Poul Anderson: The People of the Wind

She brushed past him and whirled about. The chamber was in disarray; obviously used only for sleeping and bolted meals. He moved uncertainly toward her. Their contacts had been brief, correct, and by phone until the fighting began. Afterward they verified each other’s survival, and that was that.

“I’m, I’m glad to see you, Hrill,” he stammered.

“I don’t know as I feel the same,” she rapped. “Sit down. I’ve got things to rub your nose in, you sanctimonious mudbrain.”

He stood a moment, then obeyed. She saw the strickenness upon him and abruptly had no words. They looked, silent, for minutes.

Daniel Holm sat before the screens which held Liaw of The Tarns, Matthew Vickery of the Parliament, and Juan Cajal of the Empire. A fourth had just darkened. It had carried a taped plea from Trauvay, High Wyvan of Ythri, that Avalon yield before worse should befall and a harsher peace be dictated to the whole Domain.

“You have heard, sirs?” Cajal asked.

“We have heard,” Liaw answered.

Holm felt the pulse in his breast and temples, not much quickened but a hard, steady slugging. He longed for a cigar — unavailable — or a drink — inadvisable — or a year of sleep — unbroken. At that, crossed his mind, we’re in better shape than the admiral. If ever I saw a death’s head, it rides his shoulderboards.

“What say you?” Cajal went on like an old man.

“We have no wish for combat,” Liaw declared, “or to deepen the suffering of our brethren. Yet we cannot give away what our folk so dearly bought for us.”

“Marchwarden Holm?”

“You won’t renew the attack while we’ve got your people here,” the human said roughly. “Not that we’ll hold them forever. I told you before, we don’t make bargaining counters out of thinking beings. Still, the time and circumstances of their release have to be negotiated.”

Cajal’s glance shifted to the next screen. “President Vickery?”

A politician’s smile accompanied the response: “Events have compelled me to change my opinion as regards the strategic picture, Admiral. I remain firm in my opposition to absolutist attitudes. My esteemed colleague, Governor Saracoglu, has always impressed me as being similarly reasonable. You have lately returned from a prolonged conference with him. Doubtless many intelligent, well-informed persons took part. Did no possibility of compromise emerge?”

Cajal sagged. “I could argue and dicker for days,” he said. “What’s the use? I’ll exercise my discretionary powers and lay before you at once the maximum I’m authorized to offer.”

Holm gripped the arms of his chair.

“The governor pointed out that Avalon can be considered as having already met most terms of the armistice,” crawled from Cajal. “Its orbital fortifications no longer exist. Its fleet is a fragment whose sequestration, as required, would make no real difference to you. Most important, Imperial units are now on your planet.

“Nothing is left save a few technicalities. Our wounded and our medics must be given the acknowledged name of occupation forces. A command must be established over your military facilities; one or two men per station will satisfy that requirement while posing no threat of takeover should the truce come apart, Et cetera. You see the general idea.”

“The saving of face,” Holm grunted. “Uh-huh. Why not? But how about afterward?”

“The peace treaty remains to be formulated,” said the drained voice. “I can tell you in strict confidence, Governor Saracoglu has sent to the Imperium his strongest recommendation that Avalon not be annexed.”

Vickery started babbling. Liaw held stiff. Holm gusted a breath and sat back.

They’d done it; They really had.

The talk would go on, of course. And on and on and on, along with infinite petty particulars and endless niggling. No matter. Avalon would stay Ythrian — stay free.

I ought to whoop, he thought. Maybe later. Too tired now.

His immediate happiness, quiet and deep, was at knowing that tonight he could go home to Rowena.

There were no instant insights, no dramatic revelations and reconciliations. But Arinnian was to remember a certain hour.

His work for his father had stopped being very demanding. He realized he should use the free time he had regained to phase back into his studies. Then he decided that nothing was more impractical than misplaced practicality. Tabitha agreed. She got herself put on inactive duty. Eventually, however, she must return to her island and set her affairs in order, if only for the sake of her partner’s family. Meanwhile he was still confined to Gray.

He phoned Eyath at her rented room: “Uh, would you, uh, care to go for a sail?”

Yes, she said with every quill.

Conditions were less than perfect. As the boat left the bay, rain came walking. The hull skipped over choppy olive-dark waves, tackle athrum water slanted from hidden heaven, long spears which broke on the skin and ran down in cool splinters, rushing where they entered the sea. “Shall we keep on?” he asked.

“I would like to.” Her gaze sought land, a shadow aft. No other Vessels were abroad, nor any flyers. “It’s restful to be this alone.”

He nodded. He had stripped, and the cleanness dwelt in his hair and sluiced over his flesh.

She regarded him from her perch on the cabin top, across the cockpit which separated them. “You had something to tell me,” she said with two words and her body.

“Yes.” The tiller thrilled between his fingers. “Last night, before she left—” In Planha he need speak no further.

“Galemate, galemate,” she breathed. “I rejoice.” She half extended her wings toward him, winced, and withdrew them.

“For always,” he said in awe.

“I could have wished none better than Hrill, for you,” Eyath replied. Scanning him closer: “You remain in fret.”

He bit his lip.

Eyath waited.

“Tell me,” he forced forth, staring at the deck. “You see us from outside. Am I able to be what she deserves?”

She did not answer at once. Startled not to receive the immediate yea he had expected, Arinnian lifted his eyes to her silence. He dared not interrupt her thought. Waves boomed, rain laughed.

Finally she said, “I believe she is able to make you able.”

He nursed the wound. Eyath began to apologize, summoned resolution and did not. “I have long felt,” she told him, “that you needed someone like Hrill to show you that — show you how — what is wrong for my folk is right, is the end and meaning of life, for yours.”

He mustered his own courage to say, “I knew the second part of that in theory. Now she comes as the glorious fact. Oh, I was jealous before. I still am, maybe I will be till I die, unable to help myself. She, though, she’s worth anything it costs. What I am learning, Eyath, my sister, is that she is not you and you are not her, and it is good that you both are what you are.”

“She has given you wisdom.” The Ythrian hunched up against the rain.

Arinnian saw her grief and exclaimed, “Let me pass the gift on. What befell you—”

She raised her head to look wildly upon him.

“Was that worse than what befell her?” he challenged. “I don’t ask for pity” — human word — “because of past foolishness, but I do think my lot was more hard than either of yours, the years I wasted imagining bodily love can ever be bad, imagining it has any real difference from the kind of love I bear to you, Eyath. Now we’ll have to right each other. I want you to share my hopes.”

She sprang down from the cabin, stumbled to him and folded him in her wings. Her head she laid murmuring against his shoulder. Raindrops glistened within the crest like jewels of a crown.