Riders Of The Winds

by Jack L. Chalker

  She was appalled. Maybe it was magic, but, looking at him, she couldn't help but believe what she was being told was true.

  The view shifted. No longer was there a crimson-robed sorcerer, but instead a young woman, perhaps no more than twenty, a bit chubby but not at all unattractive, with long black hair and in beautiful jewel-encrusted furs, wearing a tiara surely made of pure gold encrusted with every great gemstone ever known. The girl was very different from anyone seen so far in Akahlar, but, somehow, she was also very, very familiar.

  "She is known only as the Storm Princess," the shadow man told her. "Klittichorn found her among common stock in one of the colonial worlds. Much like you, she wanted neither power nor position, but she had it thrust upon her because she was born different from other girls and because something happened to her that changed it all. She was a witch and the daughter of a witch although she'd never asked to be born that way. Her people farmed the land in a place where the mountains kept the rains away and where no natural rivers flowed, and they did so because of her mother. She was born with a gift; a magical gift, perhaps a reward for some intelligence we might call supernatural because we cannot understand it or know it to an ancestor who did some service or made some bond. A gift passed down from mother to daughter—one child, no more, with the gift, and always a female. A power beyond those of the Akhbreed sorcerers. For she could call the storms, call the rains, and they would obey her. She alone could summon the waters of life and tell them where to drop their most basic gift of liquid life, and in what amounts.

  "And the child wanted for nothing that was truly important," he continued, "because she and her mother gave the people of the valley the waters of life, and they in turn returned a part of that bounty to them."

  And she saw the place in the center of the facets; saw the beautiful, lush valley and the small peasant village and farms that dotted it, and she understood just how rich and beautiful it was.

  "And then the Akhbreed soldiers came," the shadow man went on, "and they marveled at how they had missed so rich a place. The people had no army and no lords to protect them, yet they resisted as best they could, and even when easily subjugated they refused to recognize the soldiers' king as their lord and to give much of their bounty to him and his armies. And when the witch, her mother, called down lightning and struck down many of the army and turned their camp into a quagmire so that the people of the valley could set upon them and kill them, those valley people rejoiced. It was a short-lived celebration.

  "For the king had more soldiers alone than a hundred times the population of the valley, and more came, this time with sorcerers and mighty magic as well, and they showed no mercy. They were more than mere lightning or the creatures of the storms could count, and they slew without mercy. The girl saw her own mother slain before her eyes, and found herself captive to a sorcerer of terrible power. He understood that she, too, knew the secret of the storms, and he coveted that knowledge and took her. But, of course, there was no secret and there was no knowledge She was what she was. And the valley became dry and barren, as lifeless as stone, and she was the last of her people, and she hated them for it. Hated them all."

  Tears came unbidden to her eyes as she saw what the valley had become and the stains of blood still there after several years because there had been nothing more to wash them away.

  "By the time the sorcerer understood the girl's ignorance of her powers," the mysterious one told her, "and knew that such powers were somehow forbidden those who had all the others, Klittichorn had heard of her. So powerful was his magic that he was able to spirit her away from the very palace grounds of the king and his sorcerer. He used her hatred, and fed it. He showed her the Akhbreed empire, with its subjugation of the races, its feudalism and slavery, its cruelty and oppression. In his northern palace, in the land of eternal snows, he crowned her the Storm Princess, and convinced her that, together, they could end this cruelty, revenge her mother and her land and people, and liberate all of the oppressed. Many who were terrified of him, more terrified of him than of remaining under the Akhbreed kings, rallied to her. They have now not one army but many armies, trained, hidden among the vast colonial worlds, waiting for the call to liberation."

  She understood what he was saying, understood and believed it all, but she did not understand her place in it. "She is good!" she shouted at the shadow man. "Her dreams are noble and proper!"

  "They are," he agreed, "but life is not that simple. She and all her armies cannot overthrow the Akhbreed sorcerers in their hub citadels or hope to match the great armies of the rulers. She needs the power of true sorcery behind her, and that Klittichom brings. He has convinced her that he shares her dream, but he does not. For if the power of the Akhbreed sorcerers is somehow halted, and if the Akhbreed themselves are destroyed, there will be no controls. Instead of all hating the Akhbreed, the thousands of races will begin to suspect and hate and then war with one another. And out of this chaos will come the only remaining, untouchable source of great power, which will be Klittichom. This he believes, but he, too, is wrong. To destroy the Akhbreed and their sorcerers he must loose the terrible changewinds themselves, the only things against which no Akhbreed sorcerer has power. He will loose them by the score and the Storm Princess will guide them."

  "Is that—possible?"

  "Klittichom thinks so. She thinks so. He has somehow managed to summon many small changewinds to the places he commands, although how this is done is a mystery, and she has managed to shape and turn them. But those were small, and one at a time. To control great ones, all at once, and all over Akahlar—that is something reason says cannot be done. Reason and experience also tell that such an event, done all at once, would create such an instability that the worlds themselves would collapse upon each other, that the changewinds would roam unchecked and over vast areas, and none would be safe. Such weight alone might draw all of creation down to the Seat of Probability and to oblivion. All that has ever existed, all that exists, and all that can or will exist will be no longer."

