The Book of the Winds

Prologue:

The smoke always clears slowly. It does not hurry for the historian in haste who wishes to record what the moment after a great victory looked like; defeats of course do not matter - only the victors record their battles. And, on the fateful day when a hundred thousand and more perished on the Great Plain, the smoke loitered, picking its way daintily through holes sewed in the blue hearts of dead men, seeping out red and yellow and ugly grey. It smelled of gunpowder - not the nice, clean, fun smell that attends a fireworks celebration, that brings to mind picnic blankets and family outings; but the poor, dirty, grimy smell of a charwoman at a munitions factory waiting for the certain news of a lover's death, a most uncomfortable smell. But the smoke was comforting too in a sense - the survivors saw in its insane shapes the forms of departed friends; dying men saw their families bidding them goodbye or welcome; and, in irritating the eyes of those who were too ashamed to cry, it gave an excuse for tears on the field of manful toil. And it was almost tangible.

But, as with all things, the smoke passed too and bared a hundred thousand entrails and groans to the naked, hungry eye and ear, eager to record for posterity the particular deaths of an anonymous hundred thousand in the cause of great words and great men. How many pitiful lives have been lost in the name of all that is holy and uplifting in the human condition? How many men have toiled bitter sweat and tears for what is most sweet in man's thoughts? How many cries and groans and terrible deeds that laughter and happiness and goodness be more than mere words? But soft now, there groans a man in pain.

------
Book 1
The Council Meets

Chapter 1
A Village in the Horizon

His cloak billowed out wildly behind him as he rode the horse hard into the wind. Evidently in a great hurry, the green colour of his cloak and the imperial diadem on the horse's forehead intimated that this was a royal messenger on an urgent errand. The few hardy men who still walked the dangerous forest road muttered harshly under their breath but gave way with a grudging salute. The man on the horse noticed the sullenness but he had been seeing it all these four days as he travelled out of the capital into the countryside. There seemed to be an increase in discontent with distance from the capital, he mused, an interesting observation worth some serious consideration; but he had his assignment now and it seemed to gain in importance as he approached his destination. The border forts were not too far off and it was imperative that he reach the capital of the province by nightfall - travelling through the outer regions, especially the wild forests, had become unsafe even for the king's messengers in these dangerous times.

But as luck would have it, just as he turned past a narrow bend giving both his thoughts and his horse free rein, his horse stumbled, stuttered and fell in a heap on the road. He was not hurt in the accident, thank god for the small blessings, but his horse had lost a shoe on his leg. He tried riding him without the shoe but the horse started limping after a while. With no choice now but to find the nearest village or hamlet, any place where he could get a horse or a ride to the capital of the province, he started walking down the road, in much more haste than would have helped the poor horse's unshod leg. An hour or so before dusk, would there be bandits around soon, he wondered, would he have to fight for his life or merely for the little gold and that precious scroll he had, so important to the fate of the kingdom, of so little meaning to petty thieves? I will find out soon enough, he decided, but this wretched luck that has been following me ever since that fateful day, when, instead of being selected to the General's guard, I was asked to become the Prime Minister's attendant, this whole foul fortune is still running its course in my life. I wonder if I'll ever be rid of it.

An hour's walk had not brought him much hope and it was almost dusk. The road was deserted and even the occassional straggler who seemed to him a bandit in his filthy rags, leading an old mare or leaning on his wretchedly crooked staff, even the hardiest of these were no more seen in the path that seemed to stretch deep into the forest with no end in sight. For the first time in his life, he saw the forest as an extension of the city or maybe the origin of it; a place men could live and work and walk in, and not merely a place one passed through and had to tolerate only because it was too difficult to destroy altogether. It was like a garden on a larger scale with the trees and bushes and the occassional bird and animal, untamed but not violent. It was also a shelter protecting him from the emptiness that would have dismayed his already depressed spirits. The road assured him that man had been here, and the forest, that there were things beyond and behind all this, that he was not alone. The forest was also particularly interesting that evening when he wanted a rather diaphanous solitude - he wanted to be left alone but not feel his loneliness; or, rather, he wanted a reason to be alert and ready for conversation but only on his own terms, when he wanted it. The rumours had made him edgy and he did not know what message he was carrying now, what it would mean to the country in what was rapidly becoming a fragile future; he knew, of course, that it was important but he did not know where he stood in the whole situation - he had set out to become a soldier and now he was a Minister's page.

Just as he was sinking into a deep reverie, the sound of a cart hobbling along the road behind him jolted him out of it and, soon enough he found himself facing a boisterous peasant taking his family home on a battered ruin of a cart driven by a miserable old nag. The man seemed to want to pass him in a hurry, having evidently seen and known him for who he was, but was forced to stop when the authority of the green cloak and the diadem on the horse asserted themselves in a rather rude gesture to halt. The wife seemed not to have noticed and started grumbling from the back of the cart while the girl, tired of her mother's company, hopped down to see what had caused the interruption. He was struck by her beauty immediately, not a wonderful pretty thing of gold and blue and flimsy lace, but a soft, radiant, healthy nature that was girl and woman at the same time. The cartman at once began apologizing and explaining his hurry, "Bandits around you see, so we were hurrying up. No offence, milord, at your service always". But he had no ears nor eyes for this man. "Phaeron," he said, "page to the Esteemed Prime Minister and member of the Royal Guard, at your service," and performed for the girl one of his most expansive court-bows. "Balric, milord, blacksmith and ...," the man started saying when the girl started laughing uncontrollably, causing great confusion to both the cartman and Phaeron. Balric was dismayed beyond words but his wife stepped in, and pinching the girl hard, introduced herself, "Meara, wife of Balric, milord and this is Amara, our daughter. She is young and bold, don't you mind her, sir, she hasn't seen noblemen except those that strut about on the stage for tuppence. Is there anything we could do for you, noble master?" Phaeron was mortified by the girl's laughter but it was rather musical and made her look even prettier, bringing the red to her cold cheeks and tears to her deep blue eyes. Hard for a man not to like even if he was the cause of the mirth. "Peasants of the outer provinces, I am on my way to Pandor on a royal mission. I was to get there before nightfall but my horse took a fall and has lost a shoe. Direct me to the nearest village where I can borrow a horse and proceed on my way and I will reward you well". The girl was about to burst out laughing again but the mother intervened and said, "Of course, master, we will take you to our village. It is not far from here and my husband is the blacksmith - he will do his best for you and get you going early tomorrow. If you don't mind, you can also stay at our humble inn and eat our bread this night". "Very well, lead on. And I promise your husband will be well-paid for his efforts".

They walked for the better part of an hour and the sun had almost set. Phaeron was getting impatient but there was nothing he could do. The sky was becoming a deep orange and the road was beginning to get wider. They started up a short climb where the woods seemed to part around the road when Amara exclaimed, "The village! the village!" and jumped out of the cart, running up the road. Phaeron watched as the orange danced off her hair and face and the happy smile that spread across her face as she got to the top and shouted, "The village, Father, we are home finally." Balric and Meara exchanged a look of happiness and Phaeron felt a little uncomfortable - they seemed to be too simple and too happy at things too small. Did they not know there were greater things than merely getting home? Were they still children to believe in such bromides as the 'sweet home'? Were they innocent or merely ignorant of the big world outside of their humdrum existence? But Amara was taking his breath away and he knew these people would not understand. The three of them slowly made their way up to Amara and stood silently with her, gazing at the small clearing in the woods where a small village was visible with smoke from the chimneys and little boys playing around. "There she lies," said Balric, "That is home and a lot more, sir". "Yes, a lot more indeed," muttered Phaeron but little did he know how much more.