War and the Wind

by Tyler Krings

  “Arienaethin, Lady of the Wind and Tempest. Ana. Yours is the terrible hand by which entire worlds are woven. The breath of both life and death. But it is also that which guides the weary sailor home. That which finds purchase in the highest places, where no man or god can follow. Do you take this man to be your husband?”

  Her eyes did not leave Jon’s as she gave her answer. “Yes.”

  “Naven of the Sacred Edge, last child of Nathera, Son of War. Jon. You have fought for things that are passed and gone. Your soul was forged in fire and is carried on the edge of a blade. But you have forged something new and worth keeping. Worth fighting for. Do you take this woman to be your wife?”

  Jon breathed, “Yes.”

  “Are any gathered here prepared to object to this union?”

  Jon and Ana turned quickly, only now realizing that the circle around them was full. The old man, the Wolf, Irving, Isca, and Dax stood quietly and did not raise objection. The old man approached, granting both Jon and Ana a smile.

  “You have been the light of my life,” said the old man to Jon, “and I am very old. I am happy for you.” He looked at Ana. “For you both.” The old man stepped away.

  Jon broke from the spirit and Ana before the old man could move too far and hugged him fiercely. “Thank you.”

  The old man returned the hug in a strong grip and held it for a long moment. The old man broke away, held his son’s face in his hands, nodded, and joined the others waiting silently. Jon found Ana and the spirit’s hands waiting and rejoined them.

  “Well,” said their officiator, “if that is all, then in the eyes of gods and man, I bind thee. You are wed, husband and wife. A kiss should seal this quite nicely.”

  They kissed. Their audience went wild with glee and applause. Torches alighted around the circle. The Wolf “found” a chaff of wine and began pouring. The old man pulled out a lute that could not have been hidden within his cloak and began to play. Jon grabbed Ana by the hip and hand and led her into what would be their first dance as husband and wife.

  15

  An Angel

  The general stood in the back by the door of Murder’s room. The blood from the ceiling played its quiet music, singing its praises, to Ivan Emersin’s shock. Tao Magrin, equally silent, lay before him. The holes in his face and arms gleamed with fresh blood as the Lord of Murder paced the cryptic circle in the middle of the room. Emersin’s boots sloshed in the coagulated puddles of blood as he stepped closer to one to the girls pinned to the wall. A glimmer of motion drew him closer. He could see clearly into the girl’s chest cavity: the ribs pulled away from the major organs, revealing lungs still breathing, and a heart still beating.

  “Fucking gods,” he whispered. Emersin turned to the Ambassador, the shock still evident on his face. “They’re still alive.”

  Murder sighed. “Yes, Ivan. They’re still alive.”

  “But you’ve killed the good captain, I see.”

  “Well, yes. Good captain he may have been, but I am afraid that he was a touch nosy for my liking.”

  “I thought you could not directly intervene…” Emersin could not shed his fear, but he concealed it well. It was now clear that his one ally in the Maddogs was gone, and there was no one now that he could turn to. If the gods can intervene, then the battlefield has changed dramatically. All that is left is the girl. Murder began circle Emersin, his hands behind his back as though he were a teacher schooling a child.

  “It would seem, Ivan, that you and I are no longer on the same page.” Its fingers rubbed one another as it ignored the general’s statement. “Tao here was having me followed, and I think, I think, it was at your behest. But of course, that would mean that you were…what? Scheming to get rid of me? To keep the girl from me? To kill me? Nonono, that’s stupid, and do you know why? BECAUSE YOU CAN’T KILL A GODDAMN GOD!!”

  Murder took a step back the same time he took a breath. Emersin watched in silence as the creature tried to clear its head. The soldiers in the room all stood at attention with placid smiles. There would be no help there. Murder continued, “You know he tried to have me arrested? Me? I mean, what did I do? I didn’t kill these people, that’s against the rules. Nono, all these good lookin’ gals here are all still alive. All I did was take a power-hungry lovesick puppy and give him a kick in the right direction. I mean, I did all the funny stuff with their innards and whatnot. Oh, and I killed that guy there…and that one. But it’s okay. It’s okay,” Murder continued. “The rules have changed now, and magic is in the air.”

  Emersin moved his hand imperceptibly to his weapon. “What did you do?”

  “Oh, now you wanna know? No more, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’?” it snapped. “We all have rules to follow. Set in place by folks I don’t even know. Folks that are scarier than me. And to get passed that, well we have to do a little ‘magic.’” Murder turned its back to Emersin.

  “These people were not the job we were sent here to do,” said Emersin as he gestured to the bodies. “They were innocent.”

  Murder spun around dramatically and held up his hands as if making a declaration, “I don’t care, Ivan!”

  Ivan Emersin looked over the bodies on the floor and walls as a dread realization washed over him. “You’re going to kill more…”

  “Don’t you go changing the subject! You had me followed, cornered, nearly arrested, and poor Timmy here lost his face for it!”

  “Tao.”

  “Whatever! You see this is your problem; you don’t want to get your hands dirty. Everything by the book. ‘Let’s not burn the forest down! Let’s go through the census for the next five millennia!’ If it weren’t for me and some slightly untraditional tactics, we would never have even found the girl!”

