Windhaven

Maris flushed. Her own true parents had not been wealthy, but her father had fished the sea off Amberly and they had always had enough to eat. After his death, when she had been adopted by the flyer Russ, she had always had enough of everything. She drank some of her wine and changed the subject. "I wanted to talk to you about your turns, Val."

"Oh?" He swallowed his last piece of fish and shoved the empty plate away. "Am I doing anything wrong, flyer?" His voice was so fiat that Maris found it difficult to tell if the sarcasm was still there or not.

"Not wrong, not exactly. But given a choice, I notice that you always turn downwind. Why?"

Val shrugged. "It's easier."

"Yes," Maris said. "But not better. You'll come out of a downwind turn with more speed, but it will also take more room. And you tend to roll more on a downwind turn, particularly in high winds."

"An upwind turn is difficult in high winds," Val said.

"It requires more strength," Maris agreed. "But you need to work on your strength. You should not avoid difficulty. A habit like always turning downwind may seem harmless, but the time will come when you have to turn upwind, and you should be able to do it well."

Val's expression was as guarded as ever. "I see," he said.

Emboldened, Maris raised a touchier subject. "Something else. I saw that you wore your knife again today during practice."

"Yes."

"Next time, don't," Maris said. "I don't think you understand. No matter what the knife means to you, this is a matter of flyer law. No blades may be worn in the sky."

"Flyer law," Val said icily. "Tell me, who gave the flyers the right to make laws? Do we have farmers'

law? Glassblowers' law? The Landsmen make the law. The only law. When my father gave me that knife, he told me never to put it aside. But I did put it aside, during the year I had my wings. I obeyed your flyer law. It did nothing but shame me. I was still One-Wing. Well, I was a boy then, and cowed by flyer law, but I am not a boy now. I choose to wear my knife."

S'Rella looked at him wonderingly. "But, Val — how can you disregard flyer law, if you're going to be a flyer?"

"I never said I was going to be a flyer," Val replied. "Only that I intend to win wings, and fly." His eyes moved from Maris to S'Rella. "And, S'Rella, you are not going to be a flyer either, even if you should win. Remember that, if it comes to pass. You'll be as I was — a One-Wing."

"That's not true!" Maris said angrily. "I was not born of flyers, but they've accepted me all the same."

"Have they?" Val said. He smiled a thin, ironic smile, and rose from the bench. "You'll excuse me. I have to rest. Tomorrow I must practice my upwind turns, and I'll need all my strength for that."

When he was gone, Maris reached across the table to take S'Rella by the hand, but the girl gave her a troubled look and pulled away. "I have to go too," she said, and Maris was left alone.

She sat for a long time, thinking, and it was not until Damen approached her that she remembered the half-eaten meal on her plate. "Everyone else is gone," he said softly. "Are you going to finish, Maris?"

"Oh," she said, "no, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I got distracted and let it get cold." She smiled and helped Damen with the plates, then left him to clean up the common room and set off down the dank stone corridors in search of Val's room.

She found it after only one wrong turning, and her anger grew as she walked; she was determined to have it out with Val. But it was S'Rella who answered her impatient knocking.

"What are you doing here?" Maris said, startled.

S'Rella hesitated, shy and uncertain. But Val's voice came from within the room. "She doesn't have to answer that," he said.

"No, of course not," Maris said, abashed. She had no right even asking, she realized. She touched S'Rella on the shoulder. "I'm sorry. Can I come in? I want to talk to Val."

"Let her in," Val said, and S'Rella smiled at Maris tentatively and opened the door.

Like all the rooms in the academy, Val's was small, damp, and cold. He'd lit a fire in the hearth to drive some of the chill away, but so far it had been only partially successful. Maris noticed how bare the room was, completely lacking in the personal touches and trinkets that would tell a visitor something about the person who lived here.

Val was on the floor before the fire, doing push-ups. He'd thrown his shirt over the bed and was exercising barechested. "Well?" he said, without slackening his pace.

Maris was staring, sickened by what she saw. The whole of Val's back was crisscrossed by lines and thin white scars, mementoes of long-ago beatings. She had to force her eyes away from them to remember why she had come. "We need to talk, Val," she said.

He came bounding to his feet, smiling at her and breathing hard. "Hand me my shirt, S'Rella," he said.