Windhaven by George R. R. Martin
“He did mean it,” she said quietly, her voice steady and sure while her heart trembled. “Couldn't you see, Father? He's not a flyer. He's a good son, and you should be proud of him, but he will never love the wind. I don't care what the law says.”
“Maris,” Russ said, and there was nothing warm in his voice, only despair and hurt. “You would take the wings from your own brother? I thought you loved him.”
A week ago she would have cried, but now her tears were all used up. “I do love him, and I want him to have a long and happy life. He will not be happy as a flyer; he does it just to make you proud. Coll is a singer, a good one. Why must you take from him the life he loves?”
“I take nothing,” Russ said coldly. “Tradition . . .”
“A stupid tradition,” a new voice interjected. Maris looked for her ally, and saw Barrion pushing through the crowd. “Maris is right. Coll sings like an angel, and we all saw how he flies.” He glanced around contemptuously at the flyers in the crowd. “You flyers are such creatures of habit that you have forgotten how to think. You follow tradition blindly no matter who is hurt.”
Almost unnoticed, Corm had landed and folded up his wings. Now he stood before them, his smooth dark face flushed with anger. “The flyers and their traditions have made Amberly great, have shaped the very history of Windhaven a thousand times over. I don't care how well you sing, Barrion, you are not beyond the law.” He looked at Russ and continued, “Don't worry, friend. We'll make your son a flyer such as Amberly has never seen.”
But then Coll looked up, and though the tears flowed still, suddenly there was anger in his face too, and decision. “No!” he shouted, and his glance at Corm was defiant. “You won't make me anything I don't want to be, I don't care who you are. I'm not a coward, I'm not a baby, but I don't want to fly, I don't, I DON'T!” His words were a torrent, all but screamed into the wind, as his secret came pouring out and all the barriers fell at once. “You flyers think you're so good, that everybody else is beneath you, but you're not, you know, you're not. Barrion has been to a hundred islands, and he knows more songs than a dozen flyers. I don't care what you think, Corm. He's not land-bound; he takes ships when everybody else is too scared. You flyers stay clear of scyllas, but Barrion killed one once with a harpoon, from a little wooden boat. I bet you didn't know that.
“I can be like him, too. I have a talent. He's going to the Outer Islands, and he wants me to come with him, and he told me once that he'd give me his guitar one day. He can take flying and make it beautiful with his words, but he can do the same thing with fishing or hunting or anything. Flyers can't do that, but he can. He's Barrion! He's a singer, and that's just as good as being a flyer. And I can do it too, like I did tonight with Raven.” He glared at Corm with hate. “Take your old wings, give them to Maris, she's the flyer,” he shouted, kicking at the limp fabric on the ground. “I want to go with Barrion.”
There was an awful silence. Russ stood mute for a long time, then looked at his son with a face that was older than it had ever been. “They are not his wings to take, Coll,” he said. “They were my wings, and my father's, and his mother's before him, and I wanted—I wanted—” His voice broke.
“You are responsible for this,” Corm said angrily, with a glance at Barrion. “And you, yes you, his own sister,” he added, shifting his gaze to Maris.
“All right, Corm,” she said. “We are responsible, Barrion and I, because we love Coll and we want to see him happy—and alive. The flyers have followed tradition too long. Barrion is right, don't you see? Every year bad flyers take the wings of their parents and die with them, and Windhaven is poorer, for wings cannot be replaced. How many flyers were there in the days of the star sailors? How many are there today? Can't you see what tradition is doing to us? The wings are a trust; they should be worn by those who love the sky, who will fly best and keep them best. Instead, birth is our only measure for awarding wings. Birth, not skill; but a flyer's skill is all that saves him from death, all that binds Windhaven together.”
Corm snorted. “This is a disgrace. You are no flyer, Maris, and you have no right to speak of these matters. Your words disgrace the sky and you violate all tradition. If your brother chooses to give up his birthright, very well, then. But he won't make a mockery of our law and give them to anyone he chooses.” He looked around, at the shock-still crowd. “Where is the Landsman? Tell us the law!”
