“Not that old,” Garth protested. He smiled at S’Rella. “Why, you’re as beautiful as Maris used to be, before she got thin and tired. Do you fly as well?”
“I try to,” S’Rella said.
“Modest, too,” he said. “Well, Skulny knows how to treat flyers, even fledglings. Anything you want, you tell me about it. Are you hungry? This will be ready soon. In fact, maybe you can help me with the spices. I’m not really from Southern, you know, maybe I didn’t get it right.” He took her by the hand and drew her closer to the fire, then forced a spoonful of stew at her. “Here, try this, tell me what you think.”
As S’Rella tasted, Garth glanced at Maris and pointed. “Look, you’re wanted,” he said. Dorrel was standing in the doorway, still holding his folded wings, shouting to her above the din of the party. “Go on,” Garth said gruffly. “I’ll keep S’Rella occupied. I’m the host, after all.” He pushed her toward the door.
Maris smiled at him, then began to work her way back across the floor, which had grown even more crowded. Dorrel, after hanging up his wings, met her. He threw his arms around her and kissed her briefly. Maris found herself trembling as she leaned against him.
When they broke apart, there was concern in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he said. “You were shaking.” He looked at her hard. “And you look worn out, exhausted.”
Maris forced a smile. “Garth said the same thing. No, really, I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. I know you too well, love.” He put his hands on her shoulders, his gentle, familiar hands. “Really. Can’t you tell me?”
Maris sighed. She did feel tired, she realized suddenly. “I guess I don’t know myself,” she muttered. “I haven’t been sleeping well this past month. Nightmares.”
Dorrel put an arm around her and led her through the press of flyers to a wide wooden table against the wall, covered with wines, liquors, and food. “What kind of nightmares?” he asked. He poured them each glasses of rich red wine, and carved out two wedges of a white, crumbly cheese.
“Only one. Falling. I fall through still air, hit the water, and die.” She bit off a mouthful of cheese and washed it down with a gulp of the wine. “Good,” she said, smiling.
“Should be,” Dorrel replied. “It’s from Amberly. But you can’t really be worried about this dream, can you? I didn’t think you were superstitious.“ ‘ “No,” Maris said, “that’s not it at all. I can’t explain. It just—bothers me. And that’s not all.” She hesitated.
Dorrel watched her face, waiting.
“This competition,” Maris said. “There could be trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Remember when I saw you at Eyrie? I mentioned that one of the students from Airhome had taken ship for Woodwings?”
“Yes,” Dorrel said. He sipped at his own wine. “What of it?”
“He’s on Skulny now, and he’s going to challenge, and it isn’t just any student. It’s Val.” Dorrel’s face was blank. “Val?”
“One-Wing,” Maris said quietly. He frowned. “One-Wing,” he repeated. “Well, I understand why you’re upset. I would never have expected him to try again. Does he expect to be welcomed?”
“No,” Maris said. “He knows better. And his opinion of flyers is no better than their opinion of him.”
Dorrel shrugged. “Well, it will be unpleasant, but it needn’t ruin the competition,” he said. “He’ll be easy enough to ignore, and I don’t imagine we have to worry about him winning again. No one has lost a relative lately.”
Maris drew back a little. Dorrel’s voice abruptly seemed so hard, and the gibe sounded so cruel from his lips—and yet, it was almost identical to what she’d said at the academy on the day Val had arrived. “Dorr,” she said, “he’s good. He’s been training for years. I think he’s going to win. He has the skills. I know, I’ve flown against him.”
“You’ve flown against him?” Dorrel said.
“In practice,” Maris said. “At Woodwings. What—”
He drained his wine and set the glass aside. “Maris,” he said, his voice low but strained. “You’re not going to tell me you’ve been helping him too. One-Wing?”
“He was a student, and Sena asked me to work with him,” Maris said stubbornly. “I’m not there to play favorites and help only those I like.”
Dorrel swore and took her by the arm. “Come outside,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about this in here, where someone might hear.”
It was cool outside the lodge, and the wind coming in off the sea had the tang of salt to it. Along the beach, the poles were up and the lanterns had been lit to welcome night-flying travelers. Maris and Dorrel walked away from the crowded lodge and sat together on the sand. Most of the children had gone now, and they were alone.
“Maybe this is what I feared,” Maris said, with a tinge of bitterness in her tone. “I knew you’d balk at that. But I can’t make exceptions—we can’t make exceptions. Can’t you understand that? Can’t you try to understand?”
“I can try,” he said. “I can’t promise to succeed. Why, Maris? He’s no ordinary land-bound, no little Wood-wings dreaming of being a flyer. He’s One-Wing, half a flyer even when he had his wings. He killed Ari. Have you forgotten that?”
“No,” Maris said. “I’m not happy about Val. He’s hard to like, and he hates flyers, and there’s always the specter of Ari peering over his shoulder. But I have to help him, Dorr. Because of what we did seven years ago. The wings must go to those who can use them best, even if they are… well, like Val. Vindictive, and angry, and cold.”
Dorrel shook his head. “I can’t accept that,” he said.
“I wish I knew him better,” Maris said, “so I could understand what made him the way he is. I think he hated the flyers even before they named him One-Wing.” She reached over and took Dorrel by the hand. “He’s always accusing, making venomous little jests, when he isn’t shielding himself in ice. According to Val, I’m a One-Wing too, even if I pretend that I’m not.”
Dorrel looked at her and squeezed her hand tight within his own. “No,” he said. “You are a flyer, Maris. Have no fear of that.”
“Am I?’ she said. “I’m not sure what it means to be a flyer. It’s more than having wings, or flying well. Val had wings, and he flies well enough, but you yourself said he was only half a flyer. If it means… well, accepting everything the way it is, and looking down on the land-bound, and not offering help to the Woodwingers for fear they’ll hurt a fellow flyer, a real flyer… if it means things like that, then I don’t think I am a flyer. And sometimes I wonder if I’m not beginning to share Val’s opinions of those who are.”
Dorrel let go her hand but his eyes were still on her. Even in the dark she could feel the anguished intensity of his gaze. “Maris,” he said softly. “I’m a flyer, born to my wings. Val One-Wing surely despises me for it. Do you?”
“Dorr,” she said, hurt. “You know I don’t. I’ve always loved and trusted you—you’re my best friend, truly. But…”
“But,” he echoed.
She could not look at him. “I wasn’t proud of you when you refused to come to Woodwings,” she said.
The distant sounds of the party and the melancholy wash of the waves against the beach seemed to fill the world. Finally Dorrel spoke.
“My mother was a flyer, and her mother before her, and on back for generations the pair of wings that I bear has been in my family. That means a great deal to me. My child, should I ever father one, will fly, too, someday.
“You weren’t born to that tradition, and you’ve been the dearest person in the world to me. And you’ve always proved that you deserved wings at least as much as any flyer’s child. It would have been a horrible injustice if you’d been denied them. I’m proud that I could help you.