Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 316
jumbled heap of hair snuggle itself deeper into the pillows.
Then she said, almost inaudibly, "Which do you prefer?"
Armiger leaned over her and kissed her cheek. "Which
what do I prefer?"
"Do you prefer making love, or reading?" He voice held
a teasing note, but he had learned there were frequently hidden
needs behind her teasing questions.
"To read is to make love to the world," he said. "But to
make love to a woman is to feel like the world is reading you."
She smiled, not comprehending, and fell asleep.
Leaving Armiger the man behind, or so he imagined, he
stood to dress. Freed from the need for dialogue, his mind fell
in upon itself, and the myriad other sides of Armiger the god
awoke.
All night, as he made love to Megan, these other sides of
his Self had been thinking, planning, raging and debating in the
higher echoes of his consciousness. He had read sixteen books
yesterday, and had been revising his opinions about Ventus and
the Winds as he assimilated the knowledge. Now he stood for
several minutes, fingers touching the leather cover of the next
volume he intended to absorb. He was not so much
contemplating as watching the vast edifice of his understanding
of Ventus shift, and settle, and grow new entranceways and
wings.
He had discovered something: the Winds were not mad.
They were up to something.
Armiger cursed softly. He no longer saw the candle
flame, or felt the hard cover of the book. For it was all there in
the histories and philosophical inquiries, if one knew how to
read the signs. The Winds acted capriciously, but everyone
knew they ultimately acted in the interests of Nature. They
were the guides of the terraforming process, he knew.