Seasons Turning

by Donaya Haymond

  He got up on his desk as an impromptu soap box, swaying as he sang.

  “Teacher! I don’t talk a lot, ‘cause I get pushed down for what I try to say. Kids say I look funny, they claim that I’m gay. (So what if I was? It’s not a disease!) Now I have a feeling it’s a rule-changing day. There’s a world next to ours and it likes what I’ve got.”

  The portal was now large enough to see a head and torso through. It was Megan, his equally braces-ed, awkward best friend. She waited a few seconds and then crawled through. She was singing.

  The screams of shock and bewilderment swelled around them, shot through with the cheers of excitement from a few. Many students ran out the door. Pandemonium in the hallway spread through the rest of the building. Ned climbed down and hugged her, ignoring the clamor of those that had held him back for so long.

  “I-I-I d-d-d…”

  She hugged him back. “S-sing it. It g-goes aw-way w-when you sing.”

  “I don’t know what’s happening but I really can’t complain.”

  “Finally you get to show what’s been stirring in your brain,” she agreed in warm alto. “Meanwhile your teacher’s fainted, so perhaps you should refrain…”

  “From running off, until I get her awake again.” He started laughing, as if every tear he’d fought back in his life was being reborn as something better.

  ****

  The Seven States have dozens of appropriately spooky places to read books, whether they be musty libraries, secret archives, or a wizard’s private collection of spellbooks. The readers weren’t always somewhere so atmospheric, though.

  They might have been in a coffee shop in Literaria, felt beret tilted at a precious angle, ignoring the hubbub as the nearby high school collided with another.

  They might have perched on a windowsill and watched the rain fall outside in Monsoon, turning the pages carefully to avoid damage to the humidity-weakened paper.

  They might have been mad scientists in Centralia, reading amidst lightning-powered devices and needlessly complicated glassware, pausing to cackle and rub their leather-gloved hands together.

  They might have been crouched in a tent in the arid land of Drought, dreaming of precipitation and having it to command.

  They might have been dissatisfied citizens of Spring, or Winter, or Autumn, or Summer.

  They might even, perhaps, have been Commuting citizens of some more prosaic world, smuggling precious information to a home in Spain, or Cuba, or Iceland, or South Korea, or Bhutan, or Cameroon.

  They would have borrowed, begged, cajoled, tricked, or even sometimes outright robbed volumes of the Lore, in its many editions, set down by an unknown hand.

  In any case, wherever they were reading, whichever edition and whatever language, they were reading something along the lines of this:

  The Seven States are Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, Faerie, the Temperate Zone, and the Joint Republics of Monsoon and Drought.

  Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter are each represented by a person. Once Monsoon and Drought too had incarnations of their lands, a brother and sister. These were such greedy, foolish, cruel, and insupportable rulers that their people revolted against them. The war was devastating, and the commoners won only after many heavy losses and an alliance with the Lady Gwen of Autumn. They were so determined to never have such powerful tyrants ever again that they forced Monsoon and Drought to commit suicide, on pain of terrible tortures to themselves and their loved ones. The line of Seasonal succession falls to whoever kills their predecessors. Suicide creates a paradox that eliminates the position altogether.

  Each Season, as a rule, has but one weakness. Summer is vulnerable to cold. Autumn is vulnerable to asphyxiation. Winter is vulnerable to heat. Spring is vulnerable to poison. They and their lovers do not age. In their times and places of power, they are also able to change their physical appearance. They speak and understand all the tongues of sentient beings.

  They are immortal wherever they go. However, they can access their gifts only in their realms and for three months out of the year in the Temperate Zone. In their castles they may warp reality itself.

  These are the gifts of Spring:

  - To heal organ failure and all manner of lameness or palsy.

  - To cause all manner of plants to grow at a touch.

  - To conjure certain jewels from thin air.

  - To control associated weather.

  These are the gifts of Summer:

  - To heal tuberculosis, influenza, hypothermia, frostbite, and pneumonia.

  - To bring wood to life, even animated sentient life.

