Windhaven - Страница 19

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.”

Maris laughed. Sher and Leya were two of the younger aspirants, inseparable friends. They were talented and enthusiastic, although they tired too easily and could be rattled by the unexpected. She had often wondered if their constant companionship gave them strength, or simply reinforced their similar faults. “Do you think they can win?”

“No,” Sena said, without looking up. “But they are old enough to try, and lose. The experience will do them good. Temper them. If their dreams cannot withstand a loss, they will never be flyers.”