  "But—surely she knows this, or senses it!"

  "She is a farm girl the same age as you; a peasant girl, really, with an inherited power she can wield but not comprehend. Seven years ago she was ignorant that anyone or anything outside her valley and people even existed. Since then she has been a victim or a dupe. How can she know, or even comprehend? Certainly she has seen the winds and knows the risk, but such is her thirst for revenge and so skillfully has her hatred been fed that she would prefer oblivion to inaction, which are the only choices she has. Those who follow her blind themselves to the risk for they see no other choice but eternal subjugation. They would rather risk the end of time and space and all within than accept the permanence of their condition. Understand well that Klittichorn is prepared for either event. He believes that should the end come in such a manner he will be left, alone, to re-create the universe, the one lone supreme being. Lord of Akahlar or the one true god. He feels he has nothing to lose."

  She was appalled. "Can he—might he really become god?" That man, that ugly man with the ugly soul that showed?

  "Perhaps. He is one of the strongest sorcerers ever known. Together, however, the rest, even a relatively small number, might defeat him. But if they are removed, if the changewind crumbles the Mandan castles themselves and sucks the very air from the shelters, then who is to say what he might become? Either way, the Storm Princess's dreams are hollow and stand on no foundation. She will replace a bad system with pure evil, or with oblivion for all. Not just death—the nonexistence of the universes!"

  It was a terrible vision. It was worse than terrible, for it gave no hope. It was a choice of lesser evils over greater ones and there was no way out.

  "But why me? What has this to do with me?"

  "Search those memories that are slowly returning to you. Search within yourself as you gaze upon the face of the Storm Princess. You recognize her. You certainly recognize her. Remember back, remember before you gaine
d your weight, remember the face and form in the mirror. Remember!"

  A face, a form, reflected darkly in some wall of glass in some far-off place. A strange vision, with storms all around outside, yet a great deserted village totally enclosed . . .

  A face and form reflected in a window. Her face. Her form.

  "My god! She looks a lot like me . . ."

  "No," responded the shadow man. "She is you. The Storm Princess is you."

  "But how can that be?"

  "There are many worlds encompassing Akahlar. Each is its own complete and unique world. The people of those worlds differ, usually, in some major or minor degree from Akhbreed purity, but a few do not. The same is true in the vast Outplane of millions of universes all stretching out from here. Almost anything possible has happened in one or more of them. Given that, it is not surprising that not just one but many women were born in those universes who, by chance, are genetically identical with the Storm Princess even if they have nothing in common with her, not even genetically identical parents. It happened. One of the ones so born was you."

  "But I had no power over storms!" How did she know that? She couldn't remember . . .

  "No. But Klittichom worried about this, about such doubles being discovered by his enemies and brought here. The gift, or curse, of the power is keyed to a particular person—the Storm Princess. But it is a power, not an intelligence. It cannot tell the difference between you and so it endows you both with that power. Once the way was opened from Akahlar to you the power knew you and of you and it became yours as well."

  "If there are many girls, then let me be! Use one of them!"

  The shadow man sighed. "There are—were—not many. There were some. Klittichom, using the Storm Princess herself as the object, was able to seek them out ahead of his enemies and kill them. They died, never knowing why or how. Only a very few were saved, such as yourself, and brought here by other powers. They were nothing like you—except physically, of course. Oh, they preferred the same things generally and they tended to like and dislike certain things and do things in certain ways the same, as twins might, but they were products of different parents, different worlds, different cultures. Like you, they were subjected to the rigors and strange magic and powers of Akahlar. Most succumbed."

  She was shocked. "They're all dead!"

  "No. Some are. Others have been changed by the change-winds or by demonic sorcery. Others have been rendered useless by falling into powerful and evil clutches. You are the one most likely to make it as of now. You are the only one we know the location of, and condition of. We did not choose you, and, frankly, had we been able to choose we would have selected someone different. We have no choice, just as you have no choice. Klittichorn is hunting you. He has more difficulties here, in Akahlar, than he did in the Outplanes because he cannot locate you by sorcery. The presence of more than one of you destroys the effectiveness of all such spells. He must do it the hard way, as must we. If you fail to reach the safety of Castle Masalur in the hub of that name then you will die, and others around you will die. It may also be that hope to thwart Klittichorn will die. If you succeed in reaching Masalur, and if you then are able to aid in the defeat of Klittichorn— something not assured by your merely reaching the castle or even fighting—then, you will be free. There is no other choice. There is no other way."

  It was a sobering, flat-out statement. No choice, no other way.

  "What do you want me to do?" she asked, resigned.

  "First decide who you are and what you want to be."

  It was an odd comment. "What do you mean?"

  "Who are you?"

  Who indeed? The question was in its own way more unsettling than what had preceded it. She wanted to be Misa, but she couldn't be Misa. Misa could not do this, could not stand against such powers, and would only bring down horror on her people.

  There was—another. Sam. Vague memories, disjointed thoughts, many grave gaps. She remembered the Sam of Akahlar, although still with some gaps here and there, but there had been yet another Sam before that and that one was hazy, strange, impossible to focus.

