The Book of Wind: (The Quest for the Crystals #1)

by E. E. Blackwood

  Regina didn’t reply. She knew what would happen next. She closed her eyes to the sadness that filled her.

  She’s just a child…

  “There are others inside the house,” the heretic continued. “Dead for a while, maybe a few weeks, now. I’ll deal with them. Do what you will, but stay out of the garden.”

  This surprised Regina. “But what about supper—”

  “Her froth went everywhere, and that’s how the disease spreads. Our dinner will be dripping with the stuff.”

  “But the rain, we can clean—”

  “Doesn’t matter. Now go wash off your paws and forget the crops. It’s all bad. All of it. Not a risk I’ll take with you. You’re useless to me dead.”

  Regina turned to exit the barn. As she headed back out towards the open property, she dared a look over her should. The heretic rose up onto the tips of his boots to peer down at the kitten through the stall’s bars.

  “You said you escaped Altus Village with a boy named Dwain,” he said. “I assume he’s the same Dwain we’re off to meet with in Warminister.”

  Regina slowed to a stop. She turned at the waist, hesitated to ask, but did anyway: “Why does it matter?”

  “Just curious,” said the heretic. “Though don’t you find the correlation even the slightest amusing? The son of global terrorists, reformed and willing to join the ranks of the very government his heritage vowed to destroy?”

  Regina didn’t reply.

  “The love you have for him was so strong, you risked your life to follow me – to make sure your Dwain was safe from my blade.

  Regina hesitated.

  The Crystal of the Wind called out to me.

  Asked me to help it …

  … And I …

  She worked her muzzle against the honesty she wished to utter, but bit the words back and instead said, “Maybe, at first. Not entirely, anymore.”

  “Ah, love.” The heretic cooed over the words like he were lost in some romantic fallacy. Slowly, he faced Regina, just as a wince of knowing regret flashed across his vulpine features. “Such strength, does love wield. Such power – influence. If love is so true, your Dwain Spikeclaw will buckle without effort. Love makes a mammal stupid, and I need an airship.”

  “You don’t know Dwain,” said Regina.

  “Of course I do. I was a high-ranking Alliance peace officer, I’ve met hundreds of Dwains. Come from nothing, hoping for everything. Natural lust for life and for justice – young and desperate to forge a legacy for themselves. Enlisted with the Civil Alliance because they think they have something to prove … It’s all droppings.”

  Regina shook her head. A proud little smile crossed her lips.

  “You don’t know my Dwain,” she said.

  A knowing grin uncurled across the heretic’s thin, black, lips. He came forward on slow footfalls, brushing past Regina’s shoulder, and left her to the darkness of the barn.

  “Sure I do, precious,” he said. “Sure I do.”

  41. Burning Sorrow

  A pyre of black smoke, thick and sickly with the stench of disease, wavered amidst plump and heavy rainclouds that roved the pastel skies; a beacon of death that warned anyone as far as the eye could see to stay far away from the Sylvian Flatlands. If they dared to near the countryside, only oblivion awaited.

  Regina watched from the safe distance of the back porch. Tall flames licked the horizon. She sighed back a terrible sadness in the pit of her heart. A whole family’s legacy – a mother, a father, and two infants with no one to commemorate them. Regina didn’t even know their kinship name – what to even call them during silent prayers for their souls’ peaceful reintegration with the Energies.

  “Forgive us,” she whispered. “Without permission, nor respect to you, we will sleep in your beds, and curate your goods, and kindle your fireplace to keep warm against the coming night, while your ashen motes are carried off by the cold, heartless, wind. Forgive such vultures, for we are but opportunists to your demise, and deserve nothing but the scorn of the dead.”

  The heretic returned long after the skies had grown purple and dark. Regina spotted him, a shadowy visage that slogged from side to side towards the farmstead. Two orbs flashed to life amidst his shadowy form, glinted away as soon as he appeared under the dullness of the night. He was a ghost of the fields. The nauseating stench of burnt flesh and disease clung to him like a fitting omen of his arrival in Galheist.

