“What’s Garth doing?” Maris wondered aloud. His wings were moving out to sea, tilting first one way and then the other, almost shaking. “That’s an awful wobble.”
“If the judges notice,” Sena said sourly. “Look, he’s righted it now.”
He had; now the great silver wings had straightened, and Garth was sailing steadily away from them, riding on the wind, sinking slightly.
“He’s just flying,” Maris said, puzzled. “He isn’t doing any stunts.”
Garth continued to move off, toward the deep waters beyond the breakers. He flew gracefully, but so straight; it was no great task to be graceful when yielding to the wind. Gradually he was descending. Now he was about thirty feet above the water, and still he sank. His flight seemed so calm, so peaceful.
Maris gasped. “He’s falling,” she said. She turned to the judges. “Help him,” she shouted. “He’s falling!”
“What’s she yelling about?” the Easterner asked.
Shalli put her telescope to her eye, found Garth in it. He was skimming the waves now. “She’s right,” she said, in a small voice.
Instantly there was chaos. The Landsman jumped to his feet and began to wave his arms and shout orders, and two of the landsguard went sprinting off down the stairs, and the others all started running somewhere. The crier cupped her huge hands and shouted, “Help him! Help the flyer! People in the boats, help the flyer!” Down on the beach other criers repeated the chant, and spectators ran for the shore, shouting and pointing.
Garth hit the water. His forward motion sent him skipping over the surface, once, twice, and sheets of spray fanned out from his wings, but he lost speed rapidly, slowed, stopped.
“It’s all right, Maris,” Sena was saying, “it’s all right. Look, they’ll get him.” A small sailboat, alerted by the shouts of the criers, was moving in on him rapidly. Maris watched it apprehensively. It took them a minute to reach him, another minute to fish him out in a net they tossed over the side. But from this distance, she had no way of telling whether he was dead or alive.
The Landsman lowered his telescope. “They got him, and the wings too.”
S’Rella was flying low above the sailboat that had rescued Garth. Too late she had realized what was happening, and started after him, but it was unlikely she would have been able to help in any event.
The Landsman, grim, ordered another of his landsguard down to find out Garth’s condition, and walked back to his seat. The judges talked nervously among themselves and Maris and Sena shared an anxious silence until the man returned, ten minutes later. “He is alive and recovering, though he swallowed some water,” the landsguard announced. “They are taking him back to his house.”
“What happened?” the Landsman demanded.
“His sister says he has been ill for some time,” the man replied. “It seems he had an attack.”
The Landsman swore. “He never told me any such thing.” He glared at the four flyer judges. “Must we score this?”
“I’m afraid we must,” Shalli said gently. She picked up a black pebble.
“Her?” the Landsman said. “Garth outflew her easily, until he was taken sick. You mean to give the girl the victory?”
“You can’t be serious, sir,” the big man from the Outer Islands said. “Your Garth fell into the ocean. He might have stunted as well as Lane and he’d still lose.”
“I must agree,” the Easterner said. “Landsman, you are not a flyer, you do not understand. Garth is fortunate to be alive. If he had fallen while flying a mission, with no ship to save him, he would have been food for a scylla.”
“He was sick,” the Landsman insisted, frantic not to lose the wings for Skulny.
“It does not matter,” the quiet Southern judge put in, and she cast the first pebble into the voting box with a flick of her thumb. It was black. Three other black stones followed in quick succession, Shalli placing hers with obvious dismay, until the Landsman defiantly added a white.
Garth’s fall intensified the bitterness of flyers and Woodwingers both. The afternoon games, stunts conducted in an increasingly dark and stormy cloud, had little zest to them. An Easterner from Kite’s Landing was the grand winner, but she had scant competition, as many of the flyers decided to drop out at the last moment. A few of those not directly involved in challenges were even seen taking wing for their home islands. Kerr, the only Woodwinger who bothered to attend the games, reported that the spectators had grown sparse as well, and all their talk was of Garth.
Sena tried to encourage the students, but it was a formidable task. Sher and Leya were philosophical about their chances, neither expecting to win, but Damen was in a dismal condition and Kerr seemed ready to slink off and throw himself into the sea. S’Rella was nearly as despondent. She was tired and withdrawn for most of the afternoon, and that evening she quarreled with Val.
It was just after dinner. Damen was setting up his geechi board and looking for an opponent, and Leya had gotten out her pipes again. Val found S’Rella sitting with Maris on the beach, and joined them uninvited. “Let’s walk down to the tavern,” he suggested to S’Rella, “and celebrate our victories. I want to get free of these losers and hear what people are saying about us, maybe even get down some bets for tomorrow.”
“I’ve got no victory to celebrate,” S’Rella replied sullenly. “I flew horribly. Garth was much better than I was. I didn’t deserve to win.”
“You win or you lose, S’Rella,” Val said. “What you deserve has nothing to do with it. Come on.” He tried to take her by the hand and pull her to her feet, but S’Rella yanked loose of him angrily.
“Don’t you even care about what happened to Garth?”
“Not particularly. You shouldn’t either. As I recall, the last thing you said to him was how much you hated him. It would have gone better for you if he’d drowned. Then they would have to give you his wings. As it is, they’ll try to find some way to cheat you out of them.”
Maris, listening, began to lose her temper. “Stop it, Val,” she said.
“Keep out of this, flyer,” he snapped. “This is between us.”
S’Rella jumped to her feet. “Why are you always so hateful? You’re cruel to Maris all the time, and she’s only tried to help you. And the things you’ve been saying about Garth—Garth was nice to me, and what did I do, I challenged him, and now he almost died and you’re saying awful things about him. Don’t you say another word! Don’t you!”
Val’s face became an expressionless mask. “I see,” he said flatly. “Suit yourself. If you care so much for flyers, go visit Garth and tell him to keep his wings. I’ll celebrate by myself.” He turned away and began to stride across the sand, toward the sea road that would take him to his tavern.
Maris took S’Rella’s hand. “Would you like to visit Garth?” she said impulsively.
“Could we?”
Maris nodded. “He and Riesa share a big house a half mile up the hill road. He likes to stay close to the sea and the lodge. We could go see how he is.”
S’Rella was eager, and they set off at once. Maris had been a bit afraid of the reception they might receive when they arrived, but her own concern about Garth’s condition was great enough that she was willing to take the risk. She needn’t have worried. Riesa beamed at them when she opened the door, and all at once began to cry, and Maris had to take her in her arms and comfort her. “Oh, come see him, come see him,” Riesa kept saying through her tears. “He’ll be so glad.”
Garth was propped up in bed against a mountain of pillows, a shaggy woolen blanket thrown over his legs. His face was frighteningly pale and puffy, but when he saw them in the doorway his smile was real enough. “Ah,” he boomed, his voice loud as ever, “Maris! And the little demon who’s out to take my wings.” He waved them to his side. “Come and sit and talk to me. Riesa does nothing but fuss and fret, and she won’t even bring me any of her ale.”