  Who did she want to be? That was easier. Both Sams had been unhappy. They had reacted, never acted. Everything they had done they had done either to try to conform to others' expectations, others' standards, never her own. They had made fun of her low voice, her liking for sports and competition, her grades, everything . . . That first Sam had rebelled, but in the wrong ways. Constant diets, to keep super-thin. But forget pretty clothes and cosmetics and all that. Wear boys' clothes, take on a boyish manner, talk tough and dirty, play rough-house.

  But her body turned female anyway and when the boys shot up she stayed very short. To be with the boys now took something else.

  Sudden scene in the mind: she and a boy named Johnny out back of a bowling alley after dark. They were both sixteen and had grown up pretty much together. He was big, though, and she was short and slight. He made some passes. Scared but curious, she responded. From the way he acted it wasn't his first time, but she knew what to do only from the romances and the soap operas. She liked the feelings, the hugging and the kissing, but she didn't want to go all the way. That was too much. He had a different idea. He dropped his pants and revealed his—his thing. It was big and stiff and enormous and not at all like she'd thought they were, although she didn't really know what she had thought. And he wanted to put it in her mouth, to suck on it, for god's sake! It was ugly and, and, he peed out of it! She had been revolted. She thought she was going to throw up. This wasn't like it was supposed to be at all! She'd run away from him, away from all of them . . .

  She could not put together the world or frame or life around that experience, not even at the moment remember what a bowling alley was, but she could remember that, and she could still feel the revulsion. If that was what guys wanted and what girls were supposed to do then she wanted none of it.

  Scene: she and another girl, frightened, alone in a remote cabin someplace. She was scared to death. She clung to the girl friend—to Charley—the only real friend she had in the world at that time. And Charley had responded to her need and they had made love and it had been wonderful, for a time. She knew that from Charley's point of view it had been an act of compassion, not love, but it hadn't seemed wrong.

  Scene: Boday, who loved her because she was the.first one the artist had seen after inadvertently taking a love potion. Boday's sexual tastes were bizarre and her appetite insatiable, but it was also secure. No worry about what her Sam looked like or sounded like. The love and the strength were absolute, unquestioning. Sam had grown very fat and lazy under such love and security, but she still was insecure inside. Because Boday's love was chemical, she could not bring herself to think of it as genuine and so give some of it back. Because Boday was a woman, it was, somehow, still wrong. She was no damned freak!

  Scene: on a big wagon train in Akahlar. She had compelled by the magic of a hypnotic charm, out of jealousy, guilt, and curiosity, one of the trail hands to make love to her and he had done his best. And she had felt little but disappointment. Nothing he had done was nearly as good as what she had gotten from Boday, and the end for him came all too soon and was nothing much to her.

  Scene: Tied down on the rocky ground as three ugly, brutish, foul-smelling men had at her, over and over, as she closed her eyes and tried not to feel the foulness ...

  But Misa had been accepted. Misa had to conform to no standard in the refuge. The men had made passes but that was okay and the girls had been earthy as well. No one had made fun of her low voice or her fat or her lack of knowledge or anything. So long as you worked hard and did your share it didn't matter at all, and there hadn't been any guilt or shame or pressure, and she had enjoyed being female and all that meant. Nobody had judged, and nobody had cared except one equal to another.

  And the fucking Storm Princess was fat, too! Maybe not as fat as she was, but really a chubbette. Charley was a lie, a "duplicate" made not to reality but to an
ideal and kept there by sorcery and alchemy. She could never be Charley. Left to her own devices the best she'd look like was that Storm Princess! More, why in hell did Sam ever want to be Charley? To be seen only as a body, a sex object, a fly trap for men?

  Her reflection came up to her in a huge facet and she stared at it. Okay, so she was fat. But she was still kind'a cute, damn it, and she didn't really feel uncomfortable this way. Comfortable, that was the word. She was comfortable and she didn't give a damn what anybody else thought. Sam had never liked herself but Misa had liked herself just fine.

  By god, she was gonna keep liking herself just fine!

  The facets whirled, became less reflections than a maelstrom, and she felt herself falling, falling . . .

  And suddenly she was aware that she was on her back on something hard and moving, and that it was incredibly hot.

  She sat up in the wagon and opened her eyes. It was odd; her mind had never seemed clearer, her senses never more acute than now. That included the basics; she was damned thirsty, and starving to death.

  She crawled out of whatever she was in—a box of some kind!—and looked forward. She was in a wagon being pulled by a narga team; in back she could hear the sounds of one or maybe two horses, possibly tied to the wagon and walking with it.

  The driver was a big man in Navigator's buckskins with a broad-trimmed felt cowboy-style hat on his head, and beyond the landscape was unmistakably still the Kudaan but back out in the harsh desert land far from the river.

  She felt distrust of Navigators. One—when and who?—had supposedly been her friend and had tried to betray her. The memories were kind of fuzzy, hard to hold on to and make sense out of, so she didn't try. Maybe it would come back to her, maybe it wouldn't. But for right now she was crawling out of a box in a wagon in the middle of nowhere, stark naked and with a big guy the only human in sight.