War and the Wind

by Tyler Krings

  “Yes,” she replied. “Apparently. Uh, my…husband, was just teaching me to ride.”

  The old man considered her, and spit. “Got some work to do then.”

  She turned up her nose as his spittle watered the ground but caught herself from bringing attention to it. Perhaps it was his manner, or that she had spent too long in the company of Jon and Noah, but she did not take it as an insult, or rather, she knew she should not.

  “Yes,” she said, “I, um, I don’t suppose you know where my horse is?”

  The farmer nodded and gestured behind her. She turned and found the stallion grazing heartily not far from where he had dropped her.

  “Wasn’t aware the boy had taken a wife,” said the man. She turned to him with a silent question. “Irving,” he nodded to the horse. “Noah’s stallion.”

  “Yes, Jon is my husband.”

  “Huh.”

  She straightened her back. “Do you have something you wish to ask me, sir?”

  Her tone caused him to grip his hoe a little tighter. “Don’t see a band.”

  “It was a rushed wedding.”

  “Don’t sound like you from these parts.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You running?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He dropped the stem from his mouth and bent to pick a new one. “Me daughter had that same look, once. Didn’t much like the farm. Thought elsewhere might be better.”

  “I’m not…running.”

  The old man nodded. “Aye. So you hain’t no horse thief either?”

  “No.” She was starting to get angry, and the air was building, rustling the fields around them. She started to the man, “I do not care much for your tone, old man.”

  The farmer stood his ground and met her hard eyes. “That all true, Jon?” She whirled and found her supposed husband leaning on a tree behind her, the other horse, Isca, a step behind him. He smiled. She attempted to filter some relief through her anger, and felt her face contort to varying degrees.

  “Aye, Nort. She’s no horse thief.”

  “And your wife?”

  “Aye, love of my life,” Jon answered.

  Nort pursed his lips. “Huh, when that happen?”

  “Recently.”

  “Women’s Council won’t like that.”

  “We didn’t ask their permission.”

  “Imagine that’s what they won’t like.”

  Jon sighed and shrugged. “We’ll deal with that in time, I reckon. It was a…spur of the moment kind of thing.”

  The farmer thought. “Pregnant?”

  Ana started. “What? Why in Evanna would that be relevant?”

  “No, Nort,” Jon interrupted. “She’s not pregnant.”

  Nort snorted, clearly disbelieving them. “Fair enough.” He tipped his hat to her with a “Ma’am,” and walked backed to his fields.

  She stormed to Jon’s tree. “I had everything handled!”

  “Oh, aye.” His gaze roamed the field. “Regular storm brewing, I see. Is this how we’re going to solve all of our issues?”

  She glared, then walked away from him toward the horse. She reached Irving and took his reins.

  “Come on, don’t be angry. I just recued you, didn’t I?” he called after her.

  “I didn’t need recuing! And what was all that about a Women’s Council?” She pulled at the horse’s head, but he refused to leave his afternoon meal. “Come on!”

  “Ana—”

  “That’s not my name!”

  “All right, fine!” He visibly struggled to call her something else. “Goddess of…the Wind. Marriage approval goes through the Women’s Council. It’s a…check and balance kind of thing to make sure two people aren’t making a stupid decision.”

  She pulled angrily at the obstinate horse to no avail. “Oh, and these women know better than everyone, eh?”

  “They certainly think they do. Unfortunately for us, they’re right more often than not. Look, he really doesn’t like that.” Jon came over and gently took the reins from her, bearing her glare. “He’s big and imposing but truly he’s a sensitive soul and likes to be charmed.” He gave a gentle pull and a quiet command. The horse rose swiftly and stood still. He guided the horse away from his treasure trove. She let out an exasperated breath as she cursed the horse. She vowed a grumpy silence before following.

  Jon brushed the grass from the horse with the palm of his hand and adjusted the girth under the saddle. “And don’t act like you aren’t happy to see me.”

