Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 663
their expressions and walked away.
Lavin closed his eyes as the world swayed again.
Vertigo reminded Lavin of how he had met Galas. He could
not stop thinking about her, going over and over in his mind
the strange paths that had brought them to this endless day.
He had taken the side of Parliament partly to ensure her
safety. In order to allay any suspicions on the part of the
members, he had loudly proclaimed his allegiance to tradition.
At the time, he had been crossing his fingers behind his back,
hoping they would believe him and let him lead the army.
But--and this he had not wanted to admit to himself--he really
did believe. Galas was wrong. The traditions were sacred, and
beautiful. He remembered the country dances of his youth,
where singers would recite the names of the Winds and the
seasons decreed by the desals. When he tried to picture the
future Galas was building, he could not imagine what would
replace those dances, and the cordial sense of community they
fostered. Her future might be just, but her thoughts seemed to
have a cold, insectile quality. He pictured the empire of Galas
as a giant hive.
Just a while ago, as the tiny sun set and the ordinary one
was just rising, a priest had come to him. The man had knelt
by Lavin’s bedroll, and Lavin had smiled at him, expecting
words of comfort. But the man was crying.
"I have been speaking to the Winds," he said. "All my
life, that was all I wanted to do. The desals and the other
Winds of the earth can't talk, but the swans can. I went to them
and recited the ancient chants. They waited in silence. Then
I--I ventured to ask a question." He took a deep breath. "I
asked them why they had not spoken to us, all these centuries."
Lavin had sat up, despite his spinning head. "And what
did they say?"