  The heretic peered up at Regina through the porch railing when he reached the house; his face drooped with exhaustion. “There’s still a bit left. I’ll bury them in the morning before we leave. It’ll be an early start, and Warminister is still a day or so away, at least.” He trudged up the steps, and in passing, tilted his head back like he were ready to howl. Instead, a loud yawn stretched its way past his muzzle with so much force, the heretic’s ears flattened to his skull. “Good night.”

  Regina watched him shoulder through the screen door, into the cabin’s narrow eating area. She followed at his heels. “What are we going to do about the little one?”

  “We aren’t doing a thing about her. We are going to sleep.” The heretic dragged his heels into the adjacent living space, where a large iron fire pit in the middle of the room emitted a soft dome of warmth and light. He tossed a stack of nearby kindling into the pit and stoked some flames to life.

  Regina furrowed her brow. “So we’re just going to leave her to rot, then.”

  The heretic snarled at her over a shoulder. “You’ve a better idea?”

  “I can – I can attempt to craft an elixir of some sort. I mean – it’s not over, she’s still alive. There’s got to be a way. I mean – Some of the plants in the garden possess natural healing properties—”

  “Leave the garden alone. I’m not discussing this again.”

  “—and with the Zuut’s curative powers flowing through your veins – if – if – if you allow me a drop or three of your blood—”

  “You really want to save her life?” the heretic asked.

  Regina met his gaze. She swallowed hard, nodded. “I am an alchemical healer. I must at least try.”

  “There’s no cure for madness,” said the heretic. “You know this. She’s already dead. Now that’s the last we’ll have of it. Good night.”

  Regina shrank against the fiery shadows that flickered across the room. She watched in silence as the heretic slumped to the floor in a heap with a sore grunt. He dragged over the saddlebag and nestled into it like a pillow.

  The Alliance hunting knife at Regina’s hip presented itself to her awareness. It was heavy, hanging off her belt. It burned. Her paw digits tingled for it. Just a few drops of blood. That’s all she needed. His back was turned now.

  This is the only chance you’ll have, Regina.

  Save her life.

  Regina swallowed hard, eyes firmly-set on the snoozing heretic. Her digits brushed against the leather strap that held the knife in its sheath. She undid the clasp with a quiet pop. Her steel-clad digits creaked as they wrapped around the hilt. One by one. All the while, her eyes did not move from the heretic.

  He was still. Silent. Fast asleep.

  Regina took in a deep breath, held it. Adrenaline rushed through her veins. Thoughts of the maddened kitten drove her actions now. Slowly she started to unsheathe the blade. It rumbled against its leather scabbard. Regina took a deep breath. The exposed steel hummed against the cool air.

  The heretic’s ear twitched.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he mumbled. “I’ll break your wrist before you even land the blow. That’s not a threat.”

  Regina froze, the blade more than half-way removed from its scabbard. She sighed, let the knife sink back into its sheath. The heretic sat up, looked over at her. He was a silhouette against the firelight, his eyes glowing like embers.

  Regina plopped down in front of him, grumbling.

  “There’s nothing we can do for her,” the heretic said gently then. “I know you wa
nt to help. Others in our place would do worse.”

  Regina averted her gaze, nodded, as tears started to form behind her eyes. “She’s just a child.”

  “I know.”

  Regina mulled this over for some time, the reality of the situation. She hated it. Hated all the needless violence, suffering, she had come to witness these past few days. There was so much. Too much. All for what? What was the point of it all?

  We’re all mammals. All of us. If the Zuut’s treaty aims so true, unity and peace, why does no one abide by it?

  She drew the Alliance hunting knife from its scabbard, regarded her reflection in its blade as she balanced the weapon between her gauntlets.

  Dwain had wanted so desperately to become an officer for the Alliance. Thought he could help defend the innocent, save those who could not save themselves. Used the anger, the injustice of Altus and the slaughter of their families, as a motivator for his need to leave the Hollow – his need to protect whedakind.

  Something to prove.

  Painful realization raked across Regina’s heart. Maybe the heretic was right about Dwain, after all.

