Windhaven by George R. R. Martin
Arrilan's voice was sullen. “I scarcely know you—how could you expect me to know how you felt? I'm sorry. I'm sure Val is sorry, too. But it can't be helped. This is more important than your feelings. Everything depends on this Council, and Val wants you there.”
“Tell Val that I am sorry,” Maris said quietly. “Tell him I wish him luck, but I will not go. I'm old and tired and I want to be left alone.”
Arrilan stood up. His eyes were very cold. “I told Val I would not fail him,” he said. “There are four of us against you.” He made a small gesture, and the woman on his right slid her knife from its sheath. She grinned, and Maris saw that her teeth were made of wood. The man behind her rose, and he, too, held a knife in his hand.
“Get out,” said Evan. He was standing near the door to his workroom, and in his hands was the bow he used for hunting, an arrow notched and ready.
“You could take only one of us with that,” said the woman with the wooden teeth. “If you were lucky. And you wouldn't have time to reach for another arrow, old man.”
“True,” said Evan. “But the point of this arrow is smeared with blue tick venom, so one of you will die.”
“Put your knives away,” Arrilan said. “Please, put that down. No one need die.” He looked at Maris.
Maris said, “Did you really think you could force me into presiding over the Council?” She made a disgusted sound. “You might tell Val that if his strategy is as good as yours, the one-wings are finished.”
Arrilan glanced at his companions. “Leave us,” he said. “Wait outside.” Reluctantly the three shambled to the door. “No more threats,” Arrilan said. “I'm sorry, Maris. Maybe you can understand how desperate I feel. We need you.”
“You need the flyer I was, perhaps, but she died in a fall. Leave me alone. I'm just an old woman, a healer's apprentice, and that's all I aspire to be. Don't hurt me any more by dragging me into the world.”
Contempt was plain on Arrilan's face. “To think that they still sing of a coward like you,” he said.
When he had gone, Maris turned to Evan. She was trembling, and her head felt light and dizzy.
The healer lowered the great bow he held and set it aside. He was frowning. “Dead?” he asked bitterly. “All this time, have you been dead? I thought you were learning how to live again, but all this time you've seen my bed as your grave.”
“Oh, Evan, no,” she said, dismayed, wanting comfort and not still more reproach.
“It was your own word,” he said. “Do you still believe that your life ended with your fall?” His face twisted with pain and anger. “I won't love a corpse.”
“Oh, Evan.” She sat down abruptly, feeling that her legs could no longer hold her up. “I didn't mean—I meant only that I am dead to the flyers, or they are dead to me. That part of my life is finished.”
“I don't think it's that easy,” Evan said. “If you try to kill a part of yourself, you risk killing everything. It's like what your brother said—rather, what Barrion said—about trying to change just one note in a song.”
“I value our life together, Evan,” Maris said. “Please believe me. It's just that Arrilan—this damn Council of Val's—brought it all back to mind. I was reminded of everything I've lost. It made the pain come back.”
“It made you feel sorry for yourself,” Evan said.
Maris felt a flash of annoyance. Couldn't he understand? Could a land-bound ever understand what she had lost? “Yes,” she said, her voice cold. “It made me feel sorry for myself. Don't I have that right?”
“The time for self-pity is long past. You have to come to terms with what you are, Maris.”
“I will. I am. I was learning to forget. But to be drawn into this thing, this flyers' dispute, would ruin everything; it would drive me mad. Can't you see that?”
“I see a woman denying everything she has been,” Evan said. He might have said more, but a sound made them both look around, and they saw Bari standing in the doorway, looking a little frightened.
Evan's face softened, and he went to her and lifted her in a great bear hug. “We had some visitors,” he said. He kissed her.
“Since we're all up, shall I make breakfast?” Maris asked.
Bari grinned and nodded. Evan's face was unreadable. Maris turned away and set to work, determined to forget.
