Windhaven

by George R. R. Martin

  He spoke as they ate, telling her the events of his day. An adventure chasing the goat. Finding a bush of ripe silverberries. A special dessert he'd made for her.

  She nodded, scarcely taking in the sense of what he said, but comforted by the sound of his voice, wanting it to continue. His words, his presence, told her the world had not utterly ended.

  At last she interrupted him. "Evan, I have to know. This… injury I have. Is there any chance that it will ever heal? That I will be able… that I will recover?"

  He set down his spoon, the animation gone out of his face at once. "Maris, I don't know. I don't think anyone could tell you if your condition is a passing thing, or permanent. I can't be sure."

  "Your guess, then. Your best guess."

  There was pain in his face. "No," he said quietly. "I don't think you'll recover fully. I don't think you can regain what you have lost."

  She nodded, externally calm. "I understand." She pushed her food aside. "Thank you. I had to ask.

  Somewhere, I was still hoping." She stood up.

  "Maris…"

  She motioned him back. "I'm tired. It's been a hard day for me and I have to think, Evan. There are decisions I must make now, and I need to be alone. I'm sorry." She forced a smile. "The stew was fine.

  I'm sorry to miss the dessert you made, but I'm not hungry."

  The room was black and cold when Maris woke. The fire she had started had gone out. She sat up in bed and stared into the darkness. No more tears, she thought. That's over.

  When she threw back the covers and stood up, the floor shifted under her feet and she lurched dizzily for an instant. She steadied herself, slipped into a short robe, and then walked to the kitchen where she lit a candle from the embers still smoldering in the hearth. The wooden floor was cold beneath her bare feet as she walked down the hall, past the workroom where Evan prepared his brews and ointments, past the empty bedrooms he kept for those who came to him.

  When she opened his door Evan stirred, rolled over, and blinked at her.

  "Maris?" he said, his voice thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"

  "I don't want to be dead," she said.

  Maris walked across the room and set the candle on the bedside table. Evan sat up and caught her hand.

  "I've done all I can for you as a healer," he said. "If you want my love… if you want me…"

  She stopped his words with a kiss. "Yes," she said.

  "My dear," he said, looking at her in the candlelight. The shadows made his face strange, and for a moment she felt awkward and frightened.

  But the moment passed. He threw back his blankets, and she shrugged off her robe and climbed into bed with him. His arms went around her, and his hands were gentle, loving, and familiar, and his body was warm and full of life.

  "Teach me to heal," Maris said the next morning. "I'd like to work with you."

  Evan smiled. "Thank you very much," he said. "It's not that easy, you know. Why this sudden interest in the healing arts?"

  She frowned. "I must do something, Evan. I have only one skill, flying, and that's lost to me now. I've never done anything else. I could take a ship back to Amberly, and live out the rest of my days in the house I inherited from my stepfather, doing nothing. I'd be provided for— even if I had nothing, the people of Amberly don't let their retired flyers end as paupers." She moved away from the breakfast table and began to pace.

  "Or I could stay here, if there is something for me to do. If I don't find something to fill my days, something useful, my memories will drive me mad, Evan. I'm past my childbearing years — I decided against motherhood years ago. I can't sail a ship or carry a tune or build a house. The gardens I began always died, I'm hopeless at mending, and being cooped up in a shop, selling things all day, would drive me to drink."

  "I see you've considered all the options," Evan said, the ghost of a smile about his lips.

  "Yes, I have," Maris said seriously. "I don't know that I would have any skills as a healer — there is no reason for me to think so. But I'm willing to work hard, and I've got a flyer's memory. I wouldn't be likely to confuse poisons with healing potions. I can help you gather herbs, mix remedies, hold down your victims while you cut them up, or whatever. I've assisted at two births — I would do whatever you told me, whatever you needed another pair of hands for."

  "I've worked alone for a long time, Maris. I have no patience with clumsiness, or ignorance, or mistakes."

  Maris smiled at him. "Or opinions that contradict your own."

  He laughed. "Yes. I suppose I could teach you, and I could use your help. But I don't know if I believe this 'I'll do whatever you say' of yours. You're starting a bit late in life to be a humble servant."

  She looked at him, trying not to show the sudden panic she felt. If he refused her, what could she do?

  She felt like begging him to let her stay.

  He must have seen something of this in her face, for he caught hold of her hand and held it tightly. "We'll try it," he said. "If you are willing to try to learn, I am surely willing to teach. It is time I passed some of my learning on to someone else, so that if I am bitten by a blue tick or seized with liar's fever, everything will not be lost by my death."

  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."

