Maris smiled her relief. “How do we start?”
Evan thought a moment. “There are small villages and encampments in the forest that I haven’t visited in half a year. We’ll travel for a week or two, making the rounds, and you’ll gain some idea of what I do, and we’ll learn if you have the stomach for it.” He released her hand and stood up, walking toward the storeroom. “Come help me pack.”
Maris learned many things during her travels with Evan through the forest, few of them pleasant.
It was hard work. Evan, so patient a healer, was a demanding teacher. But Maris was glad of it. It was good to be pushed to her limits, to work until she could work no longer. She had no time to think of her own loss, and she slept deeply every night.
But while she was pleased to be of use and gladly performed the tasks Evan set her, other requirements of this new life were harder for Maris to fulfill. It was difficult enough to comfort strangers, more difficult still when there was no comfort to be offered. Maris had nightmares about one woman whose child died. It was Evan who told her, of course; but it was to Maris the woman turned in her sorrow and her rage, refusing to believe, demanding a miracle that no one could give. Maris marveled that Evan could give of himself so steadily, and absorb so much pain, fear, and grief, year after year, without breaking. She tried to copy his calm, and his firm, gentle manner, reminding herself that he had called her strong.
Maris wondered if she would gain more skill and inner certainty with time. Evan at times seemed to know what to do by instinct, Maris thought, just as some Wood-wingers took to the air as if born to it, while others struggled hopelessly, lacking that special feel for the air. Evan’s very touch could soothe an ailing person, but Maris had no such gift.
As night began to fall on the nineteenth day of their travels, Maris and Evan did not stop to make camp, but only walked more quickly. Even Maris, to whom all trees looked alike, recognized this part of the forest. Soon Evan’s house came into sight.
Suddenly Evan caught her wrist, stopping her. He was staring ahead, at the house. There was a light shining in the window, and smoke rising from the chimney.
“A friend?” she hazarded. “Someone who needs your help?”
“Perhaps,” Evan said quietly. “But there are others… the homeless, people driven from their villages because of some crime or madness. They attack travelers, or break into houses, and wait…”
They approached the house quietly, Evan in the lead, going for the lighted window rather than the door.
“A man and a child… doesn’t look bad,” murmured Evan. It was a high window. Standing on the tips of her toes, leaning on Evan for support, Maris could just see in.
She saw a large, ruddy, bearded man sitting on a stool before the fire. At his feet sat a child, looking up into his face.
The man turned his head slightly, and the firelight brought out a glint of red in his dark hair. She saw his face in the light.
“Coll!” she cried, joyful. She tottered and nearly fell, but Evan caught her.
“Your brother?”
“Yes!” She ran around the side of the house, and as she laid her hand on the doorpull, it opened from within, and Coll caught her up in a big bear-hug.
Maris was always surprised by the size of her stepbrother. She saw him usually at intervals of years, and in between thought of him as young Coll, her little brother, thin, awkward and undeveloped, at ease only with a guitar in his hand when he could transcend himself by singing.
But her little brother had filled out, and grown into his height. Years of travel, earning passage to other islands by working as a sailor and laboring at whatever task came to hand when his audience was too poor to pay for his songs, had strengthened him. His hair, once red-gold, had darkened mostly to brown—the red showed only in his beard now, and in fire-lit glints.
“You are Evan, the healer?” Coll asked, turning to Evan. He held Maris in the crook of one arm. At Evan’s nod, he went on, “I’m sorry to seem so rude, but we were told in Port Thayos that Maris was living here with you. We’ve been waiting these past four days for you. I broke a shutter to get in, but I’ve repaired it—I think you’ll find it even better now.” He looked down at Maris and hugged her again. “I was afraid we’d missed you—that you had flown away again!”
Maris stiffened. She saw the quick concern on Evan’s face and shook her head at him very slightly.
“We’ll talk,” she said. “Let’s sit by the fire—my legs are nearly worn off from walking. Evan, will you make your wonderful tea?”
“I’ve brought kivas,” Coll said quickly. “Three bottles, traded for a song. Shall I heat one?”
“That would be lovely,” Maris said. As she moved toward the cupboard where the heavy pottery mugs were kept, she caught sight of the child again, half-hiding in the shadows, and stopped short.
“Bari?” she asked, wonderingly.
The little girl came forward shyly, head hanging, looking up with a sideways glance.
“Bari,” Maris said again, warmth in her tone. “It is you! I’m your Aunt Maris!” She bent to hug the child, then drew back again to take a better look. “You couldn’t remember me, of course. You were no bigger than a burrow bird when I last saw you.”
“My father sings about you,” Bari said. Her voice rang clearly, bell-like.
“And do you sing, too?” Maris asked.
Bari shrugged awkwardly and looked at the floor. “Sometimes,” she muttered.
Bari was a thin, fine-boned child of about eight years. Her light brown hair was cropped short, lying like a sleek cap on her head, framing a freckled, heart-shaped face with wide gray eyes. She was dressed like a smaller version of her father in a belted woolen tunic over leather pants. A piece of hardened resin, a clear, golden color, hung on a thong around her neck.
“Why don’t you bring some cushions and blankets near the fire so we can all be comfortable,” Maris suggested. “They’re kept in that wooden chest in the far corner.”
She got the mugs and returned to the fireside. Coll caught her hand and pulled her down beside him.
“It’s so good to see you walking, healed,” he said in his deep, warm voice. “When I heard of your fall, I was afraid you’d be crippled, like Father. All the long journey here from Poweet I kept hoping for more news, better news, and hearing none. They said that it was a terrible fall, onto rock; that both your legs and arms were broken. But now, better than any report, I see you’re whole. How long before you fly back to Amberly?”
Maris looked into the eyes of the man who, although not blood-kin, she had loved as a brother for more than forty years.
“I’ll never go back to Amberly, Coll,” she said. Her voice was even. “I’ll never fly again. I was hurt more badly than I knew in that fall. My arm and my legs mended, but something else stayed broken. When I hit my head… My sense of balance has gone wrong. I can’t fly.”
He stared at her, the happiness draining out of his face. He shook his head. “Maris… no…”
“There’s no use saying no anymore,” she said. “I’ve had to accept it.”
“Isn’t there something…”
To Maris’ relief, Evan interrupted. “There’s nothing. We’ve done all we can, Maris and I. Injuries to the head are mysterious. We don’t even know what exactly happened, and there’s no healer anywhere on Windhaven, I’d wager, who would know what to do to fix it.”
Coll nodded, looking dazed. “I didn’t mean to imply… It’s just so hard for me to accept. Maris, I can’t imagine you grounded!”
He meant well, Maris knew, but his grief and incomprehension grated against her, tore her wounds open again.
“You don’t have to imagine it,” she said rather sharply. “This is my life now, for anyone to see. The wings have already been taken back to Amberly.”