there, and he put his arms around her and they kissed, briefly but with intensity. One of the geechi players watched them in a distracted sort of way, but his gaze fell quickly when his opponent moved a stone.
“Did you fly all the way from Amberly?” Dorrel asked her. “You must be hungry. Sit by the fire and I'll fetch you a snack. There's cheese and smoked ham and some sort of fruitbread in the kitchen.”
Maris took his hand and squeezed it and led him back toward the fire, choosing two chairs well away from the geechi players. “I ate not too long ago,” she said, “but thanks. And I flew from Big Shotan, not Amberly. An easy flight. The winds are friendly tonight. I haven't been to Amberly in almost a month, I'm afraid. The Landsman is going to be angry.”
Dorrel did not look too happy himself. His lean face wrinkled in a frown. “Flying? Or gone to Seatooth again?” He released her hand and found his mug once more, sipping from it carefully. Steam rose from within.
“Seatooth. Sena asked me to come spend some time with the students. I've been working with them for about ten days. Before that I was on a long mission, to Deeth in the Southern Archipelago.”
Dorrel set down his mug and sighed. “You don't want to hear my opinion,” he said cheerfully, “but I'm going to tell it to you anyway. You spend too much time away from Amberly, working at the academy. Sena is teacher there, not you. She is paid good metal for doing what she does. I don't see her pressing any iron into your palm.”
“I have enough iron,” Maris said. “Russ left me well-off. Sena's lot is harder. And the Woodwingers need my help—they see precious few flyers on Seatooth.” Her voice became warmer, coaxing. “Why don't you come spend a few days yourself? Laus would survive a week without you. We could share a room. I'd like to have you with me.”
“No.” His cheerful tone vanished abruptly, and he looked vaguely irritated. “I'd love to spend a week with you, Maris, in my cabin on Laus, or your home on Amberly, or even here in the Eyrie. But not at Woodwings. I've told you before: I won't train a group of land-bounds to take the wings of my friends.”
His words wounded her. She pulled back in her chair and looked away from him, into the fire. “You sound like Corm, seven years ago,” she said.
“I don't deserve that, Maris.”
She turned back to look at him. “Then why won't you help? Why are you so contemptuous of the Woodwingers? You sneer at them like the most tradition-bound old flyer—but seven years ago you were with me. You fought for this, believed in it with me. I could never have done it without you—they would have taken my wings and named me outlaw. You risked the same fate by helping me. What has changed you so?”
Dorrel shook his head violently. “I haven't changed, Maris. Listen. Seven years ago, I fought for you. I didn't care about those precious academies you dreamed up—I fought for your right to keep your wings and be a flyer. Because I loved you, Maris, and I would have done anything for you. And,” he went on, his tone a little cooler, “you were the best damn flyer I'd ever seen. It was a crime, madness, to give your wings to your brother and ground you. Now, don't look at me like that. Of course the principle mattered to me, too.”
“Did it?” Maris asked. It was an old argument, but it still upset her.
“Of course it did. I wouldn't fly in the face of all I believed just to please you. The system as it existed was unfair. The traditions had to be changed—you were right about that. I believed that then, and I believe it now.”
“You believe it,” Maris said bitterly. “You say that, but words are easy. You won't do anything for your belief—you won't help me now, although we're on the verge of losing all we fought for.”
“We aren't going to lose it. We won. We changed the rules—we changed the world.”
“But without the academies, what does that mean?”
“The academies! I didn't fight for the academies. Changing bad tradition was what I fought for. I'll agree that if a land-bound can outfly me, I must give him my wings. But I will not agree to teach him to outfly me. And that's what you're asking of me. You, of all people, should understand what it means to a flyer to lose the sky.”
“I also understand what it is to want to fly but to know that there's no chance of ever being allowed to,” M
aris said. “There's a student at the academy—S'Rella. You should have heard her this morning, Dorrel. She wants to fly more than anything. She's a lot like I was, when Russ first began to teach me how to fly. Come help her, Dorr.”