In the weeks that followed, they seldom spoke of Tya or the flyers' Council, but news came to them regularly, without being sought. A crier in the Thossi village square; gossip from shopkeepers; travelers who sought out Evan for healing or advice—they all spoke of war and flyers and the belligerent Landsman.
On South Arren, Maris knew, the flyers of Windhaven were gathering. The land-bound of that small island would never forget these days, any more than the people of Greater and Lesser Amberly had ever forgotten the last Council. By now the streets of Southport and Arrenton—small, dusty towns she remembered well—would have a festive air to them. Winesellers and bakers and sausage-makers and merchants would converge from a half-dozen nearby islands, crossing treacherous seas in unsteady boats in hopes of making a few irons from the flyers. The inns and taverns would be full, and flyers would be everywhere, throngs of them, swelling the little towns to bursting. Maris could see them in her mind's eye: flyers from Big Shotan in their dark red uniforms, cool pale Artellians with silver crowns about their brows, priests of the Sky God from Southern, Outer Islanders and Emberites whom no one had seen in years. Old friends would hug each other and talk away the nights; old lovers would trade uncertain smiles and find other ways to pass the dark hours. Singers and storytellers would tell the old tales and compose new ones to suit the occasion. The air would be full of gossip and boasting and song, fragrant with the scents of spiced kivas and roasted meat.
All of her friends would be there, Maris thought. In her dreams she saw them: young flyers and old ones, one-wings and flyer-born, the proud and the timid, the troublemakers and the compliant; all of them would assemble, and the sheen of their wings and the sound of their laughter would fill South Arren.
And they would fly.
Maris tried not to think of that, but the thought came unbidden, and in her dreams she flew with them. She could feel the wind as she slept, touching her with knowing, gentle fingers, carrying her to ecstasy. Around her she could see their wings, hundreds of them bright against the deep blue sky, turning and banking in graceful, languid circles. Her own wing caught the light of the sun and flashed briefly, brilliantly: a soundless cry of joy. She saw the wings at sunset, blood-red against an orange-and-purple sky, fading slowly to indigo, then turning silver-white again, when the last light vanished and there were only stars to fly by.
She remembered the taste of rain, and the throb of distant thunder, and the way the sea looked at dawn, just before the sun came up. She remembered the way it felt to run and cast herself from a flyers' cliff, trusting wind and wings and her own skill to keep her in the air.
Sometimes she trembled and cried out in the night, and Evan wrapped his arms around her and whispered soothing promises, but Maris did not tell him of her dreams. He had never been a flyer, or seen a flyers' Council, and he would not understand.
Time passed. The sick came to Evan, or he to them, and died or grew well. Maris and Bari worked at his side, doing what they could. But Maris found that her mind was not always in the work she did. Once Evan sent her into the forest to gather sweetsong, an herb he used to make tesis, but Maris found herself thinking of the Council as she wandered in the cool, damp woods. It has started by now, she thought, and in her head she heard the speeches they must be making, Val and Corm and the rest, and she weighed their arguments and set others up against them, and wondered where it would all go, and whom they had chosen to preside. When she finally returned, beneath her arm was a basket of liar's weed, which looks almost like sweetsong but has no healing properties. Evan took the basket and sighed loudly, shaking his head. “Maris, Maris,” he muttered, “what am I to do with you?” He tur
Maris could only agree with him.
Then one day Coll returned, trudging up the road with his guitar across his back, some six weeks after he had left them. He was not alone. S'Rella walked by his side, still wearing her wings, and stumbling like one half-asleep. Their faces were gray and drawn.
When Bari saw them coming, she gave a loud cry and ran to embrace her father. Maris turned to S'Rella. “S'Rella—are you all right? How did the Council go?”
S'Rella began to weep.
Maris went to her and took her old friend in her arms, feeling her shake. Twice she tried to speak, but only gasped and choked.
“It's all right, S'Rella,” Maris said helplessly. “There, there, it's all right, I'm here.” Her eyes found Coll's.
“Bari,” Coll said in a shaky voice. “Go find Evan and bring him out to us.”
