Wind Weaver Read online

  Wind Weaver

  Lia Patterson

  Published by Lia Patterson at Smashwords

  Copyright 2022 by Lia Patterson. All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: Copyright Adrijana Cernic

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents in this novel are either the products of the imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, to events, businesses, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.liapatterson.com

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  More books by Lia Patterson

  About the Author

  Thank you

  ONE

  It all started with a dish of oysters gone bad. Had my aunt’s stomach been stronger, I would never have met my Shadow and my life would have taken a different course. Later, I thought it ironic that my fate should have been decided by rotten shellfish. Ironic, but also rather fitting: from the beginning the whole affair stank like a barrel of fish left in the sun too long.

  The oysters were of the succulent type, stewed in Aunt Demetria’s favourite wine and parsley sauce. She had a whole plate for her midday meal, and the effects on her delicate constitution were of such violence that she had to take to her bed. On a normal day this would hardly have caused a ripple, for though my aunt might fondly think herself indispensable, I took most of the small decisions that made the household run smoothly. However, it was not a normal day. It was reception day, which meant that we were a noble lady short.

  Hesione, my uncle’s Shadow, brought me the unwelcome news as I was debating with the housekeeper which amphora of wine to serve to the visitors. While I considered the rough local vintage good enough, she thought the dignity of a Son of Hippotades, the wind god, demanded something better.

  I grimaced at hearing Hesione’s tidings, for I knew what that meant. Back in my room she helped me change into the white linen chiton that I kept for the occasion. It might be three centuries out of fashion, but my uncle viewed the long, pleated tunic as the only suitable garment for a Yavanah maiden to wear in public.

  “You’d better hurry, Xanthe,” Hesione said while draping the trailing cloak that went with the chiton about my shoulders.

  It was easy for her. Though she was the most essential member of the household, my uncle did not expect her to play a public role. As a result she still spoke with the dockside accent of her birth, even after thirty years at my uncle’s side.

  Our sandals slapped against the stone floor when we hurried along the colonnaded gallery of the inner courtyard, but I slowed down upon reaching the audience hall, mindful of the admonition that a lady should glide along in a graceful manner.

  The hall stood open to the winds, and a breeze blew between the marble columns that held up the roof. It curled around me, ruffling the hem of my chiton like a playful puppy, and brought with it the smell of sun-baked cobbles and a whiff of sage and rosemary from the gardens. However, I waved it away, for I did not have the time to linger. The first petitioners were about to arrive.

  My cousins Althea and Philona were waiting for me, having already appropriated the wine and water jugs. With a sigh I took the jar of old olive oil Althea held out to me. Anointing duty – ah well, I had expected nothing else. We took our position at the top of the steps leading up to the audience hall just as the tramp of feet announced my uncle’s arrival.

  Accompanied by his eldest son Carpophorus and a group of courtiers, he swept in and took his seat in the gilded chair in front of the statue of Hippotades. Never loath to remind people of his divine ancestor, Uncle Phormio sent a gust of air to billow out the rich blue cloak that graced the statue.

  One of the secretaries stepped forward and knocked the end of his staff on the floor. “The Wind Lord declares the audience opened. Let the first petitioner approach.” At the same time a couple of servants strewed petals of violets and lilies on the mosaic floor in front of the seat.

  It took an effort of will not to roll my eyes; how my uncle liked a display. And I had to admit that he looked an imposing figure with his clothes all hemmed with borders of gold. Yet everybody in the hall knew that real power had long ago slipped through my family’s fingers and now resided in the nondescript building down at the harbour that housed the Lion’s Voice. No more did foreign kings send gifts of ivory and precious stones or fill the stables behind the palace with exotic animals. The only giraffes left were the ones that cavorted on the murals in the library. And even there the colour was beginning to flake off.

  “Xanthe, pay attention.” Althea’s harsh whisper recalled me to my duties.

  Hastily I turned to greet the first visitor. Philona had already given his bare feet a cursory wash and dried them with a cloth of white linen. The man, dressed in a shepherd’s cloak of rough homespun, stuttered his thanks, looking embarrassed at the attention. Careful to sweep the folds of my chiton out of the way, I knelt down and dabbed a few drops of oil on his toes.

  Once, the ladies of the house would have anointed a visitor’s feet from the ankle down, using only the best quality olive oil gained in the first pressing, but there were limits to what I was willing to do for the sake of tradition. After all, those had also been the days when such a visitor might have been a bold hero, coming home after many years of wandering. Or even one of the gods in disguise, intent on carrying off his host’s daughter and seducing her in some flower-filled meadow. I cast a wry glance at Althea, who now presented a cup of wine to the shepherd with the habitual frown on her face. Somehow I doubted that any of us stood in much danger of catching a god’s roving eye.