The Landsman's voice was slow, troubled. “The law—the tradition—but this case is so special, Corm. Maris has served Amberly well, and we all know how she flies. I—”
“The law,” Corm insisted.
The Landsman shook his head. “Yes, that is my duty, but—the law says that—that if a flyer renounces his wings, then they shall be taken by another flyer from the island, the senior, and he and the Landsman shall hold them until a new wing-bearer is chosen. But Corm, no flyer has ever renounced his wings—the law is only used when a flyer dies without an heir, and here, in this case, Maris is—”
“The law is the law,” Corm said.
“And you will follow it blindly,” Barrion put in.
Corm ignored him. “I am Lesser Amberly's senior flyer, since Russ has passed on the wings. I will take custody, until we find someone worthy of being a flyer, someone who will recognize the honor and keep the traditions.”
“No!” Coll shouted. “I want Maris to have the wings.”
“You have no say in the matter,” Corm told him. “You are a land-bound.” So saying, he stooped and picked up the discarded, broken wings. Methodically he began to fold them.
Maris looked around for help, but it was hopeless. Barrion spread his hands, Shalli and Helmer would not meet her gaze, and her father stood broken and weeping, a flyer no more, not even in name, only an old cripple. The party-goers, one by one, began to drift away.
The Landsman came to her. “Maris,” he started. “I am sorry. I would give the wings to you if I could. The law is not meant for this—not as punishment, but only as a guide. But it's flyers' law, and I cannot go against the flyers. If I deny Corm, Lesser Amberly will become like Kennehut and the songs will call me mad.”
She nodded. “I understand,” she said. Corm, wings under either arm, was stalking off the beach.
The Landsman turned and left, and Maris went across the sand to Russ. “Father—” she began.
He looked up. “You are no daughter of mine,” he said, and turned on her deliberately. She watched the old man moving stiffly away, walking with difficulty, going inland to hide his shame.
Finally the three of them stood alone on the landing beach, wordless and beaten. Maris went to Coll and put her arms around him and hugged him. They held on to each other, both for the moment children seeking comfort they could not give.
“I have a place,” Barrion said at last, his voice waking them. They parted groggily, watched as the singer slung his guitar across his shoulders, and followed him home.
For Maris, the days that followed were dark and troubled.
Barrion lived in a small cabin by the harbor, just off a deserted, rotting wharf, and it was there they stayed. Coll was happier than Maris had ever seen him; each day he sang with Barrion, and he knew that he would be a singer after all. Only the fact that Russ refused to see him bothered the boy, and even that was often forgotten. He was young, and he had discovered that many of his own age looked on him with guilty admiration, as a rebel, and he gloried in the feeling.
But for Maris, things were not so easy. She seldom left the cabin except to wander out on the wharf at sunset and watch the fishing boats come in. She could think only of her loss. She was trapped and helpless. She had tried as hard as she could, she had done the right thing, but still her wings were gone. Tradition, like a mad cruel Landsman, had ruled, and now kept her prisoner.
Two weeks after the incident on the beach, Barrion returned to the cabin after a day on the docks, where he went daily to gather new songs from the fishermen of Amberly and sing at wharfsi
Coll smiled eagerly. “Us too?”
Barrion nodded. “You, yes, certainly. And Maris?”
She shook her head. “No.”
The singer sighed. “You can gain nothing by staying here. Things will be hard for you on Amberly. Even for me, times are getting difficult. The Landsman moves against me, prompted by Corm, and respectable folk are starting to avoid me. Besides, there is a lot of world to see. Come with us.” He smiled. “Maybe I can even teach you how to sing.”
Maris played idly with her stew. “I sing worse than my brother flies, Barrion. No, I can't go. I'm a flyer. I must stay, and win my wings again.”
