Windhaven

Maris set down her empty cup, her hand curved around the rough stone, still seeking the warmth it had held. With an effort, she pulled her hand away and picked up her sweater.

'It's not dry,' Garth protested.

'Are you cold?' asked Dorrel.

'No. I must get back.'

'You're too tired,' Dorrel said. 'Stay the night.'

Maris drew her eyes away from his. 'I mustn't. They'll worry.'

Dorrel sighed. 'Then take dry clothes.' He stood, went to the far end of the common room, and pulled open the doors of a carved wooden wardrobe. 'Come here and pick out something that fits.'

Maris did not move. 'I'd better take my own clothes. I won't be coming back.'

Dorrel swore softly. 'Maris. Don't make things — you know that — oh, come, take the clothes. You're welcome to them, you know that. Leave yours in exchange if you like. I won't let you go out in wet clothes.'

'I'm sorry,' Maris said. Garth smiled at her while Dorrel stood waiting. She got up slowly, pulling the towel more closely around her as she moved away from the fire. The ends of her short, dark hair felt damp and cold against her neck. With Dorrel she searched through the piles of clothes until she found trousers and a brown woolweed sweater to fit her slender, wiry frame. Dorrel watched her dress, then quickly found clothes for himself. Then they went to the rack near the door and took down their wings.

Maris ran her long, strong fingers over the struts for weakness or damage; the wings seldom failed, but when they did the trouble was always in the joints. The fabric itself shone as soft and strong as it had when the star sailors rode it to this world. Satisfied, Maris strapped on the wings. They were in good shape; Coll would wear them for years, and his children for generations after him.

Garth had come to stand beside her. She looked at him.

'I'm not so good at words as Coll is, or Dorrel,' he started. 'I… well. Goodbye, Maris.' He blushed, looking miserable. Flyers did not say goodbye to each other. But I am not a flyer, she thought, and so she hugged Garth, and kissed him, and said goodbye, the word of the land-bound.

Dorrel walked outside with her. The winds were strong, as always around the Eyrie, but the storm had passed. The only water in the air was the faint mist of sea-spray. But the stars were out.

'At least stay for dinner,' Dorrel said. 'Garth and I would fight for the pleasure of serving you.'

Maris shook her head. She shouldn't have come; she should have flown straight home and never said goodbye to Garth or Dorrel. Easier not to make the ending, easier to pretend that things would always be the same and then to vanish at the end. When they reached the high flyers' cliff, the same from where Raven had leapt so long ago, she reached for Dorrel's hand, and they stood awhile longer in silence.

'Maris,' he said finally, hesitantly. He looked straight out to sea, standing by her side, holding her hand.

'Maris, you could marry me. I would share my wings with you — you needn't give up flying entirely.'

Maris dropped his hand, and felt herself go hot all over with shame. He had no right; it was cruel to pretend. 'Don't,' she said in a whisper. 'The wings aren't yours to share.'

'Tradition,' he said, sounding desperate. She could tell he was embarrassed also. He wanted to help her, not to make things worse. 'We could try it. The wings are mine, but you could use them…'

'Oh, Dorrel, don't. The Landsman, your Landsman, would never allow it. It's more than tradition, it's law. They might take your wings away and give them to someone with more respect, like they did to Lind the smuggler. Besides, even if we ran away, to a place without law or Landsmen, to a place by ourselves — how long could you bear to share your wings? With me, with anyone? Don't you see? We'd come to hate one another. I'm not a child who can practice when you're resting. I can't live like that, flying on sufferance, knowing the wings could never be mine. And you would grow tired of the way I would watch you — we would — oh…' She broke off, fumbling for words.

Dorrel was silent for a moment. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I wanted to do something — to help you, Maris. It hurts unbearably knowing what is about to happen to you. I wanted to give you something. I can't bear to think of your going away and becoming…'

She took his hand again and held it tightly. 'Yes, yes. Shh.'

'You do know I love you, Maris. You do, don't you?'

'Yes, yes. And I love you, Dorrel. But — I'll never marry a flyer. Not now. I couldn't. I'd murder him for his wings.' She looked at him, trying to lighten the bleak truth of her words. And failing.

They clung to each other, balanced on the edge of the moment of parting, trying to say now, with the pressure of their bodies, everything they might ever want to say to each other. Then they pulled away, and looked at each other through tears.

Maris fumbled with her wings, shaking, suddenly cold again. Dorrel tried to help, but his fingers collided with hers, and they laughed, haltingly, at their clumsiness. She let him unfold her wings for her. When one of them was fully extended, and the second nearly so, she suddenly thought of Raven, and waved Dorrel away. Puzzled, he watched. Maris lifted the wing like an air-weary elder, and threw the final joint into lock with a clean strong snap. And then she was ready to leave.

'Go well,' he said, finally.

Maris opened her mouth, then closed it, nodding foolishly. 'And you,' she said at last. 'Take care, until…' But she could not add the final lie, any more than she could say goodbye to him. She turned and ran from him, and launched herself away from the Eyrie, out on the nightwinds into a cold dark sky.

It was a long and lonely flight over a starlit sea where nothing stirred. The winds were steady from the east, forcing Maris to tack all the way, losing time and speed. By the time she spotted the light tower of Lesser Amberly, her home island, midnight had come and gone.

There was another light below, turning on their landing beach. She saw it as she coasted in, smooth and easy, and thought it must be the lodge men. But they should have gone off duty long ago; few flyers were aloft this late. She frowned in puzzlement just as she hit the ground with a jarring shock.

Maris groaned, hurried to get up, and set to work on the wing straps. She should know enough not to be distracted at the moment of landing. The light advanced on her.

'So you decided to come back,' the voice said, harsh and angry. It was Russ, her father — stepfather, really— coming toward her with a lantern in his good hand, his right arm hanging dead and useless at his side.

'I stopped by the Eyrie first,' she said, defensively. 'You weren't worried?'

'Coll was to go, not you.' The lines of his face were set hard.

'He was in bed,' Maris said. 'He was too slow — I knew he'd miss the best of the storm winds. He would have caught nothing but rain, and it would have taken him forever to get there. If he did. He's not good in rain yet.'

'Then he must learn to be better. The boy must make his own mistakes now. You were his teacher, but soon the wings will be his. He's the flyer, not you.'

Maris winced as if struck. This was the man who had taught her to fly, who had been so proud of her and the way she seemed to know instinctively what to do. The wings would be hers, he'd told her more than once, though she was not of his blood. He and his wife had taken her in when it seemed that he would never father a child of his own to inherit the wings. He'd had his accident and lost the sky, and it was important to find a flyer to replace him — if not someone of his blood, then someone he loved. His wife had refused to learn; she had lived thirty-five years as a land-bound, and she did not intend to jump off any cliffs, wings or no. Besides, it was too late; flyers had to be taught young. So it was Maris he had taught, adopted, and come to love — Maris the fisherman's daughter, who would rather watch from the flyers' cliff than play with the other children.

And then, against all probability, Coll had been born. His mother had died after the prolonged and difficult labor — Maris, very much a child, remembered a dark night full of people running, and later her stepfather crying alone in a corner — but Coll had lived on. Maris, suddenly a child-mother, came to care for him, love him. At first they didn't expect him to live. She was happy when he did; and for three years she loved him as both brother and son, while she practiced with the wings under their father's watchful eyes.

Until the night when the same father told her that Coll, baby Coll, must have her wings.

'I am a far better flyer than he will ever be,' Maris told him now, on the beach, her voice trembling.

'I do not dispute that. It makes no difference. He is my own blood.'

'It's not fair!' she cried, letting out the protest that had been lodged inside her since the day she had come of