Mistress of the Wind (Arucadi Series Book 1)

by E. Rose Sabin

  She had heard that any pain inflicted on a single mindstealer was felt by all, and she longed to avenge her parents’ deaths. Mindstealers were a threat that needed to be totally destroyed, but that deed was beyond her abilities. It would help to know that she’d at least made them suffer.

  The flood of tears finally ebbed. She washed her face and combed her hair. Though not hungry, she forced herself to eat a lunch of fried eggs and a bit of leftover bacon. Afterward, she walked aimlessly through the cottage.

  The shelf that held her father’s library of twelve books drew her, and she stood looking over the leather-bound volumes of which her father had been so proud. He’d taken great pleasure in teaching her to read them. She’d neglected them of late; a layer of dust dulled the leather. Her father had called them his “true friends.” He must have felt the same sense of isolation that she felt. Perhaps the books had brought him comfort. Although she could read, she valued the books mostly because they were all that remained of her father.

  Almost all. A small table held a curious stone that had also been one of his treasures. It came, her father had told her, from a spot high in the mountains east of Noster Valley, a place where such stones were abundant. About the size and shape of a calf’s brain, the stone was dull brown on the outside, rough and deeply furrowed. She picked it up and turned it about in her hand, remembering the day her father had cut it in half and let her separate the halves and look inside. To her delight she’d seen a crystalline maze of veins sparkling with an eerie light. Mysteriously, the light winked on and off in a recurring pattern that pulsed through the maze and flashed back to its starting point.

  “See if you can break the pattern,” her father challenged. She played with it for a long time, clapping the two halves together, banging them on the floor, pounding them with her fists. Still the lights pulsed in the familiar pattern. She grew angry and threw the stone down. Her father picked it up and gazed at her sadly. “A temper tantrum won’t do it,” he said.

  “Show me,” she demanded, pouting.

  He shook his head. “I want you to discover it.”

  For a long time she refused to try, but the challenge nagged at her.

  It took weeks of trying before she found it, but the solution proved simple. Her father had made her a toy drum. Idly one day she picked up the drumsticks and beat a rhythmic tattoo on the stone. The light flickered and leaped erratically from spot to spot, like the winking of lightning bugs on a summer night. The opposing rhythm had broken the pattern.

  Smiling at the memory of her father’s pride in that success, she took from her sewing basket her scissors and a thimble and used those implements to drum on the stone’s outer surface. Separating the halves, she watched the lights wink faster, skipping madly from vein to vein. After a few seconds all the lights coalesced into a single bright flash, then died away. She set the two halves back on the table and watched the lights slowly wink back on and flow into the familiar pattern. Reluctantly she put the halves back together, ending the display.

  The scissors and thimble reminded her that she had garments needing repair. The mindless routine of drawing needle and thread through cloth might be calming. From the mending basket she pulled out a tunic with a ripped seam. Settling into a chair, she got to work.

  After a time, she noticed that the light from the window had dimmed. It was too early to be growing dark. She couldn’t have worked that long. Putting aside the mending basket, she went to the window.

  Dark clouds had gathered in the east, and the scent of rain hung heavy in the air. The storm must have formed quickly.

  She left the window, reordered her sewing basket, put it away, and was hanging up the mended clothes when a loud knock summoned her to her front door. Young Elwyn Conrath, Mistress Laron’s nephew, stood there.

  “Townmaster says you’re to come right away,” the boy said.

  For a heart-stopping instant she thought she was being called to account for her morning’s indiscretion. But the boy continued, “A bad storm’s brewing. Already sending squalls down on the farmland to the east. People are scared of losing crops this close to harvest, or of the river flooding. Townmaster wants you to speak the wind and see how bad it’ll be.”

  “He wants me to speak the wind now? Climb Rial Hill in a storm?”

  “Think so. You’d best talk to him. He said to hurry.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ENCOUNTER

  The wind pushed at Kyla’s back, hurrying her along.