  - To conjure gold and practice true alchemy.

  - To control associated weather.

  These are the gifts of Autumn:

  - To heal every type of cancer.

  - To cause any living thing to age rapidly before its time.

  - To conjure certain jewels Spring cannot.

  - To control frost and hail.

  These are the gifts of Winter:

  - To heal blindness, deafness, anosmia (inability to smell), and ageusia (inability to taste).

  - To destroy rock and metal with a thought.

  - To conjure diamonds, silver, platinum, and titanium.

  - To control snow, ice, and the temperature within a narrow range.

  You may know them by the indelible symbols over their hearts. Spring’s is a pink rose. Summer’s is a bright sun. Autumn’s is an orange-red leaf. Winter’s is a detailed, six-pointed snowflake.

  There must always be two male Seasons and two female. Their physical sex is irrelevant, only their gender. No one knows why such a balance is required. The Lore is also silent on the matter of other genders beyond these two. However, it is known that should this balance be upset, the Seasons will become mortal. Over a period of weeks the barriers between the Seven States and Next Door will dissolve. The only way to stop the chaos will be to restore the balance once more.

  Having read this passage, several dozen people will calculate risks and benefits.

  This has happened every day for hundreds of years.

  The death of Lord Timothy of Summer changed something. It turned thought and speculation to action. Many types of magically inclined persons can sense a change so far-reaching as that. Others, scholars of history, when they hear tell of sudden portals appearing between the worlds, are able to add the various factors together.

  That was how, on the same day when the new Summer flew in a balloon for the first time, and the old Spring first rode in an airplane of Next Door, these people could claim they would be killing to save the world. The convenient mortalization of the Seasons was the stronger reason, but of course none of them admitted that.

  Gwen and Lynne were known to be alive. Vincent was also known to be alive. Therefore, a man must kill one of the female Seasons.

  The assassination of Gwen would cause anger and likely an armed uprising, not only among the Autumnal who loved her, but in Monsoon and Drought where they owed her a debt. The assassination of Lynne would likewise anger the Springfolk. Her ties to Faerie presented another, massive complication.

  Simplest to handle, though, would be the girl nobody knew of. She probably didn’t even know how to use her powers yet. The Summerers had no attachment to her. It would be easy. It would be rewarding. It would be good for the world.

  ****

  Balthazar ran the castle when its owner was gone. He enjoyed first pick of the women, and occasionally food and other supplies would drift inside on a conveyer belt into the bowels of the keep. Garbage went out on another conveyer belt.

  He was a greasy man with sandy blond hair like hundreds of tiny coiled springs. His broad grin never warmed or livened his eyes. Blinking was as lively as they got. Anyone except his Lord, when they talked to Balthazar long enough, edged away from him. His sadism was almost as terrible as Lord Timothy’s, and he had the sense to keep quiet about what made even him uncomfortable.

  Strolling on his personal balcon
y overlooking the gates, Balthazar spotted the two approaching women with goggles hanging around their necks. Probably family members of one of Lord Timothy’s girls, he thought. One carried a shotgun, as if that would help her get in, especially since she looked to be in her teens. The castle didn’t even need guards. Lord Timothy was tolerated by the masses in general because he brought peace and prosperity. Specific people he wronged were too afraid of him to do more than beg.

  “I really don’t think either of you know what you’re doing,” he shouted to them, waving his crushed-velvet hat.

  “I have changed my face since we last met, oh Balthazar, but that does not excuse your impudence,” the older, darker one said. “Though I have not announced my coming, Autumn deserves respect even on Summer’s soil.”

  “Lord Timothy is not available currently, Gwen, but if you leave a message I’ll be sure to let him know when he gets back…”

  The child spoke. “Your talk is oily enough to grease up a rusted-through bicycle, Mister, and I’d rather you spared us any more of that. We’re coming inside whether or not you take a shinin’ to us.”

  He sniggered and spoke in an exaggerated parody of her southeastern Temperate Zone accent. “Who dahd and made you the boss a’ me, chald?”