  She was certainly not happy to see him, and she would never admit that his intervention had been most timely. He offered his hand for a leg up, and she took it without complaint. She hoisted herself into the saddle and waited for him to hand her the reins.

  “Gently,” he said. “Just grip with your thighs and tell him to walk. Let your body roll with the rhythm of his.” She thought very little of his instruction, and her expression must have said so. He left her the reins and clicked to Isca, who quickly followed. Ana swayed uneasily until she remembered to lower her heels and grip with her thighs. She braced herself.

  “Walk,” she said confidently. Irving walked. She marveled and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Jon gracefully mounted Isca and rode up beside her. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself. Before I lost sight of you, that is,” he said. She did not answer, and he continued, “Trick with a horse, when he gets away from you, is to pull his head sharply to one side. Can’t run if he can’t see where he’s going. I would say you did well, however, keeping your seat and such.”

  She rolled her eyes at the compliment but felt her face flush. They walked a way, and her anger bled out. She distracted herself by admiring the patches of forest they crossed and found herself listening to the birdsongs above them. The sound of the leaves shaking free of their purchases and falling hushed her thoughts, and the swaying horse eased her body. Before long, her anger faded and she was at peace, of a sort.

  “Anyway,” Jon was saying, “we may as well try Isca tomorrow. Irving can be a little shit if he puts his head to it.”

  “No,” she betrayed herself by speaking. “No. I…Irving is fine.” The horse seemed to grunt agreement. She was starting to wonder just how well horses understood man-tongue.

  “If the two of you say so,” Jon said. “What is your name, if I may ask?”

  She smiled wryly at his ignorance. There had been a time when the names of all the gods were common knowledge, but time had permitted humans to forget, or…perhaps it had been inattention.

  “Aerienaethin.”

  The boy grunted. “You sure I can’t just call you Ana?”

  The woman scoffed, “You’re making fun of a name as old as the worlds?”

  “Fun? No, I’d just like to know what to call you. If I go around calling you princess or spouting a name in the High Speech people might think me mad, or, worse yet, a proper husband.”

  She sighed through a tightly concealed smirk. “Ana will do.”

  “As you wish,” he replied.

  “I’m not royalty. You needn’t treat me as such.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m not royalty. I never was.”

  Jon turned in his saddle to look at her. “You mean you don’t have a palace in Anu, or a throne next to the Creator’s? Where will we retire when we grow old?”

  “I am the Wind, and of the sky. I have never needed nor desired such things. Sorry to disrupt your plans.”

  He laughed, deep and nearly musical. It made her smile, though only briefly.

  “Never really planned on growing old anyway,” Jon added.

  “And why’s that? All men grow old.”

  Jon was silent for a moment, and his smile faded. He turned from her and resumed leading the horse. “I suppose that’s true, of most men.”

  “You plan on dying young then?”

  “Maybe not. I don’t know. Growing old, having a family…nice notions. Just not mine.”

 
; She could not think of a response and rode in silence. She admired her pretend husband’s posture for a moment, the graceful way he sat astride Isca with perfect balance. She noticed that he did not breathe, or perhaps only imperceptibly, the air around him was barely disturbed by his presence.

  They crossed the patch of forest and came to the edge of a field of harvested wheat, strolling through so informally that she thought it must belong to Jon and the old man. The crops danced at the Wind’s beck, and she enjoyed the warm sun on her skin as it moved closer to the shadowed mountaintops. The day had passed quickly, and she had not even noticed. For just a moment, she had not been thinking of the heavens. Of her home in Anu. For once, her despair had waned. She closed her eyes and smiled into the golden sunlight.

  “Not so bad, you think?” He was looking at her, with his lips on the edge of a grin. Not as a patron did a god or a father a child, but as a man did a woman.

  “No, perhaps not,” she answered.

