Ventus by Karl Schroeder (fantasy books to read .txt) 📖

enslaved these much more brutally than even the humans. Cal found a way to turn them against 3340, and she did that during our attack six months ago.”

“How?”

“She had to briefly become one of them herself. You or I couldn’t have done it, but Calandria was able to leave her humanity behind. She became a goddess, only for a day or so. And she killed 3340.”

“If she became a goddess, why didn’t she stay that way?”

Axel shook his head. “Don’t know. She could have kept fabulous powers; she would have lived for thousands of years if she wanted. She didn’t want to. I think she was crazy to give that up. Don’t understand. I really don’t.”

Jordan was thinking. “So after 3340 died, you came here. To kill his servant, Armiger.”

“Exactly.” Axel leaned against the battlement, and squinted at the sun. “What does all of this imply about the Winds, now?”

Jordan hesitated. What came to mind was impossible.

Axel nodded smugly. “You’re smart. Isn’t it clear? The Winds are made of the same stuff as the mecha. They are alive. And they, too, are mortal.”

Jordan turned away. “Crazy talk. If the Winds are mortal, then everything could be. —The sky, or the sun, or the earth itself.”

“You’re beginning to understand,” Axel said. “Now understand this: what is mortal can be murdered.”

*

The door to their tower room was bolted; the fire was lit and candles sat on the table. Jordan, Calandria and Axel sat in imitation of some domestic scene, each bent over an evening task. Except that Calandria was not darning, but poring over a map on the table top; and Axel was not repairing tools or his boots, but polishing the steel of a wicked sword; and Jordan was not playing games or cleaning, but sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, hands on his knees, eyelids fluttering. He was trying to count to three, one digit per breath, without allowing any stray thoughts to intrude on the way. Tonight he felt he was finally starting to get the hang of it.

At two-and-a-half breaths, he caught himself thinking hey, I can do this! Stop. Back to one.

“Shit.” He slapped himself on the forehead. Calandria laughed.

“You’re doing well,” she said. “You can rest now.”

“But I had it once or twice!”

“Good. Don’t push it, or you’ll get worse rather than better.”

He unwove his legs and stood. Two deep breaths, just as she had taught. Jordan felt great, relaxed and able to deal with things. He’d never really felt like this before… oh, maybe when he was really young, and didn’t know what the world was like. All his cares and worries seemed distant, and he was able to pay attention to the here-and-now. He smiled, and plunked himself down on the edge of the bed.

“Axel tells me you have quite a mind,” Calandria said. “He told me you figured out your own history of the Boros clan by reading their architecture.”

“Yeah,” he said suspiciously. He and Axel had moved on to talk about that this afternoon, after their conversation about the Winds and 3340 had ended in impasse. Axel had been quite unaware of the contradiction between the Boros’ official history and what the stones suggested.

“Do you want to move on to a new study? You must continue to practise what I’ve taught you, of course.”

“Sure!” He felt ready for anything. “What do we do?”

Calandria folded her map and put it aside. “We can build on what you’ve already learned. If you can relax, you can concentrate. If you can concentrate, you can do marvels.”

“Like what?”

“Perfect memory, for instance. Or perfect control of your body, even your heartbeat. Tonight, I’ll show you something to help you control your visions.”

“I thought that was what I was learning.”

“You’ve been learning how to stop them. Now you’ll learn how to make them happen.”

Axel looked up, surprise written on his mobile face. “Do we know that?”

“Everything’s consistent,” she said. “I’d be very surprised if this doesn’t work.” She motioned for Jordan to sit on the floor, and seated herself in front of him. “Now, close your eyes.”

Jordan wasn’t sure he wanted to be able to make the visions happen—he was happy that they were going away. But he obeyed. Armiger was not so frightening any more, and if he could stop a vision once it started, the prospect was less daunting.

“Now,” Calandria said, “without actually doing it, imagine you are raising your hand in front of your face.” He did so. “Examine your imaginary hand. Turn it back and forth. Make a fist.” He obeyed. “Look closely at your hand. Picture it as clearly as you can.”

Jordan did his best. “Do you keep losing the image?” she asked. He nodded. “Do you get little flashes of other images?”

Puzzled, he sat for a while. Then he realized what she meant: the hand was replaced for a split-second here and there by pictures of inconsequential things, like the washbasin in the corner, or a vista of trees he couldn’t identify. “I see it,” he said.

“This is what goes on behind everybody’s eyes,” she said. “A constant flicker of visions. As you practise the counting exercise and your concentration improves, you’ll be able to damp them down, and see what you want to see for longer and longer.

“Now, as you’ve imagined your hand, imagine you can see your entire body. Keep your eyes closed, and look down at yourself.” He moved his head, imagining his bent knees and bare feet against the flagstones. “Good. Now, keep your eyes closed, and don’t move. Imagine this second body of yours is your own, and stand up in it.”