  ****

  “Timmy did.” Kira fired a single shot. It went straight through the hat and buried itself in the wall. “Papa’s next bullet goes through your crotch, you ever, ever talk down to me like that again. Doors, let Gwen in the main entrance. I’ll meet you there. Me and this guy need to have a talk. I don’t care how you do it, castle, but get me up there.”

  A set of stairs emerged out of the stone wall. Kira shrugged and started climbing.

  “Don’t overdo it, sweetheart,” Gwen cautioned her, heading for the main entrance.

  Balthazar tried to hide in his room, but Kira waved a hand and the folding doors wouldn’t let him through. As a reflection of her mood, thick and nasty clouds clustered in, with faraway rumbles attending them. “You get one chance to be in my good books, Mister Balthazar. One chance only, as I’m not in a charitable frame of mind. What happened to a girl named Naomi Greer?”

  He crumpled in a corner, trembling. “Your…your Ladyship…I…I don’t…”

  “She looks like me. Did, anyway, if she’s still alive. My sister. She’d have shown up ‘bout nineteen years ago?”

  She reached the balcony and the stairs receded. Her stark anger sent lightning across the heavens. She spoke slowly and quietly. “I got a good bird’s eye view of this country. It’s nice and sunny and calm, lots of pretty houses and good roads. I figure that’s how he bought your tolerance. If that weren’t the way of every one of our dimension’s children, I’d be even more pissed than I am now.”

  “I…I…I…”

  She rolled her eyes and pointed the gun directly at him. “Useless son of a bitch. The door will be open this time. Go in. Put your hands up while you’re at it. Don’t move your hands below your collarbone. Papa’s got four more shells in the chamber and you’ve seen the kind of shot I am. I know places to shoot that make you die real slow.”

  Quivering, Balthazar got to his feet and unlatched the door. Gwen said the castle would respond to her wishes, even more than the wind currents did on their way here. Kira, steering the balloon from the outside with her powers, trimmed hours off the journey. Now she easily made herself heard in every single room. Balthazar’s was real nice, full of intricately carved furniture and hung with silk tapestries. She marched him to the wide indoor staircase.

  “Everyone, ladies and gentlemen, I have Mr. Balthazar here at gunpoint. I probably don’t need guns in this place but I find it comforting. We are going downstairs to the main reception hall or whatever the place official stuff happens is called. I’m going to sort the victims from the villains, so no undue fussing just yet. If there is a Naomi Greer somewhere in this place…” Kira swallowed down unhelpful tears. “Naomi, your mother had another girl after you left home, and she’s me.”

  “Is this really necessary?” Balthazar squeaked.

  “I think it puts you in the frame of mind I want you to be in. Now, keep going.”

  The crystal chandeliers could stay. She liked the specks of light they cast everywhere, like sunshine through clear water. She didn’t like all the stuffed deer heads, though she shot deer all the time for food and leather. As soon as she thought it, they vanished. Huh. It was mighty convenient, that. “It’s just that I don’t want you getting all trigger-happy when you see–”

  Lightning flashed again. “When I see what?”

  “Are you sure you want to meet everyone right away? You’ve been traveling and are obviously tired and stressed. You could take a bath first, or have something to eat…”

  “Your mouth is moving. You might want to do something about that. It could put you in deeper trouble than you already are.”

  When they reached the doors leading to the central reception area, Gwen was standing in front of them. “I think you should hand Papa to me before you go in there,” she said to Kira.

  “Why?”

  “Please trust me.” Her eyes were wide.

  Kira pursed her lips, nodded quickly, and handed the Remington to Gwen. “I shouldn’t fly off the handle.”

  She went in. A few dozen blue-clad people, eight anxious men, and eight young women in pretty dresses, stood before her. Most of the women showed bruises and burn marks. All were in some early stage of weeping. None had hands.

  Kira didn’t say anything or move when the sight first hit her, but a giant lightning bolt, much bigger than the earlier ones, flashed less than a mile away, to judge by the near-instant clap of thunder. The afternoon sky went midnight.