  7

  A Dance

  The Maddog captain, Tao Magrin, walked with a group of veterans through homes, making interviews and posing questions in the late afternoon. Shadows cast from the western sun brought in cooler air as the townsfolk closed their shops. Street sweepers brushed and gathered the autumn leaves and the day’s leavings from the gutters and crevices while most others walked home at a leisurely pace. From their perch along the garrison wall, Ham and Rom looked on with suspicion, not at the townsfolk, but the Maddogs themselves. Or Rom did. Ham seemed to have lost interest in the goings on of the newcomers days ago, resigning himself to blissful ignorance.

  “They’re looking for a woman,” said Rom under his breath.

  “Wha’?” Ham’s response was midway between bites of an apple.

  Rom looked at him. “And a newcomer.”

  Ham swallowed his bite. “Jon’s on the level. You’re worried ‘bout nothing.”

  “Aye, but is she?”

  “Come on, Rom.”

  “I’m serious—”

  “So am I! You’re driving yourself mad drawing conclusions. Just because she’s a roamer doesn’t mean she’s suddenly some imperial fugitive.” The argument was as old as they day they met Ana, but Rom was growing more uneasy.

  “I’m not saying she is or isn’t, I’m merely noting some glaring coincidences.”

  Ham spit an apple seed. “Well, quit. What are you going to do about it anyway? Tell the fucking Maddogs where to find her? And what if she is, in fact, legitimately Jon’s wife? What then? Fucking embarrassing is what it would be.”

  “I wasn’t going to tell them,” Rom retorted. “But…it’s a only matter of time before someone comes along asking questions.”

  The old man piled the last of the day’s harvest in the shed and paused to stretch his back. Nort had offered to purchase a quarter of their fields a few years back, and the old man was seriously considering letting him have the whole damn thing. Hell, now that the girl is here, we all may be very dead soon anyway. Wrapped, packed and ready for market, the last of the fields’ harvest filled the shed nearly full to bursting, and with luck they would be able sell most to the magistrate at the local garrison. Border towns such as Errol’s Fortune had limited options for selling large amounts of produce, but the army appreciated excess and had the money to pay. The old man closed the shed and took a moment to gaze out at the gently rolling hills, now cut and relaxing from a year’s hard work. Dax trotted up and looked at him expectantly. The old man took a seat on the dry grass gave the dog a scratch behind his ear. Together they watched the slow passing of the day. The old man dug around for his pipe. Untethered clouds passed through the warming rays of sunlight, casting formless shadows over the shorn fields. What leaves still clung to the shedding trees rattled softly in the autumn breeze.

  “I will miss this place,” the old man said quietly.

  Dax followed the Noah’s gaze and sighed, “It is a good place.” Dax turned and gave the old man a look. “You are in a good place.”

  Noah grunted and lit his pipe, “I won’t be able to stay.”

  Dax sniffed. “Why?”

  He sighed. “Because, I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “What does that matter?”

  The old man shook his head. Dogs. Loyal to the end, but they could be rather pointed. Black and white. Dax was getting older; another year or so and the knee of his that kept hitching would give out completely, but he had the spirit of a younger pup. The old man did not enjoy the thought of his friend getting on in years, but here, on these empty fields, he found himself immensely grateful for the companionship.

  “Where are the mates?” the dog asked.

  The old man grunted again. “The market. They’re not mates.”

  Dax sniffed again. “Smell like mates.” Noah rolled his eyes. She’s not been here long enough for any of that…ah, Lamen. He felt the whiff of air on his backside that let him know he was being watched. The old man frowned and turned his head.

  “This your doing?” he asked. The meddling spirit in question wandered into his peripheral vision, bare feet and umber brown skin, a full white beard brimming with authority and leaves. Dax regarded the spirit for only a moment before turning back to the fields.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said the spirit in a deep baritone.

  The old man shook his head and puffed his pipe. “Yes, you do.”

  “Seems to me like it was good fortune they met.”

