About the AuthorsGeorge R. R. Martin is the award-winning author of five novels, including Fever Dream and The Armageddon Rag. For the last ten years, he has been a screenwriter for feature films and television and was the producer of the TV series Beauty and the Beast as well as a story editor for The Twilight Zone. After a ten-year hiatus, he has now returned to writing novels full-time and is presently at work on A Dance with Dragons, the fourth book of his A Song of Fire and Ice series.Lisa Tuttle won the John W. Campbell award for best new writer in 1974 and has since gone on to author numerous short stories and novels, including Lost Futures, which was short-listed for the Arthur C. Clarke Award, and The Pillow Friend. More recently, she has written several books for children.Texas-born, she now lives with her husband and daughter in a remote area on the west coast of Scotland where the scenery and weather are very similar to the seascapes of Windhaven.Lisa Tuttle:This book is dedicated with love and gratitude to my mother and father, even if they don't read it.George R. R. Martin:This one is for Elizabeth and Anne and Mary Kaye and Carol and Meredyth and Ann and Yvonne and the rest of my Courier troublemakers, in the hope that they will continue to make trouble, ask questions, and get thrown out of offices.
For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward; for there you have been, and there you long to return.
THE STORM HAD RAGED through most of the night.
In the wide bed she shared with her mother, the child lay awake beneath the scratchy woolweed blanket, listening. The sound of the rain against the thin lemon-wood planks of the cabin was steady and insistent, and sometimes she heard the far-off boom of thunderclaps, and when the lightning flashed thin lines of light leaked in between the shutters to illuminate the tiny room. When they faded, it was dark again.
The child could hear the patter of water against the floor, and she knew that the roof had sprung another leak. It would turn the hard-packed earth to mud, and her mother would be furious, but there was nothing to be done. Her mother was not good at patching roofs, and they could not afford to hire anyone.
Someday, her mother told her, the tired cabin would collapse in the violence of the storms. "Then we will go and see your father again," she would say. The girl did not remember her father very well, but her mother spoke of him often.
The shutters shook beneath a terrible blast of wind, and the child listened to the frightening sound of creaking wood, and the thrumming of the greased paper that served them for a window, and briefly she was afraid. Her mother slept on, unaware. The storms were frequent, but her mother slept through all of them. The girl was afraid to wake her. Her mother had a fierce temper, and she did not like being awakened for something as small as a child's fear.
The walls creaked and shifted once again; lightning and thunder came almost together, and the child shivered underneath her blanket and wondered whether this would be the night that they went to see her father.
But it was not.
Finally the storm subsided, and even the rain stopped. The room was dark and quiet.
The girl shook her mother into wakefulness.
"What?" she said. "What?"
"The storm is over, Mother," the child said.
At that the woman nodded and rose. "Get dressed," she told the girl, as she hunted for her own clothing in the darkness. Dawn was still an hour away, at least, but it was important to get to the beach quickly.
The storms smashed ships, the child knew; little fishing boats that had stayed out too late or ventured too far, and sometimes even the great trading ships. If you went out after a storm, you might find things washed up on the beach, all kinds of things. Once they had found a knife with a beaten metal edge; when they had sold it they had eaten well for two weeks. If you wanted to find good things, though, you could not afford to be lazy. A lazy person would wait till dawn, and find nothing.
Her mother hung an empty canvas sack over her shoulder, for carrying things. The girl's dress had big pockets. They both wore boots. The woman took down a long pole with a carved wooden hook on its end, in case they saw something in the water, floating just out of reach. "Come on, child," she said. "Don't dawdle."
The beach was cold and dark, with a chill wind blowing steadily from the west. They were not alone.
Three or four others were already there, prowling up and down the wet sands, leaving boot-marks that quickly filled with water. Occasionally one would stoop and examine something. One of them was carrying a lantern. They had owned a good lantern once, when her father was alive, but they had to sell it later. Her mother complained of that often. She did not have her daughter's night vision, and sometimes she stumbled in the darkness, and often she missed things she ought to have seen.
They split up, as they always did. The child went north along the beach, while her mother searched to the south. "Turn back at dawn," her mother said. "You have chores to do. Nothing will last past dawn." The child nodded, and hurried off to search.
The findings were lean that night. The girl walked for a long time, following the water's edge, eyes on the ground, looking, always looking. She liked to find things. If she came home with a scrap of metal, or perhaps a scylla's tooth, long as her arm, curved and yellow and terrible, then her mother might smile at her and tell her what a good girl she was. That did not happen often. Mostly her mother scolded her for being too dreamy, and asking foolish questions.