“If she really is like you, she'll be flying soon enough, whether I choose to help her or not. So I choose not. Then if she defeats a friend of mine, takes his wings in competition, I won't have to feel guilty.” He drained his mug and stood up.
Maris scowled and was seeking another argument when he said, “Have some tea with me?” She nodded, watching him go to the kettle on the fire where the fragrant spiced tea steamed. His stance, his walk, the way he bent to pour the tea—all so familiar to her. She knew him probably better than she had ever known anyone, she thought.
When Dorrel returned with the hot, sweetened drinks and took his place close to her again, the anger was gone, her thoughts having taken another direction.
“What happened to us, Dorr? A few years ago we planned to marry. Now we glare at each other from our separate islands and squabble like two Landsmen arguing fishing rights. What happened to our plans to live together and have children—what happened to our love?” She smiled ruefully. “I don't understand what happened.”
“Yes you do,” Dorrel said, his voice gentle. “This argument happened. Your loves and your loyalties are divided between the flyers and the land-bound. Mine aren't. Life isn't simple anymore—not for you. We don't want the same things, and it's hard for us to understand each other. We loved each other so much once . . .” He took a sip of the hot tea, his eyes cast down. Maris watched him, waiting, feeling sad. She wished for a moment that they could return to that earlier time, when their love had been so single-minded and strong that it had seemed certain to weather all storms.
Dorrel looked up at her again. “But I still love you, Maris. Things have changed, but the love's still there. Maybe we can't join our lives, but when we are together we can love each other and try not to fight, hmm?”
She smiled at him, a bit tremulously, and put her hand out. He grasped it strongly and smiled.
“Now. No more arguing, and no more sad talk of what might have been. We have the present—let's enjoy it. Do you realize it's been nearly two months since we were together last? Where have you been? What have you seen? Tell me some news, love. Some good gossip to cheer me up,” he said.
“My news isn't very cheerful,” Maris said, thinking about the messages she'd heard and carried recently. “Eastern has closed Airhome. One of the students there died in an accident. Another one is taking ship to Seatooth. The others have given up and gone home, I suppose. Don't know what Nord will do.” She disengaged her hand and reached for her tea.
Dorrel shook his head, a small smile on his face. “Even your news is of nothing but the academies. Mine's more interesting. The Landsman of Scylla's Point died, and his youngest daughter was chosen to succeed him. Rumor has it that Kreel—d'you know him? Fair-haired boy missing a finger on his left hand? You might have noticed him at the last competition, he did a lot of fancy double-loops—anyway, that he's going to become Scylla Point's second flyer because the new Landsman's in love with him! Can you imagine—a Landsman and a flyer married?”
Maris smiled slightly. “It's happened before.”
“Not in our time. Did you hear about the fishing fleet off Greater Amberly? Destroyed by a scylla, though they managed to kill it, and most got away with their lives, even if without their boats. Another scylla, dead, washed up on the shores of Culhall—I saw the carcass.” He raised his brows and held his nose. “Even against the wind I could smell it! And up in Artellia, word is that two flyer-princes are warring for control of the Iron Islands.” Dorrel stopped speaking, his head turning as a violent gust of wind from outside rattled the heavy lodge door.
“Ah,” he said, turning back and sipping his tea. “Just the wind.”
“What is it?” Maris asked. “You're so restless. Are you expecting someone?”
“I thought Garth might come.” He hesitated. “We were supposed to meet here this afternoon, but he hasn't shown up. Nothing important, but he was flying a message out to Culhall and said he'd meet me here on the way back and we'd get drunk together.”
“So maybe he got drunk alone. You know Garth.” She spoke lightly, but she saw that he was truly worried. “A lot of things could have delayed him—perhaps he had to fly an answer back. Or he might have decided to stay on Culhall for a party. I'm sure he's all right.”
Despite her words, Maris, too, was worried. The last time she had seen Garth he had obviously put on weight—always dangerous for a flyer. And he was too fond of parties, particularly the wine and the food. She hoped he was safe and well. He'd never been a reckless flyer—that was comforting to remember—but he'd also never been more than solid and competent in the air. As he grew older, heavier, and slower in his responses, the steady skills of his youth were becoming less certain.
