Windhaven

The wind off the sea was brisk and cold that night, but Maris walked slowly, not eager to leave the solitude of the sea road for a conference with Val. She wanted to speak with Val — she felt she had to — but she wasn't certain what she would say. For the first time, she felt she understood him. And her sympathy disturbed her.

She was angry with Arak; she had responded to him emotionally and, she now thought, irrationally. She had no right to that anger, even if Val did. A flyer could not be blamed for the message he or she flew — that was common sense, as well as the stuff of legend. Maris herself had never flown a message leading directly to anyone's death, but she had carried information once that had resulted in the imprisonment of a woman accused of theft — did that woman bear a grudge against Maris as well as against the Landsman who sentenced her?

Maris shoved her hands into her pockets and hunched her shoulders against the bite of the wind, scowling as she turned the problem over in her mind. Arak was an unpleasant person, and he might well have taken pleasure in the idea of being the instrument of revenge against a murderer, and there was no doubt that he had taken advantage of the situation. Val and his mother had been cheap labor to him, however sanctimoniously he might speak of his generosity.

As she neared the tavern where Val was lodged, Maris still argued with herself. Arak was a flyer, and flyers could not refuse to carry messages, no matter how unwelcome or unfair they might sound. She couldn't let her dislike of the man trick her into blaming him for the execution (deserved or not) of Val's father. And that was something that Val, if he was ever to be more than One-Wing, would have to understand, too.

The tavern was a shabby place, its interior dark and cold and smelling faintly of mold. The fire was too small to heat the main room properly, and the candles on the table burned smokily. Val was dicing with three dark-haired, heavy women in landsguard brown-and-green, but he came away when Maris asked him to, a wine glass in his hand.

He nursed his wine as she spoke, his face closed and silent. When she had finished, his smile was faint and fast-fading. "Warmth and generosity," he said. "Arak has them both in abundance." After that he said nothing.

The silence was lengthy and awkward. "Is that all you're going to say?" Maris asked finally.

Val's expression changed just a little, the lines around his mouth tightening, eyes narrowing; he looked harder than ever. "What did you expect me to say, flyer? Did you think I'd embrace you, bed you, sing a song in praise of your understanding? What?"

Maris was startled by the anger in his tone. "I–I don't know what I expected," she said. "But I wanted to let you know that I understood what you'd been through, that I was on your side."

"I don't want you on my side," Val said. "I don't need you, or your sympathy. And if you think I appreciate your prying into my past, you are wrong. What went on between Arak and myself is our business, not yours, and neither of us needs your judgments." He finished his wine, snapped his fingers, and the barkeep came across the room and set a bottle on the table between them.

"You wanted revenge on Arak, and rightly so," Maris said stubbornly, "but you've changed that into a desire for revenge against all flyers. You should have challenged Arak, not Ari."

Val poured himself a refill and tasted it. "There are several problems with that romantic notion," he said more calmly. "For one, Arak did not have wings the year Airhome sponsored me. His son had come of age; Arak was retired. Two years ago, the son picked up some Southern fever and died, and Arak took up the wings again."

"I see," Maris said. "And you didn't challenge the son because he was a friend."

Val's laugh was cruel. "Hardly. The son was an ill-bred bully who grew more like his father every day. I didn't shed a tear when they dropped him into the sea. Oh, we played together once, when he was still too young to comprehend how superior he was, and we were whipped together often enough, but that made no bond between us." He leaned forward. "I didn't challenge the son because he was good, the same reason I would not have challenged Arak. I am not interested in revenge, no matter what you might think. I am interested in wings, and the things that go with them. Your Ari was the feeblest flyer I saw, and I knew I could take her wings. Against Arak or his son I might have lost. It is that simple."