Bari, with a worried glance at S'Rella, ran to obey.
“I was at the Landsman's keep,” Coll said when his daughter had gone. “He learned that I was your brother, and decided to detain me until the Council was over. S'Rella flew in after the Council. The landsguard took her and brought her to the keep as well. He had other flyers there, too. Jem, Ligar of Thrane, Katinn of Lomarron, some poor child from Western. Besides the flyers and myself, there were four other singers, a couple of storytellers, and of course all the Landsman's own criers and runners. He wants the word to spread, you see. He wants everyone to know what he did. We were his witnesses. The landsguard marched us out into the courtyard and forced us to watch.”
“No,” Maris said, pressing S'Rella closer. “No, Coll, he didn't dare! He couldn't.”
“Tya of Thayos was hanged yesterday at sunset,” Coll said bluntly, “and denying it won't change it. I saw it. She tried to make a speech, but the Landsman would not allow it. The noose wasn't tied properly. Her neck didn't break in the fall, and it was a long time before she strangled to death.”
S'Rella pulled away from her embrace. “You were lucky,” she said with difficulty. “He might—could have sent for you. Oh, Maris. I couldn't look away—I—it was awful. They wouldn't even let her—have—last words. And the worst—” Her voice caught again.
Evan and Bari were coming, but Maris barely heard their footsteps, or Evan's cry of greeting. A great coldness had settled on her; the same numb sickness she had felt when Russ had died, when Halland had been lost at sea. “How could he dare,” she said slowly. “Didn't anyone do anything? Was there no one to stop him?”
“Several landsguard officers cautioned him against it, one high officer in particular—I believe she commands his bodyguard. He would not listen. The landsguard who marched us out were clearly frightened. Several averted their eyes when the trap was opened. In the end, though, they obeyed. They are landsguard, after all, and he is their Landsman.”
“But the Council,” said Maris. “Why didn't the Council—what about Val, the flyers?”
“The Council,” said S'Rella bitterly, “the Council named her outlaw and stripped her wings from her.” Anger had pushed her tears aside. “The Council gave him leave to do it!”
“And so everyone would know that he was hanging a flyer,” Coll said wearily, “the Landsman put her wings on her. Folded, of course, but still unmistakable. He joked about it. He told her to use her wings to break this fall, and fly away.”
Later, over cups of Evan's special tea and plates of bread and sausage, S'Rella regained her composure and told Maris and Evan the whole story of the disastrous Council while Coll went outside to talk with his daughter.
It was a simple story. Val One-Wing, who had called the fifth flyers' Council in the history of Windhaven, had lost control of it. He had never had control, in fact. His one-wings and allies made up barely a fourth of those assembled, and the three who sat in the positions of honor—the Landsmen of North and South Arren and the retired flyer Kolmi of Thar Kril, who presided—were unsympathetic. No sooner had the meeting begun than angry voices were raised to denounce Tya and her crime, including that of Kolmi himself. “This land-bound girl never understood what it means to be a flyer,” S'Rella quoted Kolmi as saying. Others joined the chorus. She should never have been given wings, said one. She had committed a crime not only against her Landsman, but against her fellow flyers as well, said another. She has betrayed her sacred trust, has made all flyers suspect, added a third.
“Katinn of Lomarron tried to speak for her,” S'Rella told them, “but he was hooted down. Katinn grew furious and cursed them all. Like Tya, he has seen a lot of war. Some of Tya's friends tried to defend her, at least explain why she did the thing she did, but others refused to listen. When Val himself rose, and tried to put forward his proposal, I thought briefly that we had a chance. He was very good. Calm and reasonable, unlike his usual self. He placated them by admitting that Tya had committed a great crime, but went on to say that the flyers had to defend her nonetheless, that we could not afford to let the Landsman have his way with her, that our fates were linked with Tya's. It was a very good speech. If it had come from anyone else it might have swayed them, but it came from Val, and the arena was full of his enemies. So many of the older flyers still hate him.
