Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 87
of much better quality than those hanging in Castor’s great
hall. It showed a white landscape under a black sky. There
was a moon in the sky, but it looked all wrong: orange, banded
and huge.
"There is much to the world," said Calandria May. "And
there are many worlds. Come, it’s time we slept."
Jordan remained awake long after they bedded down in a
room opposite the marble washroom. He lay staring at the
canopy of the great bed that had swallowed them both. He was
afraid to sleep lest he open his eyes in a cold tomb, but also he
was aware of a deep current within himself, bringing a change
he was not ready to face. The lady had told him a fabulous
story, and he wanted none of it. He wanted his home, his
work--even Ryman would be good company right now.
He had been stripped of that--and stripped of the only
other thing he knew, which was the certain safety of his own
mind. And yet he still breathed, and walked and ate. Then
who was he? He no longer knew.
There were demonic Winds in the mythology known to
Jordan, who gave and took away. In one story he knew, such a
creature granted immortality to the generalissimo who craved
it--but only after removing his sight and hearing. These Winds
often gave and took away, but sometimes they only gave, and
the torment of the recipient of the gift took the form of doubt:
why should the demon give me this if demons only harm? In
some stories, the gift's recipient came to hate and fear the gift
because no harm had come from it, where everything they had
heard told them some should. Suspicion ate these people from
within.
It was easy to see Calandria May as such a gift-giving
Wind. It was clear what she had taken away; at the same time,