  The general became very still in the face of Murder’s rage. The creature was not wrong. They had burned down a forest filled with men, women, and children. Now, yet again, Emersin found himself standing by while this thing held a match. Fear wilted and resolve worked its way through his muscles. He squared his shoulders and loosened his fingers near the hilt of his sword. “If it weren’t for you,” he said slowly, “we wouldn’t be here at all.” This cannot go on any longer. “You will not kill any more.”

  Murder dropped his hands to his sides almost apologetically. “Ivan. Our job, yours and mine, is almost done. Just a few souls more.”

  Emersin breathed out any remaining reservations. Fuck it.

  The general let loose his sword and beheaded the man next to him, flipped his grip, and stabbed another through the chest. He turned to reach the Lord of Murder and stopped short with several knives now at his throat. The god’s face was inches away, and the smell caused Emersin to sway. “You see,” breathed Murder, “that’s what the good captain tried to do as well. But I can’t do you like I did him.” It leaned closer. “You’re not done with this life just yet, Ivan.”

  The Lord of Fate is not the Creator. He is not the author; he is not the father. The effort to create as the Creator does, to match perfect circumstances with will and empathy, is not the way of Fate. The threads are there; they already exist. It is the job of Fate to weave the threads into the tapestry. To tie the strings in such a way as to convene past and present into a slate for the future. The Lord of Fate is historian, custodian, and weaver, but he cannot make. He cannot “from nothing, make something” as the Creator did so wantonly. The canvas he has cannot be changed or altered, for it is the past, and the present.

  For many millennia Fate did as he was bid, as he was created to do. He maintained the tapestry, allowed the multitudes their choices, and weaved as they dictated. He did this until, in an inexplicable and random moment, he realized a very harsh truth. The Creator was no longer with them. He was gone. Having lit the spark that was life, the realms now operated without his intervention, and so, at some point in time, unbeknownst to the gods or anyone else, the Creator left. Content with his work. Yet, here is Fate, weaving the future for those beneath him. He can see the flaws
. The will, the empathy, the perfect circumstance, the love and the hate, the light and the dark, and hope that is no longer eternally present but threadbare. He can see the rape and burning of worlds over and over even before his hands touch a thread. The absence of the Creator looms large in his mind, and he thinks that here, now, is a way for he, the Lord of Fate, to make a difference. It is in the Creator’s absence that Fate comes to a both terrible and wonderful realization. Things can be better.

  The key difference in the work of Fate and the Creator is time. Time is the inevitable mover of Fate, slowly pushing forward and setting an enviable limit to the work that can be accomplished on the Loom. Time, the one variable that cannot be changed. For Fate to accomplish his idea, his masterpiece, he must work within this defined limit. Before him on the table is the Lady of the Wind. She, like most gods, is beautiful and flawless. Yet to call her such begs a redefining of the word “flawless.” It can only be skin deep as she is in fact a part of the problem. The Revolution that saw the Lord of War decimate swaths of lesser beings presents the greatest flaw in the Creator’s vision. It is Choice. Free will. Were these ideas, these rights, not available, there would have been no revolution. There would be no need for Fate to feel as though imperfection was now a disease to be eradicated. Granted, this line of thinking echoed that of despots and tyrants across a thousand worlds since the beginning of creation, and this, Fate knew, was dangerous thought. So the question loomed; how does one make the worlds better without making the mistakes of a thousand kings and queens? Knowing full well that time was not an ingredient he could use, and the power of creation itself wass out of reach. The answer lay in the unmaking. But he could not go back to the time of creation to do so; he must work with what he had.

  To “unmake” the threads required surgery, of a sort. The threads of Fate are bound to humans and lower creatures in a spiritual, physical, and metaphysical sense. Should a farmer blow out his knee in the field, he would no longer be able to farm and thus his fate became this. While it might not be his ultimate destiny, his fate wass now forever intwined with the injury. A Divine body did not harbor such a tether, but the absence did not make the work any easier, because, again, time. Those of the Pantheon were eternal and therefore boasted millennia of history and action and decision that could not be rewritten. The Lord of Fate had to be creative.

  Arthen, the Lord of War, had not understood the potential at hand. Stupidity and complacency were blinding and the war that followed was decimating. The work of the Creator lay in ruins, leaving Fate with the tedious of work of picking up the pieces. However, the deconstruction of Anu presented opportunity that could not be ignored.

  Arienaethin struggled against her bonds, her body a tempest of anger and fear. She screamed in agony as Fate tore from her the threads that had woven her being, the practice becoming easier with each subject. He had seen her, all of her, and she was beautiful, full of will and pride and laughter—and it was these things that he came to love about her. But here, and there, were decisions and actions with which he disagreed. She knew the Lord of War and she loved him. She knew that he was right to stand against tyranny and did not waver in the face of battle or terrible pain. It was not her will to act or her defiance that he would have changed. No, these were things that he would not see tarnished, but there were some that she could do without. With his fingers he twisted the thread above her, shearing off touches of history and memory. Her screams alighted the palace.