  The Townmaster waited at his front door. “Your report said nothing of a storm today,” he barked at once. “Will this one be bad? Are the crops in danger?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “The wind told me nothing about a coming storm.”

  “What good is a windspeaker who can’t predict the day’s weather? You must windspeak again and find out what’s happening. At once.”

  “It’s late, Townmaster. I won’t have much time—”

  “Then don’t stand here wasting it! Do what you’re hired for.”

  Kyla’s temper flared. “I’ll go, but I won’t be treated like a slave. I expect no more talk of reducing my rations.”

  “We’ll discuss that when you return with news.” He stepped back and slammed the door in her face.

  He’d probably gone to watch from behind the curtains of his front window to be sure she left. She was tempted not to, but the villagers would face a hard winter if the storm damaged or flooded the crops this close to harvest.

  No time to go back for her windspeaking smock. The climb up Rial Hill in the rain would take over half an hour, and she’d then have only about an hour before nightfall. She considered whether she should sing the wind right here in town, but decided against it. She could better get the answers she and the village needed by meeting the wind at the usual place.

  As she hurried toward the hill, she noted that the wind’s color had softened—a good sign. The wind was flinging leaves and debris into the air in a show of ferocity, but its violet hue signaled a mood more playful than malign. It eagerly boosted her over rocks, and she had soon climbed high enough to see not only Waddams but also much of Noster Valley spread out below.

  She saw the frightened villagers hurrying home early from their fields and herding cows into the barns. The wind was creating a spectacle. Pounding squalls tore at the trees, pushed the Damin River over its banks, and thrashed the tender stalks of ripening grain in the fields below. No wonder people were frightened. Blind to the wind’s color, deaf to its voice, they were terrified of its destructive power.

  Time to sing. Her wordless crooning mimicked the whistle of the wind. Her long hair whipped about, rippling like a banner. The wind and rain plastered her clothes to her body. Impulsively she stripped off the clothes and stood bare, arms open to the wind. The wind poured over her, nuzzled her breasts and caressed her waist, thrust its tendrils between her thighs, wrapped itself around her bare legs.

  “What a lecher you are,” she cried. “You come drunk and lusty from your plunge over Nine Falls. Take out your energy on me, and spare the poor village.”

  The wind reddened. It tore at her, bit at her face, tangled her hair, swirled around her body. She stood firm, legs apart and arms outspread, letting the wind’s power surge through her. Its voice roared in her ears. It lifted her, not just enough to put a cushion of air between her body and the ground, as it sometimes did. This time it raised her high, high above the hilltop. As if she were a leaf, it carried her through and above the dark thunderclouds, where the sun shone and the air was dry and cold and thin.

  Terrified at first, her fear slowly changed to ecstasy as the wind rocked and twisted her in orgasmic abandon. She laughed aloud. The foolish villagers worried that she’d give herself to a man and lose her windspeaking ability. What human lover could give her an experience to equal this?

  The wind spun her around in a sensual dance, then softly, gently floated her downward, easing her onto the hilltop. “That’s as wild a rid
e as I can stand,” she gasped. “No wonder I was taught never to ride a storm wind.” She lay on her back and let the wind lave her with warm breezes tender as a lover’s tongue. The storm was over, the rain ended. The dark clouds drifted away. The wind’s color softened to light rose. Its soothing whispers lulled her into a dream state, so that she almost forgot the need that had brought her here.

  At ease, she listened as the chatty wind told of its day’s travels. In brash bursts it reenacted its plunge over Nine Falls, roaring, racing, tumbling, and bouncing like a child at play. From Nine Falls it swept through Martyr’s Pass. With soughs and sighs it portrayed what it had seen in the rocky channel before it swept down on the valley in frenzied storm.

  She jerked upright, startling the wind into pale yellow eddies. “Mindstealers!” Her voice sliced through the swirls. “Mindstealers in Martyr’s Pass!”

  The wind howled and tugged at her. She wouldn’t be calmed. “When? How many?”