“You're right,” Dorrel said. “Garth can take care of himself. He probably met up with some good companions on Culhall and forgot about me. He likes to drink, but he'd never fly drunk.” He drained his mug and forced a smile. “We might as well return the favor and forget about him. At least for tonight.”
Their eyes met, and they moved to a low, cushioned bench closer to the fire. There they managed, at least for a time, to put aside their conflicts and fears as they drank more tea and, later, wine, and talked of good times from the past, and exchanged gossip about the flyers they both knew. The evening passed in a pleasant haze, and much later that night they shared a bed and something more than memories. It was good to hold someone she cared about, Maris thought, and to be held in turn, after so many nights in her narrow bed alone. His head against her shoulder, his body a solid comfort against hers, Maris fell asleep at last, warm and contented.
But that night she dreamed again of falling.
The next day Maris rose early, cold and frightened from her dream. She left Dorrel sleeping and ate a lonely breakfast of hard cheese and bread in the deserted common room. As the sun brushed the horizon she donned her wings and gave herself to the morning wind. By midday she was back at Seatooth, flying guard for S'Rella and a boy named Jan while they tried their fledgling wings.
She stayed and worked with the Woodwingers for another week, watching their unsteady progress in the air, helping them through their exercises, and telling them stories of famous flyers each night around the fire.
But increasingly she felt guilty over her prolonged absence from Lesser Amberly, and finally she took her leave, promising Sena she would return in time to help prepare the students for their challenges.
It was a full day's flight to Lesser Amberly. She was exhausted when she finally saw the fire burning in its familiar light tower, and very glad to collapse into her own long-empty bed. But the sheets were cold and the room was dusty, and Maris found it hard to sleep. Her own familiar house seemed cramped and strange to her now. She rose and went in search of a snack, but she had been gone too long—the little food left in the kitchen was stale or spoiled. Hungry and unhappy, she returned to a cold bed and a fitful sleep.
The Landsman's greeting was polite but aloof when she went to him the next morning. “The times have been busy,” he said simply. “I've sent for you several times, only to find you gone. Corm and Shalli have flown the missions instead, Maris. They grow weary. And now Shalli is with child. Are we to content ourselves with a single flyer, like a poor island half our size?”
“If you have flying for me to do, give it to me,” Maris replied. She could not deny the justice of his complaint, yet neither would she promise to stay away from Seatooth.
The Landsman frowned, but there was nothing else he could do. He recited a message to her, a long, involved message to the traders on Poweet, seed grain in return for canvas sails, but only if they would send the ships to get it, and an iron bribe for their support in some dispute between the Amberlys and Kesselar. Maris memorized it word for word
without letting it fully touch her conscious mind, as flyers often did. And then she was off to the flyers' cliff and the sky.
Anxious not to let her get away again, the Landsman kept her occupied. No sooner would she return from one mission than up she went again on another; back and forth to Poweet four times, twice to Little Shotan, twice to Greater Amberly, once to Kesselar, once each to Culhall and Stonebowl and Laus (Dorrel was not at home, off on some mission himself), once on a long flight to Kite's Landing in Eastern.
When at last she found herself free to escape to Seatooth again, barely three weeks remained before the competition.
“How many do you intend to sponsor in challenges?” Maris asked. Somewhere outside rain and wind lashed the island, but the thick stone walls that enclosed them kept the weather far away. Sena sat on a low stool, a torn shirt in her hands, and Maris stood before her, warming her back by the fire. They were in Sena's room.
“I had hoped to ask your advice on that,” Sena said, looking up from her clumsy job of mending. “I think four this year, perhaps five.”
“S'Rella certainly,” Maris said, thoughtfully. Her opinions might influence Sena, and Sena's sponsorship was all-important to the would-be flyers. Only those who won her approval were allowed to issue challenge. “Damen as well. They are your best. After them—Sher and Leya, perhaps? Or Liane?”
“Sher and Leya,” Sena said, stitching. “They would be impossible if I sponsored one and not the other. It will be chore enough to convince them that they cannot challenge the same person and race as a team.”