  The shepherd approached my uncle, giving an awkward bow, and I let my mind wander again. It was always the same, anyway. Requests for rain clouds to be herded against the hills to shed their burden, storms to be diverted from the islands, forecasts of the weather to come.

  Uncle Phormio’s house stood on a hill, affording me an unobstructed view of Eolia’s harbour. While it was too early in the year for galleys, a few sails dotted the deep blue of the sea. I extended my awareness outward; as often in the afternoon, a landward breeze was blowing. That moment a gust of wind tugged at my clothes. I frowned. For some reason the air seemed more unsettled than usual.

  The next petitioner approached, an affluent merchant by the looks of him, and I dragged my attention back to the task at hand. This o
ne liked having three women attending him, I could tell. In my experience men fell into two categories: either they were embarrassed by our greeting or else flattered.

  As the man moved on, Hesione sidled up to me and handed me a rag to wipe my hands. My uncle liked her to keep to the background, but she was supposed to do a few servant’s tasks to blend in.

  “That one’s not a wandering hero returning after ten years of besieging Daulis, I think,” she whispered to me. We shared a grin.

  “Carpophorus asked me to thank you for standing in for his mother,” Hesione added.

  I cast a quick look at my cousin, who had taken his usual position at Uncle Phormio’s side. When he gave a grave nod, I looked away. “It’s not as if I had much choice.”

  Hesione was sharp, growing up in the gutters had made her so. “You could do worse,” she pointed out, correctly deducing the reason for my bitterness.

  “I know.” And she was right. Carpophorus was not a bad sort.

  “He has a house of his own.”

  I winced. How well she knew me. As a young girl I had fantasised about my Shadow finding me and sweeping me away, but lately my dreams had shrunk. Running my own house, even if it was for a pompous cousin with prematurely receding hair, had started to sound tempting. “I suppose I will have to give him my answer soon.”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  I nodded. Hesione meant well. We both knew that few men were eager to marry a Daughter of Hippotades, even if her gift was weak. Being a wind mage himself, in full possession of his powers, Carpophorus did not mind.

  As the next petitioner was called, Hesione faded into the background again, yet I could not push her uncomfortably shrewd words from my mind. To distract myself, I began to plan next week’s meals. And when that had been exhausted, I catalogued what work needed to be done around the house, starting with polishing the mosaic floor of the reception chamber.

  So the afternoon passed. It was with relief that I perceived the sun nearing the horizon: radiant Aethon stabling his golden chariot marked the end of the audience. I would soon be free to catch up on my neglected chores.

  Then I saw him.

  The line of men wanting to speak to my uncle had dwindled. He stood at the end of it, arms crossed on his chest. Dressed in the flowing white robe of a Khametish desert dweller, with a blue cloth draped round his head so that only his eyes showed, he seemed as much out of place amongst the other men as a hawk amongst pigeons.

  Attending him was the tallest man I had ever seen, with arms and legs like tree trunks and his nose crooked as if it had been broken and set badly. He looked immensely strong, but obviously deferred to the man in the veil.

  I leant over to Althea. “What is a Son of the Lion doing here?”

  “He asked to speak to Father, but it can’t be official.”

  I nodded. That much was obvious. Otherwise he would be down at the harbour, calling upon the Lion’s Voice.

  Philona giggled. “Carpophorus put him at the end of the line. He’s been waiting all afternoon.”

  And he might not make it; already the setting sun was gilding the roofs of the town, granting the old, crumbling houses some of their former glory. Yet he gave no hint of impatience. His companion might fidget, but he stood immobile and quiet, perfectly happy to wait in our courtyard for however long it took. It was a deceptive stillness though, I suddenly thought, like that of a wave about to break.

  A couple more petitioners were called, but my uncle disposed of their requests quickly. Was he curious to see the man?

  Then, just as the sun’s disk touched the horizon, the secretary cleared his throat. “Lord Ashkar, son of Sharaf,” he called.

  Motioning to his companion to stay back, the man unhurriedly strode forward, moving with controlled grace, like a dancer. He submitted to Philona washing his feet, but stared straight ahead, ignoring us.

  Once Philona finished drying off the water, I knelt down to do my part. He had strong, sinewy feet, tanned by the sun and calloused, as if he walked barefoot a lot, which surprised me. My jar of olive oil was nearly empty, so I dribbled the remainder on my fingers.

  When I touched him, the world dropped away from under me.

  I gasped. Out of nowhere a gust of wind whipped round us, only to die away a moment later. Looking up at him, I found him staring down at me with the whites of his eyes showing. His hand had gone to the hilt of the curved scimitar at his side. Had he felt it too?

  His gaze travelled over me, and I saw the familiar confusion. Strangers never knew what to make of me. The honey blond hair – men always noticed that first – which said slave, the chiton and cloak bordered with an elegant pattern, which said refined Yavanah lady. And finally the golden torc at my throat, legacy of my mother’s people, which said barbarian nobility.