  Its puffs and wheezes conveyed the answer. Two mindstealers prowled through Martyr’s Pass. They’d stay there to trap unwary travelers until their grisly purpose was accomplished.

  Only two. In the narrow, winding pass two would be enough for a successful ambush. That could work both ways. She could take them, one at a time, by setting up an ambush of her own at the entrance to the pass.

  At last! The opportunity she’d dreamed of.

  She pulled on her discarded clothing and scrambled down the hillside, slipping on loose stones and grabbing at gorse bushes to slow her descent. With a precipitous slide she connected with the path into the village.

  Her shoes slapped the cobblestones, startling a blackbird from its perch on a peaked roof. She ran through the narrow lanes, the wind howling after her like a deserted lover. She skidded to a stop, spread her arms wide, and let the wind pummel them. “Calm, now. I’ve got to see about those mindstealers. I’ll meet you in the morning as I always do. Not in the usual place, but you’ll find me. Easy, no need to terrify these poor people.”

  The wind slackened. Its moans and whistles ceased. It lapped at her like a chastened puppy. Relieved, she ran past the smaller houses, their windows shuttered against the storm, to the Townmaster’s gabled house.

  After smoothing her wet and wrinkled skirt, she ran up to the front door and beat on it with both fists. A quavering voice called out, “Who’s there?”

  “Kyla. Open up!”

  The door creaked open and the Townmaster’s pinched face peered out through the gap. “What did you learn?” he asked. “Is the storm worse? Are we doomed?”

  “No, no. The storm’s over and the sun is shining. Come out and see for yourself.” Kyla stepped down to make room for him.

  The Townmaster swung the door wide and tottered onto the steps. He craned his neck to peer up and down the street as if he could see the wind as Kyla did. Relief spilled color into his sallow face. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ll commend you to the council. Did the wind bring other news?”

  “Some,” Kyla said. “Flooding on the Damin River’s washed away part of Sar Bridge. You’ll have to send men to repair it. Hunters from the mountains are trespassing in the croplands. They’re after ferebeasts flushed by the storm, and animals and men are trampling the grain in the south sector.”

  “I’ll put the word out right away,” he said. “Anything else?”

  Kyla almost blurted out the vital information that as windspeaker she should impart at once.

  If the Townmaster knew of the mindstealers, he’d rouse all of Waddams and send the men to hunt them. She’d not be allowed to join them. The men would go with a clanking and clattering that would alert the mindstealers and cheat her of her vengeance. She said only, “I won’t be bringing you news tomorrow morning. I’ll be away.”

  “Away!” He paled. “To where? You’re our windspeaker. You’re bounden—”

  “I won’t be long. If I’m not back in two or three days, well … Mistress Forythe in Weaversville is training a new apprentice.”

  He shook his head. “We want no apprentice-child. You can’t leave. I forbid it.”

  Like a racer poised for the signal, Kyla teetered on the bottom step. “I’ve sworn to serve this town. I’ll not break my bond, but I have the right to travel on business of my own.”

  Shuffling his feet, shivering though the air did not seem cold, he said, “I always feared you’d develop a stubborn streak like your father. Vahan Cren was mighty independent-minded and liked to put on airs. You get that way, mistress, and you won’t be much use to us no matter how great a talent for windspeaking you have.”

  Furious, she spoke through clenched teeth. “How dare you bring my father into this? He has nothing to do with it.” She was lying; he had everything to do with it, but that was none of the Townmaster’s concern. “I’ve already spent too long arguing. You can’t keep me here.”

  He glared, eyes full of suspicion. “Are you going to meet a man?”

  Kyla shook her head and backed into the street. “The wind is my only lover.”

  His trembling grew worse. “I’m taking a chill standing here in the cold,” he said in a plaintive voice. “And the worry is souring my stomach. I’m too delicate for the responsibilities I have to bear. You must wait while I convene the town council. Let it decide.”

  “There’s nothing to decide. You have the news. I’ve fulfilled my duty.”

  “But where are you going?” he called out as she turned away.

