Windhaven

"I'm glad," S'Rella said. "I was angry with you, but I'm not now. I'm sorry."

Maris put an arm around her shoulders. They walked in silence for a minute, and then S'Rella said, "I've lost, haven't I?"

"No," Maris said. "You can still win. You heard what Sena said."

"Yes," said S'Rella, "but tomorrow they'll be judging grace, and that's always been my weakest point.

Even if I win at the gates, I'll be so far behind that I won't be able to catch up."

"Hush," Maris said. "Don't talk like that. Just fly as best you can, and leave the rest to the judges. It's all you can do. If you do lose, there's always next year."

S'Rella nodded. They had reached the cabin. She darted ahead to get the door, and then drew back.

"Oh," she said. Her voice was suddenly frightened. "Maris," she whimpered.

Alarmed, Maris hurried to her side. S'Rella stood trembling and looking at their cabin door. Maris looked too, and felt sick.

Someone had nailed two dead rainbirds to the door. They hung limp and disheveled, bright feathers dark and stained, the nails driven through their small bodies, blood dripping slowly and steadily to the ground.

Maris went inside for a knife and came back to take the grisly warnings from the door. But when she pried loose the first nail and the dead rainbird thumped to the ground, Maris discovered to her horror that it had not only been slaughtered, but mutilated as well.

One wing had been ripped from its body.

The second day was chilly and overcast. It was raining at dawn, and although the rain stopped by the time the morning contests got under way, the day remained damp and cold, the sky heavily overcast. The landbound spectators were fewer — sitting on the beach was not so pleasant now — and the choppy seas carried only a few boats of observers.

But all that mattered to the flyers was the wind, and the wind on the second day was strong and steady, promising the possibility of some excellent flying.

Maris pulled Sena apart from the Woodwingers on the beach below the cliff, and spoke to her quietly.

"Who would do a thing like that?" Sena demanded, her voice shocked.

Maris put her finger to her lips. She didn't want the others to overhear. S'Rella had been badly frightened by the incident, and there was no sense in alarming the others.

"A flyer, I would guess," Maris said grimly. "A sick, bitter flyer. But we have no proof of anything. It could have been done by a flyer who was challenged, or the friend of someone we challenged, or simply some stranger who hates Woodwingers. It might even be some local land-bound who lost money on a bet over Val One-Wing. My own suspicions fall on Arak, but I can't prove that."

Sena nodded. "You were right to keep it quiet. I only hope S'Rella wasn't too disturbed by it."

Maris glanced at where S'Rella stood among the other students, talking softly to Val. "She needs to do well today, or it is all over for her."

"They're starting," Damen called, pointing up at the cliffs.

The first pair of contestants had taken to the air and were moving quickly over the beach. They would circle over the water, Maris knew, and each would go into a sequence of stunts and maneuvers designed to demonstrate flying skills. The specific stunts were the choice of each individual flyer; some satisfied themselves with performing basics as flawlessly as possible, while others tried to be daring and ambitious.

Seldom were there clear-cut winners or losers; it was in this event that the judges wielded the most power.

The first two pairs were nothing special, merely long sequences of launchings, landings, and graceful, sweeping turns, all done skillfully but not spectacularly. The third match was something else. The flyer Lane, who had raced so well yesterday, was a splendid stunter as well. Leaping from the cliff, he plunged down low over the beach, skimming so close to the sand that land-bound had to duck to be out of his way. Then he found a riser and swooped up, up, soaring through the overcast and out of sight before he came diving down again, with reckless speed, only to pull out at the last possible instant. He attempted vertical banks and a full loop, and only went into a stall once — he broke out quickly — and Maris found herself admiring his verve. His son was no match for him; the poor boy would be waiting a long time for wings, unless he challenged out-of-family next year. After they had finished, Maris counted eighteen white stones in the voting box, eight new ones added to the ten Lane had won yesterday.

Sher was the first Woodwinger to try the air. It was a good effort; a clean launch, almost perfect but for a slight wobble, followed by a standard sequence of turns, circles, dives, and climbs, all performed smoothly. Sher seemed lithe and buoyant in the air, compared to the stolid competency of the opposition.