  Coll said nothing. Maris didn't want to see the pain on his face, so she stared into the fire, and let the silence grow. She heard the sound of a stone bottle being unstoppered, and then Evan was pouring the steaming kivas into three mugs.

  "Can I taste?" Bari crouched beside her father, looking up, hopeful. Coll smiled down at her and shook his head teasingly.

  Watching the father and daughter together, Maris felt the tension suddenly dissolve. She met Evan's eyes as he put a mug filled with the hot, spiced wine into her hands, and smiled.

  She turned back to Coll and was about to speak to him when her eyes fell on his guitar, which lay as always close to hand. The sight of it released a torrent of memories, and suddenly Maris felt that Barrion, dead now for many years, was again in the room with them. The guitar had been his, and he had claimed it had been in his family for generations, passed down from the days of the star sailors. She had never known whether or not to believe him — exaggerations and beautiful lies came from him as easily as breathing — but certainly the instrument was very old. He had entrusted it to Coll, who had been his protege and the son he'd never had. Maris reached out to feel the smooth wood, dark with many varnishings and constant handling.

  "Sing for us, Coll," she suggested. "Sing us something new."

  The guitar was in his arms, cradled against his chest, almost before the words were out of her mouth. The soft chords sounded.

  "I call this 'The Singer's Lament,' " he said, a wry smile on his face. And he began to sing a song, melancholy and ironic in turns, about a singer whose wife leaves him because he loves his music too well.

  Maris suspected it was his own marriage he was singing of, although he had never told her why it had ended, and she had not been around to see much of it first-hand.

  The recurring refrain of the song was: "A singer should not marry/A singer should not wed/Just kiss the music as she flies/And take a song to bed."

  Next he sang a song about the turbulent love affair between a proud Landsman and an even prouder one-wing — Maris recognized one of the names, but had not heard the story.

  "Is that true?" she asked when the song had ended.

  Coll laughed. "I remember you used to ask that same question of Barrion! I'll give you his answer: I can't tell you when or where or if it happened, but it's a true story all the same!"

  "Now sing my song," Bari said.

  Coll dropped a kiss on his daughter's nose and sang a tuneful fantasy about a little girl named Bari who makes friends with a scylla who takes her to find treasure in a cave beneath the sea.

  Later, he sang older songs: the ballad of Aron and Jeni, the song about the ghost flyers, the one about the mad Landsman of Kennehut, his own version of the Woodwings song.

  Later still, when Bari had been put to bed and the three adults were working on the third bottle of kivas, they spoke about their lives. More calmly now, Maris could talk to Coll about her decision to stay with Evan.

  The first shock past, Coll knew better than to express pity for her, but he let her know he did not understand the choice she had made.

  "But why stay here, in Eastern
, far from all your friends?" Then with drunken courtesy he added, "I don't mean to slight you, Evan."

  "Anywhere I chose to live would be far from someone." Maris said. "You know how widely my friends are scattered." She sipped the hot, intoxicating drink, feeling detached.

  "Come with me back to Amberly," he coaxed. "Live in the house we grew up in. We might wait awhile, for spring when the sea is calmer, but the voyage is not so bad between here and there, truly."

  "You can have the house," she said. "You and Bari can live there. Or sell it if you like. I can't go live there again — there are too many memories there. Here on Thayos I can start a new life. It will be hard, but Evan helps me." She took his hand. "I can't stand idleness; it's good to be useful."

  "But as a healer?" Coll shook his head. "It's odd, to think of you doing that." He looked to Evan. "Is she any good? Truthfully."

  Evan held Maris' hand between his own, stroking it.

  "She learns quickly," he said after a few moments' thought. "She has a strong desire to help, and does not balk at dull or difficult tasks. I don't know yet whether she has it in her to be a healer — if she will ever be truly skilled.

  "But I must admit, quite selfishly, I am glad she is here. I hope she'll never want to leave me."

  A flush rose to her cheeks, and Maris bent her head and drank. She was startled, yet gratified, by his last words. There had been very little in the way of love-talk between her and Evan — no romantic promises or extravagant claims or compliments. And, although she had tried to put it out of her mind, somewhere within she feared that she had given Evan no choice in their relationship — that she had installed herself in his life before he could have any second thoughts. But there had been love in his voice.

  There was a silence. To fill it, Maris asked Coll about Bari. "When did she start traveling with you?"

  "It's been about six months," he said. He set his mug down, drained, and picked up his guitar. He stroked the strings, producing faint chords as he spoke. "Her mother's new husband is a violent man — he beat Bari once. Her mother wouldn't say no to him, but she had no objections to my taking her away. She told me he might be jealous of Bari — he's been trying to get a child of his own."