  My hands shaking, I quickly looked down and stumbled back. Some of the oil had spilt on the tesserae of the mosaic, making bright splashes amongst the dull pattern. Surely I was mistaken?

  After a last piercing glance through the slit in his veil, he accepted the cup of wine from Althea. I wiped my sweaty hands on my dress and then swore inwardly. Here I had been careful all afternoon to use a rag and now had stained the white linen with grease. How had a simple touch flustered me so much? Looking up I found Carpophorus watching me with a puzzled frown. Had he sent that sudden gust of wind?

  Lord Ashkar acknowledged my uncle by touching his heart and forehead in the traditional Khametish manner but did not make formal obeisance.

  Uncle Phormio’s brows drew together in a frown. His forefathers had ruled the seas of Yavanah for centuries, building their airy palaces, while this man’s ancestors eked out a living following smelly camels. However, that no longer mattered, much as it might gall my uncle.

  He folded his hands in front of his ample belly. “You asked to see me?”

  A sharp nod. “Yes, Lord of the Winds. I wish to hire one of your mages.”

  Uncle Phormio gave an edged smile. “Just like that? I’m afraid my mages are very much in demand. What with the recent wars…” He let his voice trail away suggestively.

  Lord Ashkar, whose people fought those wars, inclined his head. “I’m aware of that. And I’m willing to pay accordingly.”

  “Hmm.” My uncle made a show of considering his words. “What kind of contract do you have in mind?”

  “To get to Myrmekion before the spring festival. I pay in gold.”

  The first full moon after the spring equinox was celebrated as the beginning of the trading season, promising calmer seas. I made a quick mental calculation. He had four weeks to cover the distance, including the passage through the Gullet. Possible, I thought, but only just.

  My uncle seemed to have come to the same conclusion. “That’s a tight schedule. What urgent business takes you to Myrmekion?”

  Lord Ashkar shrugged. “An advantageous trading offer.”

  Obviously he wasn’t willing to divulge any more details, but I wondered if they existed at all. Never mind that Myrmekion was the commercial hub of the Turquoise Sea. If this Lord Ashkar was a simple trader, then I was a Daughter of foam-born Kythereia, the goddess of love.

  Uncle Phormio stroked the head of one of the dogs sitting by the side of his chair. Like most mages he always had a few animals along for misdirection: many people took them to be Shadows, especially if they were black.

  “A trading matter,” he said. “How fascinating. I would very much like to be of assistance, but unfortunately I do not have anybody available at the moment. However…”

  “Yes?” Lord Ashkar prompted. I could tell that he did not like his role as a petitioner.

  Uncle Phormio smiled. “Why don’t you ask the Lion’s Voice? So many of our mages are serving his illustrious master, surely he could spare one to a fellow believer. Would you like me to lend you a servant to show you the way to his house?”

  “That won’t be necessary, Wind Lord.” The words came out clipped and hard. A dip of the head, and Lord As
hkar turned to go.

  He was leaving. Panic flooded through me at the sudden end to the audience. What should I do? Lord Ashkar brushed past us without dignifying me with so much as a glance. I might never see him again. The wind…

  “Xanthe?” My cousin Carpophorus took me by the elbow. “What’s the matter with you? Did something happen?”

  “I…I’m not sure,” I stuttered.

  Never far from her lord, his Shadow Egina hovered behind him, her pretty, heart-shaped face anxious. “That man didn’t accost you, did he?” she asked with big eyes.

  “No, not at all.” I hesitated. “It’s just – oh, nothing.”

  My cousin frowned. “While I agree with Father on the importance of upholding our traditions, I sometimes think that exposing our womenfolk to every stranger is a mistake.” He shot me a significant look. “In my household I have servants to perform the task.”

  Really, he was overreacting. “I lost my balance, that’s all.”

  Carpophorus drew me away. “Well, the man won’t bother us again. Father only wanted to know what brought him here. Matters in the Turquoise Sea have been unsettled lately.” He gave Egina and me a benign smile. “Still, that needn’t concern you. I’m sure two such pretty ladies have better things to do than worry about politics.”

  Egina smiled shyly at his words, but I saw little to amuse me. Of course it concerned me that the Sons of the Lion were poised to overwhelm the last bastion of ancient Yavanah power – although it might not come to that, the fighting the previous summer had gone badly for them. However, I had a much more pressing matter to attend to.

  I slipped my arm free. “Will you excuse me, Cousin? With your mother ill, the staff in the kitchen need supervising.”

  “Of course. Will I have the pleasure of seeing you at the evening meal?”

  I lowered my eyes. “You honour me. But your mother has asked me to sit with her.”

  True enough, and I liked my gentle aunt, who had done her best to turn the hurt, angry niece sent to her into a proper Yavanah lady. Even if she had not always succeeded.