  The act of Creation was also an act of destruction. The Creator himself destroyed the abyss to bring the light, and so too would Fate. The Lady of the Wind’s deconstruction needed not be so final as the abyss, but the metaphor remained. With careful touch, Fate added elements that will improve this tested design. One such element in particular: compliance.

  Ana walked out of the house to where the Red stood in the middle of the frozen field, holding herself as though she could feel the cold. The sun peeked over the horizon, its red light shining off the hardened top layer of snow. The wind greeted her with its chilling embrace, despite the heavy winter coat, and Ana smiled at the welcome. The old man and her husband brought supplies to the horses and spoke in hushed tones. Dax barked somewhere behind her.

  You’ve more friends it seems, the Wind whispered.

  Yes, she answered.

  But you are sad.

  Am I?

  I would know.

  Her laugher was soft. Yes. I suppose you would. We may not see each other after tomorrow.

  Are you leaving?

  Maybe.

  The Wind whirled through the fields jovially as if she had made a great joke. The Red was looking at her as she approached. Ana shook her head. “Sorry.”

  The Red’s lips curled. “There is no need.”

  “Is…everything all right?” Ana probed.

  The Red continued to stare into the fields. “Who was it that preformed the ceremony, Arie?”

  Ana blanched and recovered. “A friend. In truth I don’t know his name.”

  The Red did not respond immediately, her frown frozen in place. “Arie…” she said softly, “you must see some other game is being played here. First Niandithir is not dead, and now some unknown god binds your threads in a blatant affront to the Lord of Fate. That your fates are already bound means Fate can now intervene at any moment, and his fury will be legend.”

  Ana’s smile faded. “Good. Come on then, let the battle commence, if he wants me so badly! You know what’s truly wonderful about last night? I made that choice. I did not have it taken from me. I did not have to use my love for a man to the purpose of Fate’s games.”

  The Red shook her head. “I don’t think you understand. You cannot possibly love this man!”

  “Why!? Why can I not love him?”

  The Red stepped back in visible anger but did not reply.

  Ana was taken aback momentarily, but then her anger seethed. “For fuck’s sake, what is it you’re hiding!?”

  The Red turned away from her and puffed a sigh. “You have another choice to make, Arie. Take your manchild and flee, or die. Because that is how this is going to end.”

  “If the Lord of Fate wrote that story, then I think I’ll take my chances.”

  The Red bristled. “You’ve spent far too much time with Arthen and his…ilk. You don’t always have to fight the battle you can’t win.”

  Ana smirked. “All the others would be too easy. If certain death is our future, then why are you even here? Flee back to your cave if you must, but our battle is here and now. If we fled, the battle would only follow us.”

  “Stubborn girl. Foolish, headstrong!” The Red was close to raging, “I am here because this is where I am meant to be. But you could be anywhere else! You value your choices so much, but what of your precious boy? Did he choose to be here? His days are fixed; yours are not, but you would have him throw his life away tomorrow for your revenge, and what’s worse, you have bound him to you! Do not lecture me on choices when you so willingly toss aside those you claim to love.”

  The Red stomped away before Ana could reply, leaving her stunned and nearly to tears. What has happened?

  General Ivan Emersin sat in a chair at the end of a long room. Tall windows guided glaring light along the length of ornately carved stonework. High ceilings and polished rafters gave the impression of a holy place, but not one that he had seen in the Empire. The structure had none of the industrial steel and rusted colors that occupied most Imperial construction. It embraced instead a renaissance of smooth textures and bright colors that, while varied, could also be construed as different hues of white. Statues lined the walls between the windows, sporting busts of men and women of such perfect physical condition that they could hardly be viewed as human. In the center of the room was a long high table, where the general sat at the head.

  Emersin looked down at his arms resting on the armrests and while he could not see any device tying him, he found that he could not move. He looked up from his invisib
le restraints and noticed that he was suddenly not alone. A figure sat with him at the table, halfway down its length, and in the spell of the bright light from one of the windows. He could not tell if the figure was male or female, but the slightness of the frame suggested it was a woman. The figure regarded him silently, and when it moved stood and began to walk toward him, it was graceful. The figure spoke in a voice that he both dreaded and knew well.

  * * *

  My dearest Ivan,

  We both have known for some time that the end was coming. I have seen you, these long years, fighting an enemy you could not see and could not hope to defeat, but fought you did. I love you for that. You cannot know what it has meant to me, but my love, my dearest general, this is a fight that can only end one way. This illness has taken its toll. As I write these words I can barely see through the light of a clear day, and my hand trembles with the weight of the pen, but I cannot stop. These words must be written.

  When you left for the Expansion, the days were cold and many. It was not easy for me, but I found comfort in the arms of another man. I do not think I loved him, but his attention became something I coveted. Our affair did not last long. He had a wife and child of his own and could not keep the late hours that our time together required. When he left, the loneliness was complete. Our own child was grown and gone, and after the fifth year, there seemed little hope of your return. I both prayed and cursed gods as often as I could remember their names, but none answered my call. It came to me then that no one could end my suffering save myself, and were you already dead, I would find you again.