Free Windhaven by George R. R. Martin;Lisa Tuttle

dimly glowing coals in the hearth and lit a sand-candle. Then she looked around the small, neat cabin, seeking some clue as to where and how long Dorrel had been gone.
    There: tidy Dorrel had left some crumbs of fish cake on his otherwise clean table. She glanced toward a far corner and, yes, the house was truly empty, Anitra gone from her perch. So that was it; Dorrel was out hunting with his nighthawk.
    Hoping they had not gone far, Maris took to the air again in search. She found him resting on a rock in the treacherous shallows of far western Laus, his wings strapped on but folded, Anitra perched on his wrist, enjoying a piece of the fish she had just caught. Dorrel was talking to the bird and did not see Maris until she swept above him, her wings eclipsing the stars.
    Then he stared at her while she circled and dipped dangerously low, and for a moment there was no recognition at all on his blank face.
    “Dorrel,” she shouted, tension sharpening her voice.
    “Maris?” Incredulity broke across his face.
    She turned and caught an updraft. “Come onto shore. I have to talk to you.”
    Dorrel, nodding, stood suddenly and shook the nighthawk free. The bird surrendered her fish reluctantly and climbed into the sky on pale white wings, circling effortlessly and waiting for her master. Maris swung around in the direction she had come.
    This time, when she came down in the landing strip, her descent was sudden and clumsy, and she scraped her knees badly. Maris was confused, in turmoil; the tension of the theft, the strain of the long flight after that stretch of days without the sky, the strange mixture of pain and fear and joy the sight of Dorrel had suddenly, unexpectedly given her—it all overwhelmed her, shook her, and she didn't know what to do. Before Dorrel could join her she set to work unstrapping her wings, forcing her mind through the motions with her hands. She wouldn't think yet, she wouldn't let herself think. Blood from her knees trickled maddeningly down her legs.
    Dorrel landed beside her, neatly and smoothly. He was shaken by her sudden appearance, but he didn't let his emotions interfere with his flying. It was more than a matter of pride with him: it was almost bred into him, as much an inheritance as his wings were. Anitra found his shoulder as he unstrapped.
    He moved toward her and put his arms out. The nighthawk made a bad-tempered noise, but he would still have embraced Maris, regardless of the bird, had she not suddenly thrust her wings into his outstretched hands.
    “Here,” Maris said. “I'm turning myself in. I stole these wings from Corm, and I'm giving them and myself over to you. I've come to ask you to call a Council for me, because you're a flyer and I'm not, and only a flyer can call one.”
    Dorrel stared at her, confused as someone awakened suddenly from a heavy sleep. Maris felt impatient with him, and overwhelmingly tired. “Oh, I'll explain,” she said. “Let's go up to your place, where I can rest.”
    It was a long walk, but they went most of it in silence and without touching. Only once he said, “Maris—did you really steal —”
    She cut him off. “Yes, I said.” Then she suddenly sighed and moved as if to touch him, but stopped herself. “Forgive me, Dorrel, I didn't mean . . . I'm exhausted, and I suppose I'm frightened. I never thought I'd be seeing you again under such circumstances.” Then she fell quiet again and he did not press her, and only Anitra broke the night with her grumbles and mutters at having her fishing ended so soon.
    Once home, Maris sank into the one large chair, trying to force herself to relax, to make the tensions drain. She watched Dorrel and felt herself grow calmer as he went through his familiar rituals. He put Anitra on her perch and drew the curtains that hung around her (other folks might hood their birds to keep them quiet, but he disapproved of that), built up a fire, and hung a kettle to boil.
    “Tea?”
    “Yes.”
    “I'll put