Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 723
bottomless shafts below, or exploded hissing off rounded, redhot
domes in the saddle between the peaks. There was no way
down to that inferno; it was entirely a place of the Winds.
Behind her and above, on the south face of the Gate, other
apertures opened, venting steam or small trickles of water that
could become torrents that arced out and into the gulf below.
There was so much sound here that she had sometimes been
sure she heard muttering voices under it all--an effect the
monks sadly assured her was an illusion.
Galas had been a young queen then. Flushed with the
success of her communication with the desals, she had
imagined herself the goddess her people claimed she was.
When she came here she had felt ownership, not fear, and she
had stood upon a stone here and preached a sermon to the
monks and the Winds. Her own words returned to her with
ironic pain--she had spoken breathlessly of a new age for Man
and Wind. Her own sincerity returned to her now like the
remembrance of a crime.
The monks were forming up into columns, preparing for
the great run up the stairs. Far up there, she could see a column
of men on their way down. There was no time to think.
She raced past the head of the line, ignoring the shouts
that followed her, and started up the steps. One of the monks
came after her, and when he laid a hand on her sleeve she
turned and shouted, "Get back to the line! I have to do this
alone."
He stammered something and let go. She ran on, trying
with little success to ignore the daggers of pain in her thighs
from days of riding combined with her recent climb. After
only a few meters she was gasping, her legs wobbly beneath
her, but she kept on.
Men were shouting above her. She flipped back the cowl