“Val suggested that the Council strip Tya of her wings for five years, after which she would have to win them back in competition. He also said that we had to insist that only flyers could judge flyers, which meant freeing her from Thayos by threat of a sanction.
“He had people ready to second his proposal and speak in its behalf, but it did no good. Kolmi never recognized us. We were never given a chance to speak. The Council went on most of a day, and I'd say barely a dozen one-wings ever got to speak. Kolmi just wouldn't let us be heard.
“After Val, he recognized a woman from Lomarron, who talked about how Val's father had been hanged as a murderer, and how Val himself had driven Ari to suicide by taking her wings. ‘No wonder he wants us to defend this criminal,' she said. Others like her followed; there was much talk of crime, of one-wings who only half understood what it meant to be a flyer, and Val's proposal got lost in the chaos.
“Then some older flyers put forth a proposal to close the academies. That wasn't popular. Corm spoke in favor of it, but his own daughter rose against him. It was quite a sight. The Artellians were for it too, and some of the retired flyers, and they managed to force a vote, but less than a fifth of the Council voted with them. The academies are safe.”
“We can be thankful for that much,” Maris said.
S'Rella nodded. “Then Dorrel spoke. You know how highly he's regarded. He gave a fine speech—much too fine. He spoke first of Tya's idealistic motivations, and how much sympathy he had for what she had tried to do. But then he said we couldn't let sympathy or other emotions decide our course. Tya's crime struck right at the soul of flyer society, Dorrel said. If the Landsman could not count on flyers to bear their messages truthfully and dispassionately, to act as their voices in distant lands, then what was the use of us? And if they had no use for us, how long until they took our wings by force and replaced us with their own men? We could not fight the landsguard, he said. We had to regain the trust that had been lost, and the only way to do that was to name Tya outlaw, despite her good intentions. To leave her to her fate, no matter how much we sympathized with her. If we defended Tya in any way, Dorrel said, the land-bound would misunderstand, would think we approved of her crime. We had to make our censure clear.”
Maris nodded. “Much of that is true,” she said, “no matter how grim the consequences. I can see how it might be persuasive.”
“Others of like mind followed Dorrel. Tera-kul of Yethien, old Arris of Artellia, a woman from the Outer Islands, Jon of Culhall, Talbot of Big Shotan—leaders, each of them, and highly respected. All of them supported Dorrel. Val seethed, and Katinn and Athen were screaming for the floor, but Kolmi looked right past them. The talk went on for hours, and fina
“Our Landsman seldom heeds requests,” Evan said quietly.
“That was the end of it for me,” S'Rella continued. “That was when the one-wings left.”
“Left?!”
S'Rella nodded. “When the vote was done, Val rose from his place, and his look—I'm glad he had no weapon, or he might have killed someone. Instead he spoke; he called them all fools, and cowards, and worse. There were shouts, curses back at him, some scuffles. Val called on all his friends to leave. Damen and I had to push through to the door, the flyers—some of them I recognized, people I've known for years, but they were jeering, saying things to us—it was horrible, Maris. The anger there . . .”
“You got out, though.”
“Yes. And we flew to North Arren, almost all of the one-wings. Val led us to a large field, an old battlefield, and he stood on top of a ruined fortification and spoke to us. We had our own Council. A fourth of all the flyers of Windhaven were there. We voted to impose a sanction on Thayos, even if the others would not. That was why Katinn flew here with me; we were to tell the Landsman together. He had already been sent word of the other decision, but Katinn and I were going to confront him with the one-wings' threat.” She laughed bitterly. “He listened to us coldly, and when we were finished, he said that we and all of our kind were unfit to be flyers, and that nothing would please him more than never to have a one-wing fly to Thayos again. He promised to show us exactly what he thought of us, and Val, and all one-wings.
“And he showed us. At sunset his landsguard came, and we were marched into the courtyard with the rest, and he showed us.” Her face was gray; the recounting of the tale had opened her wounds again.