  Kyla left the question hanging in the air. Skirt hiked up to her knees, she raced through the street, jumped a low fence, and cut through gardens to reach her cottage.

  She whipped through the house, snatching up items for her travel pack: food, rope, firesticks, a long scarf, and her windspeaker’s smock. For ease of traveling, she dressed in tunic and trousers and exchanged her shoes for sturdy hiking boots. Though she didn’t expect to need it, she tossed a second tunic into the pack. Quickly she wound her long hair into a tight roll, pinned it high on her head, and covered it with a cap of thick wool. She put on the heavy cloak that had been her mother’s. The air would be cold and thin in Martyr’s Pass. After thrusting her father’s hunting knife into a sheath on her belt, she sped toward the eastern mountains.

  Guilt dogged her steps. By not reporting the mindstealers she’d betrayed a windspeaker’s primary obligation. Yet she’d dreamed of and planned her revenge too long to jeopardize this chance.

  She ran tirelessly, letting the night wind lead her through its secret paths. Shortly after dawn she reached the entrance to Martyr’s Pass.

  The rocky defile between perpendicular mountain walls provided a short but perilous route from Noster Valley to mining villages in the Starmist Mountains. The narrow openings at either end forced journeyers to squeeze through one at a time, offering easy prey.

  In a soft voice that would not carry into the pass she sang a coaxing plea for the wind’s help in setting up her ambush outside the entrance.

  The pale gold wind swooped down and licked at her face and hands. Impatient as she was, she knew the wind’s mood and understood that she could not hurry it. It teased her, toyed with her, finally let her coax from it the information that the mindstealers had taken a victim. They hadn’t yet left the pass, but were approaching at a leisurely pace.

  The wind gathered her scent and tore it away, denying her enemies within the pass a warning of her presence. Leaving her cloak and pack hidden behind rocks, she clambered up onto the lichen-splotched boulders overlooking the narrow opening. There she crouched catlike, ready to spring, knife in her right hand, her scarf wound loosely about her left wrist.

  The wind murmured a warning. Kyla tensed.

  Through the opening beneath her came a thin, black, long-limbed and long-necked creature, its head turning like a weathercock.

  She sprang onto the slender back, grasped the bony shoulders, and dug her knees into the mindstealer’s sides. With a whuff of surprise it tumbled forward onto the path. Despite the j
ar and the pain of scraped knees, Kyla kept her hold. The creature’s head swiveled; the evil beam of its orange eyes swept over her.

  Squeezing her eyes shut to avoid its paralyzing gaze, she plunged her knife into the leathery back, withdrew it, and stabbed again and again until the creature no longer moved.

  The wind whistled. Before she could turn, spidery arms wrapped around her shoulders. With a howl of rage the second mindstealer tore the knife from her grasp. She ducked her head and bit the clawed hands, at the same time grinding her boot into its foot. The creature shrieked and dropped the knife. Twisting around, she planted a knee in its midsection. It stumbled back. She avoided its eyes and sang for the wind. A sudden strong gust slammed her foe against the boulders. She pounded it with her fists until it crumpled and lay unmoving at her feet.

  She bent over it and nudged it with her toe. “Not dead yet, I hope. You’ll suffer before you die.” She didn’t care whether it understood, though some claimed that mindstealers could understand and use human speech.

  She unwound the scarf from her wrist and reached for its head. Its arms shot toward her face, claws extended. Its head lifted, the orange eyes caught her gaze, held her helpless. A talon stabbed into her ear. She screamed.

  Laden with grit, a red wind raged between them. The mindstealer blinked. Kyla shut her eyes and tore at its arms, the thumbless hands. While the wind roared around them, she wrestled with the creature, kicking, biting, clawing, and finally slamming it against the rocks.

  Again it lay still, and she dared open her eyes. The wind caught up the scarf she’d dropped and flung it across her hands. She wrapped it around the creature’s eyes, blindfolding it securely. Her knife lay in the dirt; she grabbed it up, ready to kill the mindstealer as she had its partner.