Sena sighed when Maris told her the count. “I’ve grown used to it. I always hate the stunting. Perhaps the judges try to be fair, but the bias creeps in nonetheless. Nothing can be done about it, except to have our Woodwingers fly so well that they can’t be denied their victories.”
Leya was next, with the same sequence Sher had flown, all basic, but with less luck. The wind shifted during the match, robbing Leya of the fluid grace that Maris had so often seen her display, giving her flight a ragged appearance. And several times gusts threw her sideways, breaking up what had been well-executed turns. Her rival had trouble as well, but less. Four judges gave him their stones, and only one made it a tie, leaving Leya behind ten to one.
Damen was more ambitious than either of them. Today, when Arak threw insults at him, Damen spat them right back, which brought a smile to Maris’ lips. And he began with a passable imitation of the spectacular swoop-on—the-beach that the flyer Lane had used. Arak tried to shadow him, to fly so close that Damen would be forced to break off his glide clumsily, but Damen twisted away with a graceful bank and vanished into a cloud, losing the older flyer. One of the judges, the Outer Islander, grumbled about Arak’s tactics, but the others only shrugged. “Whatever else he might be, he is still the better flyer,” the Easterner insisted. “Note how tight his turns are. The boy is spirited, but slipshod.” Maris had to admit that she was right; Damen habitually slid wide on turns, especially downwind turns.
When they scored it, four judges cast for Arak, only the Outer Islander for Damen.
“]on of Culhall, Kerr the Woodwinger!” the crier bellowed. The wind was gusting, and Kerr was as clumsy as ever.
After a few minutes, Sena faced Maris. “Even with one eye, this is painful to watch,” she said.
Jon of Culhall accumulated another eight white pebbles, and Maris felt sorry for Kerr.
“Corm of Lesser Amberly” announced the crier, “Val One-Wing, Val of South Arren!”
They stepped into view on the flyers’ cliff, wings strapped in place but folded, and Maris could feel a ripple of excitement go through the onlookers. People along the beach were making noise, and even the lands-guard and attendants who stood near the Landsman moved closer to watch.
Corm was not laughing or joking today. He stood as silently as Val, his dark hair tossing in the wind, while his wings were unfolded and locked by others. Val, as usual, waved away the help.
“Corm can be quite graceful,” Maris warned Sena. “Val may have trouble today.”
“Yes,” Sena agreed, glancing at Shalli’s seat among the judges.
The crowd was growing impatient; the two flyers still had not launched. Corm’s helpers had stepped back from him, and he stood with his silver wings fully extended, but Val had made no move to unfold his own. Instead he kept examining the joints of one wing, as if looking for something wrong. Corm said something to him, sharply, and Val looked up from what he was doing and made a broad gesture.
“All right,” Corm said clearly, and then he was running and an instant later he was aloft.
“There’s Corm,” Shalli said. “Where’s One-Wing?”
“Doesn’t he know that this will cost him?” Sena muttered.
Maris gripped Sena tightly by the elbow. “He’s going to do it again,” she said urgently.
“Do what?” Sena said, but even as she spoke a light broke over her face and Maris knew she understood.
Val jumped.
It was a long way down, and only sand and spectators below; trickier and more dangerous than the same stunt over water. But he was doing it, falling, his wings flapping behind him like a silver cape. Shalli and the Southern judge jumped to their feet, two of the landsguard rushed to the cliffside, even the crier gave a grunt of surprise. Maris heard people screaming, somewhere below.
Val’s wings took flower.
For an instant it did not seem to be enough. He still fell, speed increasing, even with the wings fully extended. But then he yanked himself to one side and that did it; suddenly he was veering up sharply, angling over the beach and out toward sea. People were dropping to the sand, and someone was still screaming, but there was shouting as well.
Then silence, a hush, a long indrawn breath. Val skimmed the waves, gliding as if over ice, and smoothly began to rise. Serenely he flew out to where Corm, almost unnoticed, had just performed a difficult loop.
The applause began, and the cheering, and all along the shore land-bound began clapping and chanting the refrain, “One-Wing, One-Wing, One-Wing,” over and over. Even Lane’s spectacular plunge had not thrilled them as Val had.
The judge from Eastern was laughing. “I never thought I’d see that again,” she exclaimed. “Damn, damn. Even Raven never did it better.”
Shalli looked miserable. “A cheap trick,” she said. “And dangerous as well.”
“Probably,” the Outer Islander agreed, “but I’ve never seen anything like it. How did he do it, anyway?”
The Easterner tried to explain, and the two of them fell to talking. In the distance, Val and Corm were going through their stunts. Val flew well, though Maris noted that his upwind turns were still not all they should be. Corm flew better, matching Val stunt-for-stunt and doing each of them just a little more gracefully, with the skill that comes with decades of flying. But he flew hopelessly, Maris thought; after Raven’s Fall, no amount of finesse was going to redress the balance.
She was right. Shalli was the only exception. “Corm was much superior overall,” she insisted. “One foolhardy stunt does not change that.” She dropped a white stone into the box with an emphatic flick of her wrist.
But the other judges just smiled at her indulgently, and the four pebbles that followed hers were black.
“Garth of Skulny, S’Rella the Woodwinger!”
S’Rella and Garth, though totally different in appearance, looked almost alike this morning, Maris thought as she watched them prepare. Garth should have been elated by his victory yesterday, and the likelihood that his wings were safe, but if anything he seemed paler and more aged today. He hardly spoke to Riesa, and went about the motions of donning his wings with a wooden deliberateness. S’Rella bit her lip as she let the helpers unfold her wings, and looked as if she were holding back tears.
Neither of them attempted anything spectacular on launching. Garth banked right, S’Rella left, and they passed above the beach and the boats with approximately equal ease. A few of the locals waved to Garth and shouted his name as he sailed by overhead, but otherwise the crowd was silent, still breathless over Val’s leap.
Sena shook her head. “S’Rella was never as pretty to watch as Sher or Leya, but she can fly better than that.” She had just stalled and lost altitude on a rather routine upwind turn, and Maris had to agree with the teacher’s assessment. S’Rella was not flying well.
“She’s just going through the motions,” Maris said. “I think she’s still shaken by last night.”
Garth was taking full advantage of his opponent’s lassitude. He soared with his usual quiet competence, performed graceful, languorous turns, and slid into a loop. It was not an especially good loop, but S’Rella was attempting none at all.
“This one will be easy to judge,” the Landsman of Skulny said with relief. He was already looking about for a white pebble. Maris could only hope that he would not drop two.
“Look at that,” Sena snorted with disgust. “My best student, and she’s wandering all over the sky like some eight-year-old on her first flight.”