“I admire you, Maris,” he said, “but your fight is hopeless. What can you do?”
“I don't know. Something. The Landsman, perhaps. I can go to him. The Landsman makes the law, and he sympathizes. If he sees that it is best for the people of Amberly, then . . .”
“He can't defy Corm. This is a matter of flyers' law, and he has no control over that. Besides . . .” he hesitated.
“What?”
“There is news. It's all over the docks. They've found a new flyer, or an old one, actually. Devin of Gavora is en route here by boat to take up residence and wear your wings.” He watched her carefully, concern written across his face.
“Devin!” She slammed down her fork, and stood. “Have their laws blinded them to common sense?” She paced back and forth across the room. “Devin is a worse flyer than Coll ever was. He lost his own wings when he swooped too low and grazed water. If it hadn't been for a ship passing by, he would be dead. So Corm wants to give him another pair?”
Barrion grinned bitterly. “He's a flyer, and he keeps the old traditions.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“A few days, the word says.”
“It's a two-week voyage, easily,” Maris said. “If I'm going to act, it must be before he gets here. Once he has worn the wings, they'll be his, and lost to me.”
“But Maris,” Coll said, “what can you do?”
“Nothing,” Barrion said. “Oh, we could steal the wings, of course. Corm has had them repaired, good as new. But where would you go? You'd never find a welcome. Give it up, girl. You can't change flyers' law.”
“No?” she said. Suddenly her voice was animated. She stopped pacing and leaned against the table. “Are you sure? Have the traditions never been changed? Where did they come from?”
Barrion looked puzzled. “Well, there was the Council, just after the Old Captain was killed, when the Landsman-Captain of Big Shotan passed out the new-forged wings. That was when it was decided that no flyer would ever bear a weapon in the sky. They remembered the battle, and the way the old star sailors used the last two sky sleds to rain fire from above.”
“Yes,” said Maris, “and remember, there were two other Councils as well. Generations after that, when another Landsman-Captain wanted to bend the other Landsmen to his will and bring all of Windhaven under his control, he sent the flyers of Big Shotan into the sky with swords to strike at Little Shotan. And the flyers of the other islands met in Council and condemned him, after his ghost flyers had vanished. So he was the last Landsman-Captain, and now Big Shotan is just another island.”
“Yes,” Coll said, “and the third Council was when all the flyers voted not to land on Kennehut, after the Mad Landsman killed the Flyer-Who-Brought-Bad-News.”
Barrion was nodding. “All right. But no Council has been called since then. Are you sure they would assemble?”
“Of course,” said Maris. “It is one of Corm's precious traditions. Any flyer can call a Council. And I could present my case there, to all the flyers of Windhaven, and . . .”
She stopped. Barrion looked at her and she looked back, the same thought on both minds.
“Any flyer,” he said, the emphasis unvoiced.
“But I am not a flyer,” Maris said. She slumped into her chair. “And Coll has renounced his wings, and Russ—even if he would see us—has passed them on. Corm would not honor our request. The word would not go out.”
“You could ask Shalli,” Coll suggested. “Or wait up on the flyers' cliff, or . . .”
“Shalli is too much junior to Corm, and too frightened,” Barrion said. “I hear the stories. She's sad for you, like the Landsman, but she won't break tradition. Corm might try to take her wings as well. And the others—whom could you count on? And how long could you wait? Helmer visits most often, but he's as hidebound as Corm. Jamis is too young, and so on. You'd be asking them to take quite a risk.” He shook his head doubtfully. “It will not work. No flyer will speak for you, not in time. In two weeks Devin will wear your wings.”
All three of them were silent. Maris stared down at her plate of cold stew, and thought. No way, she asked, is there really no way? Then she looked at Barrion. “Earlier,” she began, very carefully, “you mentioned something about stealing the wings . . .”
The wind was cold and wet, angry, lashing at the waves; against the eastern sky a storm was building. “Good flying weather,” Maris said. The boat rocked gently beneath her.