  Ye don’t save the world by feedin’ it none. Ye burn it down. Right to the soil and clay, yeah. Plant fresh seeds and start new. Do it right from there. Dig out the weeds and transplant what’s salvageable. The rest burns. Ye start new by setting things right and clear from the start. You save the world by protecting the world from isself. Clear as day and harsh as oil.

  But then again – what if Dwain was right all along? What if this is just how the world has always been, and the only way to survive was to defend yourself? The only way to protect those you love was to fight the injustices and the feralities of the world on their behalf? Perhaps – perhaps not burn it all down in a literal sense … but adapt. Adapt and learn, then lead others by example?

  The memory of Astral’s voice hummed in her ears, from a time so long ago: All life is precious – even the lives of those who wish to harm you. Even the canines. It is imperative that an alchemist never pursues the destruction of another life, no matter the species, no matter how evil. … All life is a gift to us. To kill is to kill a part of your soul. It corrupts you, makes your heart black and impure.

  Regina thought about the incident with the maddened kitten. How unprepared she was to handle the situation. How unprepared she was to defend herself.

  She thought of that time Astral took them to Keeto Town – how bandits had assaulted them, nearly killed them. She thought of how Dwain had overpowered one, stole the bandit’s dagger and stabbed the life out of him, while she lay gasping and broken by the side of the road, forced to watch Astral slowly die from an arrow to the heart.

  She thought of Altus Village. How helpless she was back then.

  She thought of the World Stones – the Crystal of the Wind – and all those the heretic had killed in order to protect it – to protect her.

  “But – what if I have to fight?” Regina whispered to her memories.

  If you fight, you must only ever fight in self defence – and even then, do so without the intent to end life. To end life is to tarnish a part of your very self.

  Regina looked up at the heretic, busy prodding the wood of the fire pit to coax stronger flames.

  “Teach me to fight,” she said.

  The heretic’s ear twitched. He furrowed his brow at her with a sidelong look of indignation. “What?”

  “I want you to teach me to fight,” Regina stated, firm.

  He barked out a hideous laugh, one that only foxes could muster. “Fight? Fight?! Guff me blind, you can’t be serious.”

  “Why? You saw just how defenceless I was against that pack of rodents—”

  “You already know how to fight. I saw you whack them away with that walking stick of yours, tied up and all. That is – until one of the little buggers clung to the end of it and—”

  “I don’t know how to fight like you,” said Regina.

  “And why would I teach you to fight how I fight? Risk more than just a quiet dagger in the back?”

  “Please, you don’t understand—” Regina sheathed the Alliance knife and then sucked her arms into the shoulder sockets of her plate mail. She dug around inside her poncho until her papa’s map found its crushed way into her grasp. She pulled it free, scooted on her knees closer to the heretic with the ruined topography facing him in both paws. “Please – this is the only thing I have left, of my family, of anything. It was my papa’s. If what everyone says is true – that my papa and my mama were fanatical terrorists – that they’d slit my belly and hang me from the highest tree, like you said – do you not think I have a duty to make up for all of the wrongs they’ve committed? Teach me to fight and I will protect the innocent. Just like you.”

  The heretic took one hard look at the map, blinked into the glimmering darks of Regina’s eyes, amplified through her spectacles.

  “No,” he said.

  Regina stopped short mere inches from him. She gasped back a hurt breath, reeled the map to the security of her heart.

  The glow of the fire pit shimmered across the heretic’s canine features, illuminating deep stress lines beneath his fur, darkening under his eyes to make the shape of his sockets seem sunken, weary with unrest. His stare was soft, apologetic – final.

  Regina accepted this.

  And then an idea came.

  With it, a wry smirk.

  “Why not?” she asked. “Afraid I’ll best you?”

  “Best me?” The heretic laughed. “You’re a guffing choir-skunk compared to me, don’t be preposterous. Best me? You’re my hostage. Why in the blazing whiskers would I teach my hostage how to fight? That’s lunacy.”

  “Am I your hostage?” Regina batted her eyelashes at him innocently. “Seems to me we sort of need each other. That’s my perspective, anyway. You need me alive, in order to convince my Dwain to give you an airship – and I need you, in order to ensure my safety. These lands are dangerous for such a little skunk, as has been proven time and time again. What am I worth to you if I get myself killed?”

