Rahm frowned.
“Let us go wash.” Vortcir grinned. “And you may tell me what it is that hurts you so deeply.”
They left the cave. Rahm moved over the rocks with long strides. Vortcir traveled in short-legged jumps, his wings fanning now and again for balance.
“Vortcir,” Rahm said, as they walked, “my people go naked on the ground. Thy… people go naked in the air.
Both are easy with the land about them. We fight with our hands and our feet — and then only what attacks. We love our own kind and are at peace with what lies about us. But… this is not true of all creatures…” In a low, quick voice, Rahm began to tell what he had seen happen in the streets of his village last night. As the tale went on, it finally seemed, even to him, simply outrage strung after outrage — so that at last he stopped.
Rahm looked at Vortcir. His amber eyes seemed some substance once molten that had recently set to a shocking hardness.
“… But what fills me with terror, Vortcir, is that the evil now is in me — too. I am filled with it. Yesterday morning, I killed a lion. This morning I killed the cave creature. And both of them were a kind of sport. But last night, Vortcir, I killed a man — a man like myself; a man as thou. I held his neck in my hands; and I squeezed, and I twisted it till…” As they reached the mountain stream, Rahm stopped. He squatted by the water, let one knee go forward into the mud. “I am not who I was, Vortcir.” As he began to wash, around his arms water darkened; not all the blood was from the fight in the cave. “Who I have become frightens me. I think perhaps I can not, or I should not, go back to my village.”
Vortcir stepped into the water and squatted in it. One wing unfolded, began to beat against the water and wave about on it. “Why so?”
Rahm turned his face from the spray and spatter of the Winged One’s washing — and grinned. The grin was at the splashing, not the thought. Still, it felt good to grin again. Rahm said: “Because if I would go down again, Vortcir, I would do the same to the neck of every blade-wielding soldier, of every black-cloaked officer still in the village of Çiron!” Behind his hard, hard eyes, Rahm was wondering what it meant to say what he said as seriously as he said it and still to grin as he was grinning.
But it felt good — even as it gave him chills.
Vortcir brushed drops from his face with his shoulder. “I hear you well, Rahm. Your people are good folk — we even watch you, time to time.” Vortcir gave a quick laugh. “Perhaps yours are a finer people than my own. We strive for peace. But sometimes we do not achieve it. We Winged Ones, as you call us — sometimes we kill each other. We know this is wrong. When one of our number kills another, we catch him and mete out punishment.” He shrugged, an immense, sailed shrug. “It does not happen often.” Vortcir turned and splashed about with his other wing.
Rahm picked up a handful of wet sand and used it to scrub at his arm, at his shoulder. When blood came away from the cut he’d received last night, it stung. He looked at squat Vortcir — who stood, feet wide in the rushing foam. Both wings opened now, Vortcir raised his head. He began to mew.
Rahm looked up.
Suddenly and excitedly, Vortcir called: “My aunt nears!” Then, at once, he leapt. Twigs and water drops flew about. Rahm closed his eyes against the rush of leaves and dirt.
When he opened them, Vortcir was clearing the broken cliff, rising before billowing cloud.
For a moment Rahm lost him. Then, a moment later, he saw two Winged Ones, moving together and apart, circling, meeting, one soaring away, the other soaring after — till, suddenly, both were alighting on the rocks at the stream’s far bank.
Vortcir splashed forward, then turned and spoke somewhat breathlessly to the other: “Here is the groundling called Rahm who saved my life!”
The woman Winged One was a breadth larger than Vortcir in every direction: taller, deeper chested, broader sailed. She wore a brass chain around her neck — and was clearly the elder. “You are a friend, then, groundling?” While rougher and aged, her voice was as high and as breathy as her nephew’s. “You have saved my fine boy; all men and women who fly will be grateful to you and give you honor.”
The grin had gone. There was only a smile on Rahm’s face now: “All …?”
“Vortcir is Handsman of our nest!” she declared as if that explained everything. “Will you now come with us?” Smiling mirth became smiling wonder: “Where — ?” “To our nest in the high rocks — to Hi-Vator!”
“But how could I climb after thee, if — ”
“Easily!” Mewing, Vortcir turned to his aunt. “He’s tall — but scrawny! He can’t weigh much. Come, friend Rahm! Climb on my back.”
“Canst thou support me?” Rahm stood at the water’s edge. He had never thought of himself as light. But, shorter than Rahm by a head, still Vortcir was half again as heavy.
Rahm stepped across the water and behind Vortcir, who turned and bent to take him. Rahm grasped him over the shoulders. The furred back bunched beneath Rahm’s chest. On either side of him the leather sails spread, and spread, and spread! They did not beat — but vibrated, at first. Without any sense of motion at all — at first — the ground sank away. Then, at once, leaves in the trees above dropped toward them, fell below them. Rahm caught his breath — tightened his grasp. And the wings gathered and beat once more — and, yes, they flew!
Looking down over Vortcir’s shoulder, Rahm saw far more rock below than green.
“How does it feel to fly, friend Rahm?” Vortcir called back; then he cried to his aunt: “He’s light as a fledgling!” Vortcir’s mew rose. Rahm peered over Vortcir’s shoulder.
Some bare, some gorse-covered, rocks moved far below them. Wind stroked Rahm’s arms, his buttocks, his back. The smell of the fur on Vortcir’s neck was like the smell which might come from a casket or cabinet in Ienbar’s cabin, long locked and suddenly opened. Sometimes they flew so that Rahm hung against the thick back only by the hook of his arm. More often, they moved horizontally, so that Rahm lay prone on that body, broader than his own, even as his feet stuck free into the air. Sometimes it seemed they just floated, so that the sun warmed Rahm’s neck and the trough between his shoulders, and no wind touched him at all. At others, the wind pummeled Rahm’s face and his arms and chilled his fingers (locked against Vortcir’s chest), till he wondered if he could hold much longer. The excitement of flight contracted Rahm’s stomach and, sometimes, made his heart hammer. He hugged more tightly to the flexing back.
Others had joined Vortcir and his aunt. As they descended, pitted cliffs rose. At last Vortcir’s feet scraped rock. Rahm caught his balance and stood alone once more, arms and chest tingling, while he looked at the great, windy back-beating maneuvers of the others landing about them — or at Vortcir’s own wingbeating, that finally stilled.
Drawing in his sails and breathing quickly (but not deeply; deep breaths seemed reserved for flight itself), Vortcir turned. “At Hi-Vator, here on the world’s roof, now you will see how those who fly can live.”
Others crowded in, then. There was a general cry: “Vortcir! Handsman Vortcir! Vortcir has returned!”
Vortcir’s aunt pushed through. “But young Handsman — where is your chain of trust?”
Again Rahm noticed the chain around her own neck.
“I must have lost it when we were set upon by the terrible wailing.”
“You cannot very well go without it. As I wear the sign and trust of a Queen, so must our Handsman wear the sign and trust of one ready at any moment to become King.”
While this was going on, Rahm looked and blinked and looked again at these furred people, who stood so close to one another — in threes, fives, or sevens, always touching — but who, now and then, would explode into the air, soaring fifty, seventy-five, a hundred-fifty yards away from any fellows.