Coll came down fast, too fast. He was not riding the wind; no, he was being pushed. His wings shook as he dropped, and he tilted, so one wingtip brushed the ground while the other pointed up toward the sky. Wrong, wrong, all wrong. Even as they rushed onto the beach, there was a great spraying shower of dry sand and then the sudden horrible sound of metal snapping and Coll was down, lying safe in the sand.
But his left wing was limp and broken.
Russ reached him first, knelt over him, started to work on the straps. The others gathered around. Then Coll rose a little, and they saw that he was shaking, his eyes full of tears.
“Don’t worry,” Russ said, in a mock-hearty voice. “It was only a strut, son; they break all the time. We’ll fix it easy. You were a little shaky, but all of us are the first time up. Next time will be better.”
“Next time, next time, next time!” Coll said. “I can’t do it, I can’t do it, Father. I don’t want a next time! I don’t want your wings!” He was crying openly now, and his body shook with his sobs.
The guests stood in mute shock, and his father’s face grew stern. “You are my son, and a flyer. There will be a next time. And you will learn.”
Coll continued to shake and sob, the wings off now, lying unstrapped at his feet, broken and useless, at least for now. There would be no flight to the Eyrie tonight.
The father reached out his good arm and took his son by the shoulder, shaking him. “You hear? You hear! I won’t listen to such nonsense. You fly, or you are no son of mine.”
Coll’s sudden defiance was all gone now. He nodded, biting back the tears, looked up. “Yes, Father,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just got scared out there, I didn’t mean to say it.” He was only thirteen, Maris remembered as she watched from among the guests. Thirteen and scared and not at all a flyer. “I don’t know why I said it. I didn’t mean it, really.”
And Maris found her voice. “Yes, you did,” she said loudly, remembering the way Coll had sung of Raven, remembering the decision she had made. The others turned to look at her with shock, and Shalli put a restraining hand on her arm. But Maris shrugged it off and pushed forward to stand between Coll and his father.
“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.”