  The heretic growled at her. “You won’t get killed. I’m here.”

  “Yes, but what if something happens that you’re not? What then?”

  “Won’t happen.”

  Regina fell silent for a time until something better pricked to life between her ears. “Where we’re heading – whatsit – Warminister? That’s is the Capitol of Galheist, yes?”

  “Very good, clever scholar.” The heretic flopped back against the saddlebag and rolled onto his side, facing the fire.

  Regina continued: “So that means there will be many soldiers there, right? Patrolling the streets, guarding every inch of the city? Keeping an iron eye locked upon where the airships are stored?”

  “It’s the Capitol. What do you think? The Doblah embassy is there, of course the place will be well-guarded.”

  “Well-guarded.” Regina chewed on this for a bit. “So, Warminister is well-guarded by the Alliance. You’re a traitor and I’m your hostage – but they don’t know that about me – and we’re both wearing the armour of peace officers you yourself have slaughtered.”

  Guilt crossed the heretic’s face. “Slaughter is a harsh term.”

  “They’ll naturally find you out, I’m sure.” said Regina, “The whole point in going there is so you can find an airship. But they’ll see me and be none the wiser – assuming we’re working together.”

  The heretic’s ear twitched, but he said nothing.

  Regina continued. “We might get separated in a scuffle. I’ve got a staff and a hunting knife, but no indication of how to properly use them. I’ve got Alliance gear on my body, but not the Alliance blood that runs through your veins. How am I to defend myself?”

  “Stop it.”

  “You know I’m right,” Regina stated.

  “You know nothing, alchemist.”

  “Teach me to fight!” Regina pressed him. “Please! Teach me to fight the way a canine figh
ts. I’m asking, and you’re the best swordsmammal who ever lived, are you not?”

  This got the heretic’s attention. He turned his cheek, gave her a sidelong look out from the protective embrace of the crook of his elbow.

  “That much is true,” he muttered. “I suppose.”

  He furrowed his face into a look of deep contempt for Regina.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Regina exploded with excitement. “Would you?!”

  “Stop bouncing around like a loon. Consideration is not a promise,” said the heretic. “Now go to sleep. We’ve a long ride ahead of us tomorrow, and it’s already beyond late.”

  42. Regina and the Shard of Wind

  Restfulness evaded Regina. Her thoughts were filled with horrible visions – of Altus and its destruction, the demons of the Blood Hills who proclaimed reprieve at the cost of her demise. Further regrets of the Hollow ripped and heckled at her, too – as did the uncertain wellbeing of Astral and Dwain.

  The heretic snoozed a thousand sleeps beside her. The stench of burnt flesh and pelt was faint on his vulpine musk now. The smells brought not only revulsion to Regina’s stomach, but terror of the mind – for every cornerstone shadow brought forth further demons from within: with their crazed glares, and lolling tongues amidst snarling maws that dripped thick with soul-stealing disease.

  A deep shudder through her bones gave to second wind. Regina sat up, pushed away the quilts and blankets they’d found earlier that evening, and rose towards stunning moonlight through a nearby open window, careful not to rouse her captor.

  The tepid embrace of summer night wind pulled Regina to the window sill with the smells of the Sylvian Flatlands to greet her. The rain had since stopped, and left the high grass with a soothing dewy scent. The mother moon was full tonight, extending a silver glow over the farmstead’s pitch black wholeness. It would be autumn, soon.

  Regina found their ponies grazing the remnants of oats suppers in large buckets hooked to the shed’s fence post were they stayed. Regina squeezed her eyes shut to abate the ache of an unfed stomach.

  Off in the distance, a horrid sound came over the wind from the barn, startling the ponies from their meals. Regina shivered. The yowls of the kitten had gone on forever, it seemed. No wonder the ponies couldn’t sleep, either. She looked up into the perfect swell of the mother moon high above thin roving clouds. Regina gazed deeply into a benevolent face that saw all the world.