  “Good fortune,” the Noah scoffed. “You play a dangerous game. Forcing those two together will have greater ramifications that any of us can comprehend. And it will bring Lamen on us all.”

  “I know better than most that you can force nothing,” said the spirit. “But I would not deny them some happiness, Wanderer. It may be that there is little left to find.”

  “That was not a denial.”

  “I may have plucked a string or two.”

  Noah looked at the dark-skinned spirit, his smug expression grinning at the hills below. String or two. “You, my friend, could stand to take your companion’s advice,” the old spirit said. He turned and looked at the old man and smiled with perfect teeth. “You are in a good place. Perhaps you should enjoy it.”

  The old man grumbled and chewed his pipe. “And you should stop meddling. ‘Plucking strings.’”

  “Are you so bitter, old friend? Everything that has happened and happens now may very well be what was fated all along.”

  The old man puffed his pipe. He felt the spirit leave, no doubt celebrating that he had had the last word. He heard Dax offer a soft chuckle.

  “Told you. They smell like mates.”

  The horses led them at a leisurely pace, and Jon did not prod them. Ana sat her saddle uneasily, the art of riding still new, and her untrained thighs chafed against the worn leather. The town of Errol’s Fortune lay before her in the barest valley guarded by rolling hills. According to Jon, the town was little more than the market and the garrison, a watering well for farmers and soldiers alike, here on the fringes of the world’s mightiest empire. Small homes dotted the outskirts of the town, housing only the local shop owners and officers.

  The old man insisted that they needed supplies: wax for candle making, tools for sharpening scythes, and fresh cooking utensils. Jon argued that they needed none of these things, and the market served only as a stage at which they could keep up the appearance of farmers. At this, Ana wondered what Jon was afraid the townsfolk would uncover. To her, her hosts were farmers, and apart from the swords by the fireplace, there was nothing, other than her own knowledge, to dispute their claim. She brushed a lock from her forehead and twirled it around her finger; her deep golden hair had grown into a short wave that promised long curls. She’d become so used to the air on her scalp that the strands slipping from her hand felt nearly foreign. She looked to Jon as he conversed with a couple on a wagon. He seemed to know everyone on the road and off, proving to be an expert at polite conversation. She noted that he had n
ot brought his sword and was armed with only the knife at his belt.

  The King’s Road itself became more populated the closer they grew to town. Men with horses and carts laden with goods and produce languidly walked in single file, dragging cartwheels through weathered ruts. Men chewed or smoked their tobacco, and boys sucked their straws as they learned to drive the wagons. Younger children played and ran, dodging cartwheels and horse’s hooves deftly and not caring for on-coming traffic. Soldiers in polished armor rode lightly fitted horses with spears racked across their saddles. All were smiling, and the only unkind words were those shouted in jest.

  The town harbored no gates, and the entrance was home to a single guard post. The town itself boasted modest homes packed closely together, squat and wide with red tiled roofs and walls of yellow stone. Most doors and windows were open, and long lines of drying clothing harvested sunlight in narrow alleys. Men and women shouted over each other, waving different wares to the passersby and promising low prices. The line of farmers drew their carts and mules to the side of the market to unload their product, while others, having arrived earlier, secured new goods for the journey home. Up the hill, soldiers patrolled the tops of the garrison walls casting watchful eyes over the crowded market. Jon nodded for her to follow and put Isca into a trot around the heaviest of traffic. There were more men at the guard post, wearing different uniforms than those patrolling on horseback. They searched carts and looked over ledgers while asking questions to all seeking passage through the gates. Via some experience as a thief or magician, Jon led her and the horses through the post without interruption. Her heart nearly leapt from her chest in several instances where a soldier would turn her way, but each time something happened, Jon was either next to her smiling and waving, or a carriage would happen to roll around, blocking her from sight. A few minutes of dodging and weaving in plain sight and they were well into the town, making their way to the market.