  One of the girls, a blonde with green eyes who looked to be no more than twenty-two, whispered, “I’m Naomi Greer.”

  The first, silent tear fell from Kira’s eye. Her voice remained quiet and slow. “Hi, Naomi. I’m Kira. Now who do you want me to kill for you?”

  There were men in the room, too, every one of their faces ashen. One opened his mouth to plead his case. A woman snapped, “Oh no, Uther, don’t you dare. Don’t you dare!”

  “Hans, please raise your hand,” Naomi said, turning.

  Nobody moved.

  “Do what my sister says or every one of you gets the treatment they give to rapists where I come from,” Kira growled. “They don’t have to go to prison, but dear God are they never even gonna think about sex again.”

  A man raised his hand, sweat trickling down his face.

  “Please don’t kill that man. I think there is hope for him,” Naomi said.

  Kira nodded. “Put your hand down and step aside from the rest, Hans. The lady vouches for you. Don’t mean I like you, but it does mean you’ll get to live and keep your parts. Now, ladies, please tell me your names, and your opinions on the men present.”

  “Don’t hurt the servants, they were nice to us and they were really, really scared of him. He wouldn’t let them leave. Oh, and my name’s Raksha.”

  “It’s real handy how you servant folks are in uniforms. Okay, you ladies and gents, feel free to go about your usual if that’s what you want, or pack up and leave if you’ve been hankering for it. It’s your choice and I will not stop anyone – anyone innocent…” another bolt of lightning punctuated this, “…who wants to get away from this dolled-up hell hole.”

  They ran. One shouted, “Thank you, Lady Kira!”

  “Balthazar, join the seven detainees.” She found it interesting how the seven in question edged away from Balthazar, as if he was coated in tar. It was as though they worried they’d get stuck to him.

  “Um, my, my name’s, um, um Zelda,” said a scrawny, haunted-looking girl with stringy brown hair. “Darrell should raise his hand.”

  Darrell raised his hand with a surprised, tentative smile.

  Zelda hissed, “Shoot that thrice-cursed swine and let me watch. Now! Please! Now!”

  “Gwen?”

/>   Gwen gave Papa back. “You should execute them all at once. It’s more official that way, and you can pick a spot where the noise won’t frighten the servants further.”

  Kira nodded. “Makes sense,” Kira said, her voice surprisingly cold.

  “You’re being remarkably collected. I didn’t expect it from you.”

  “Thanks.” The next thunderclap made everyone jump.

  “Kira, if you could make the weather be not so horrendous, it would be easier for me to get out of your hair and go fetch our things from where we parked the balloon. It would also keep your bag from getting rained on.”

  “Okay. Okay.” The clouds faded. Gwen departed.

  “Are you really Ruth Greer’s daughter?” Naomi asked, starting to sniffle.

  Kira’s gaze softened for a moment another tear forming in her eye. Naomi saw it glimmering in her right eye, waiting to roll out. “We need to catch up, but please let me get this sorted out, sis. I’m sorry.” Kira turned to Irene to hear her judgment.

  ****

  Hans cautiously took a handkerchief from his pocket, stepped over to his former charge, and helped her wipe and blow her nose. “Thank you, Naomi.”

  “This doesn’t mean I want to see you again,” she replied, speaking softly so Kira heard the other girls vouching for or condemning their keepers. “It doesn’t mean anything except that I think if she sent you away, far away, where nobody knew you and you could start over, you might be a good man.”

  He shifted from foot to foot, picking at his fingernails. “I know. Thank you.”

  Seven

  Solstice and Equinox

  Jared continued his explanation of airport procedure in a low voice. “Now I’m likely going to get taken aside and have my bags poked at. It’s supposed to be random searching, but they are suspicious of dark-skinned males.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” said the taxi driver empathetically. Jared figured from his neatly knotted blue turban that the man was a Sikh.

  Lynne flashed the taxi driver a cold stare and drew her messenger bag closer around her body. “This conversation is private, minion.”