He did. “Look around.” Jordan pretended he was standing and looking around the room. It was hard to maintain the images; they kept sliding away. He said so.

“That’s okay. Now pretend to turn around. Do you see the bench where Axel’s sitting?”

He concentrated. “Yes…” He kept seeing it as a memory, from the position of the bed where he’d sat earlier. He tried to imagine seeing it as if he were standing in the center of the room.

“See his pack on the floor next to it?”

“Yes.”

“Go over to the pack. Open it up. Look inside. What do you see?”

He pretended to do as she said. “There’s… a knife, a book, a glass liquor bottle.”

“How full is the bottle?”

Jordan pretended to hold it up. It seemed to be a quarter full. “A quarter.” That was just a fancy, of course; he had no idea what was in Axel’s pack.

Calandria said, “Axel, open your pack. Is there a bottle in it?”

“Yeah.”

“How full is it?”

“A quarter full, but hey this is just a memory trick. I was drinking from it earlier, you both saw me.”

“Jordan, do you remember seeing Axel drink from the bottle earlier?”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe. But you’re not sure. And yet you see the bottle, and you know how full it is, and where it is. How strange, hmm?”

A strong exultation gripped Jordan. He had seen it! What he saw with his imagination was somehow real.

“Parlor trick,” muttered Axel.

“Be silent!” she commanded. “Now try this. Sit your body down again where your real body sits. Close your imaginary eyes.” He did so. “Imagine blackness. Now…”

Her hand touched his shoulder. Jordan struggled to keep his eyes closed. “Practise your deep breathing. Calm yourself, and see deeper and deeper black.” He felt the center of his consciousness dropping through his body, to rest finally in his belly, where great strength drove slow breaths in and out.

Calandria’s voice had taken on its most hypnotic lilt. “You will open your inner eyes again, but this time, the hand you see before you will not be yours, but rather Armiger’s. Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“Open those eyes.”

He did so.

*

The ceiling was low, and beamed. He could see the cross-pattern of thatch crooks flickering above that in the firelight.

Armiger sat up. The effort was easier this time. He looked around, fingers opening and closing on the soft cloth which was draped over his naked body.

The woman sat near the fire. Megan, she had called herself. She held a cloth sack draped across her knees, and was just positioning the second of two buckets at her feet. It was probably the scraping sound of the buckets that had woken him.

All Megan’s possessions were visible within the one room of this cabin. She had three chairs, a full set of pots, cooking, and fire implements, two hatchets by the door, and a spinning wheel. Chests were wedged into the corners. Dried herbs and kindling hung from the rafters. Everything was roughhewn, except three items of furniture: the posted bed Armiger now sat in, a fine oaken dining table and, at the wall behind Megan, a wooden cupboard with inlaid patterns of leaves. Yesterday he had lain for a while, too exhausted to move, and examined the pattern on that cupboard from his position here.

Megan was in her thirties. Her hair was grey, her face lined and wind-burnt. She was very strong, though, and still slim under the red peasant dress she wore. Now she plunged her hand into one of the buckets, and brought out a fistful of brown and white feathers. She began riffling through the mass with her other hand.

“What are you doing?” he asked. His voice sounded stronger.

Megan looked up quickly, and smiled. “How are you?”

“Better.” He rolled his head, surprising himself when his neck cracked. It never used to do that. He fingered the underside of his jaw. The scar was almost gone. “I’d like to try to walk today.”

“Tomorrow. It’s evening.”

“Oh.” She began stuffing feathers into the open end of the sack, and he realized she was making a pillow. “I’ve been using your bed. I…” He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Thank her for that? But he had been ailing. It was a human thing for her to do, he knew; not that any of his men would have willingly done the same. “Where have you been sleeping?”

“Oh, I slept there with you the first night,” she said, looking down at her work. Her hair hid her face. “You were so cold, I thought you might not survive till morning. The last few times, I’ve used the table. With some quilts on it, it’s quite fine. The bed’s mattress is only straw, anyway.”

Armiger imagined her lying on the table, like a body in state. He pushed the image deliberately out of his mind.

“I’m sorry to be a burden to you,” he said stiffly.

Megan frowned. “Don’t talk like that. It’s no trouble, all else I have to take care of is me. And I am fine. Anyway… what else could I do?”

“I was dying,” he said, wondering at the thought. “You saved me.”

“I’ve tended the dying before,” she said. “Last time, with no hope he’d recover. I had not that hope this time, either. So I am happy, you see, if I could save someone.” Her face fell as she thought of something. “At least this time…”

“You lost someone close to you?” He looked around, noticing the fine wooden table and bed-frame. “Your husband.”

Megan nodded as she reached for more down. “You see I know about losing things. And about trying to keep them.” She looked at him, almost fiercely. “You always lose it in the end—what you want to keep. The harder you try to keep it the more it goes. So now I know how to keep things right.”

“How is that?”

“You can never keep a