Barrion smiled, pulled his cloak a little tighter to shut out the damp. “Now if only you could do some flying,” he said.
Her eyes went to the shore, where Corm's dark wood house stood against the trees. A light was on in an upper window. Three days, Maris thought sourly. He should have been called by now. How long could they afford to wait? Each hour brought Devin closer, the man who would take her wings.
“Tonight, do you think?” she asked Barrion.
He shrugged. He was cleaning his nails with a long dagger, intent on the task. “You would know better than I,” he said without looking up. “The light tower is still dark. How often are flyers called?”
“Often,” Maris said, thoughtful. But would Corm be called? They had already floated offshore two nights, hoping for a summons that would call him away from the wings. Perhaps the Landsman was using only Shalli until such time as Devin arrived. “I don't like it,” she said. “We have to do something.”
Barrion slid his dagger into its sheath. “I could use that on Corm, but I won't. I'm with you, Maris, and your brother is all but a son to me, but I'm not going to kill for a pair of wings. No. We wait until the light tower calls to Corm, then break in. Anything else is too chancy.”
Kill, Maris thought. Would it come to that, if they forced their way in while Corm was still at home? And then she knew it would. Corm was Corm, and he would resist. She'd been inside his home once. She remembered the set of crossed obsidian knives that gleamed upon his wall. There must be another way.
“The Landsman isn't going to call him,” she said. She knew it, somehow. “Not unless there's an emergency.”
Barrion studied the clouds building up in the east. “So?” he said. “We can hardly make an emergency.”
“But we can make a signal,” Maris said.
“Hmmmm,” the singer replied. He considered the idea. “Yes, we could, I suppose.” He grinned at her. “Maris, we break more laws every day. It's bad enough we're going to steal your wings, but now you want me to force my way into the light tower and send a false call. It's a good thing I'm a singer, or we'd go down as the greatest criminals in the history of Amberly.”
“How does your being a singer prevent that?”
“Who do you think makes the songs? I'd rather make us all into heroes.”
They traded smiles.
Barrion took the oars and rowed them quickly to shore, to a marshy beach hidden by the trees but not far from Corm's home. “Wait here,” he said, as he climbed out into the knee-deep, lapping water. “I'll go to the tower. Go in and get the wings as soon as you see Corm leave.” Maris nodded her agreement.
For nearly an hour she sat alone in the gathering darkness, watching lightning flash far off to the east. S
Short minutes later, she was lying in the weeds a few feet from Corm's door, head low, sheltered by the shadows and the trees. The door opened, and the dark-haired flyer came out, his wings slung over his back. He was dressed warmly. Flying clothes, thought Maris. He hurried down the main road.
After he was gone, it was a simple task to find a rock, sneak around to the side of the building, and smash in a window. Luckily Corm was unmarried, and he lived alone; that is, if he didn't have a woman with him tonight. But they'd been watching the house carefully, and no one had come and gone except a cleaning woman who worked during the day.
Maris brushed away loose glass, then vaulted up onto the sill and into the house. All darkness inside, but her eyes adjusted quickly. She had to find the wings, her wings, before Corm returned. He'd get to the light tower soon enough and find it was a false alarm. Barrion wasn't going to linger to be caught.
The search was short. Just inside the front door, on the rack where he hung his own wings between flights, she found hers. She took them down carefully, with love and longing, and ran her hands over the cool metal to check the struts. At last, she thought; and then, They will never take them from me again.
She strapped them on, and ran. Through the door and into the woods, a different road from the one Corm had taken. He would be home soon, to discover the loss. She had to get to the flyers' cliff.
It took her a good half hour, and twice she had to hide in the underbrush on the side of the road to avoid meeting another night-time traveler. And even when she reached the cliff, there were people—two men from the flyers' lodge—down on the landing beach, so Maris had to hide behind some rocks, and wait, and watch their lanterns.