Changing Winds

After introducing Anan to Randolla so that the tailor could fit him for a festival coat and some regular attire, Kyrie determinedly guided the eldermost storm to the theater, where Catalan Evernhold was leading a rehearsal. This year’s Christmas play would be a reprise of the previous year’s A Christmas Carol, which was going to be very interesting. Because Cat had decided that Uncle Boniface should be Uncle Jackie’s understudy for the role of Bob Cratchit.

He was really very good. Not scared at all about being on stage. Even with Dad standing in for Ambrose Scatterlight, who would arrive on Christmas Eve, just in time to take the lead.

“Found you!” came a hushed exclamation.

A hand slipped into his, and Kyrie smiled. Sibley had a knack for finding him, no matter where he might be, and it was nice. Kyrie was glad that Sibley liked the idea of being brothers as much as he did. Blood ties might not be the only way of belonging to someone, but he couldn’t deny the many new bonds that had been forged because of a shared sire.

“I am here.” And noticing the dusting of flower petals in Sibley’s hair, Kyrie began plucking like a preening avian. “Did you ask for Grandfather’s help?”

“Had to. When there’s a lot of ground to cover, a tree’s a good friend to have.”

Kyrie hummed happily and pulled Sibley firmly to his side, ignoring Anan’s moody glance. Thankfully, the wind imp was interested in the play, so his attention returned to the stage.

But then Kyrie noticed something new and gasped, putting Sibley at arm’s length. Where …? There! “Show me your claws!” he whispered excitedly.

Sibley surrendered his hands, which had been neatly warded.

“These are wonderful. Did Papka do this? But no … the sigilcraft does not feel like his.”

“Anjou.” Up on tiptoe, Sibley quietly shared, “He wants to be my … my papa. Mine and Etienne’s.”

Kyrie was dumbstruck.

As silence lengthened between them, Sibley grew increasingly worried. “Are you mad?”

“No! I am pleased for you and Etienne. I was only wondering if there will be others within the enclave who might want to foster our brothers and sisters. We are a big family. Perhaps we are too big?”

“Me and Sonnet and Uncle Jackie are going to take care of everyone at Stately House. And … and then Papa will take care of us.”

“That is a good plan.”

“We’re still brothers, though. You and me.”

Anan loomed over them, interrupting Kyrie’s answer. Without a word, he scooped them up and began walking.

“Where are you taking us?” Kyrie asked.

“I want to be outside.”

Sibley asked, “Where outside?”

“The woods.”

“Oh, yeah?” Gazing around curiously, Sibley pressed, “How come?”

“I prefer open skies. And I need a place away from prying ears.”

“Are you gonna thunder again?”

Anan grumbled, “I do not answer to you, little brother.”

Sibley blinked. And smiled.

Kyrie rested his cheek against Anan’s chest and relaxed. Being in the arms of a thundercloud was a little like flying. Something about the scents and the smoothness of his wind’s stride. He reached for Sibley’s hand and curled their fingers together, glad to share this moment.

Sibley matched him, leaning into Anan and murmuring, “In stories, only the best dragons tame winds.”

Kyrie shook his head. “What if Anan has tamed us?”

“Hey, Anan? Are you our brother? Like … Ginkgo is our big brother, and you’re our eldermost brother?”

A soft trill escaped Kyrie, who peeped up through his lashes to see what Anan would say.

“You aspire to much, little brother.”

“What’s that mean? Aspire.”

Kyrie said, “To want something very much. To do your best to reach it.”

“That’s a good word. But I dunno if there’s anything left for me to aspire about. I’ve got a home. And a hearth. And bigger brothers.” He nuzzled Anan’s chest. “Even an eldermost brother.”

“You aspire to take care of your family,” Anan reminded. “But the gathering isn’t complete.”

Kyrie immediately realized what he meant. “There are more of us.”

“That’s the way the stars sing it.”

“Can you help me collect them?”

“No small feat, little terror.” But eventually, Anan added, “Perhaps. If Dima was willing. Perhaps.”

Kyrie waited to see if Dima would have anything to say on the matter.

And waited.

He’d adjusted to her presence, and perhaps she was adjusting to him. But he wasn’t sure what kind of person she was, and that bothered him. Sure, these three were part of a group known as the Changing Winds, and historians agreed that they were the companions of Bethiel. But Kyrie was interested in the wind imps as individuals. How could he not be?

He was a crosser, but not all crossers were the same. He was a crystal adept, but his talent took a different shape from others with the same classification. He was a child of the Rogue, but he and his siblings were many and varied. In the end—or from the beginning—Kyrie was Kyrie. So it would be almost rude to lump together these three.

Yes, they were wind imps.

Yes, they were eldermost storms.

Yes, they were historic, even legendary.

But before all of that, they were Anan, Dima, and Haizea.

So Kyrie said, “Anan is taking us in among the trees, Dima. I wonder if you would like my woods? To rattle through bare branches and to tip snow from pine boughs.”

Anan blandly asked, “Your woods? Are you claiming swaths of land as well as sky?”

“In a way.” Kyrie tried to think how to explain. “Every tree in these woods shares a bond with me. They have names and voices and a part in my plans.”

Sibley said, “It’s true. He showed me. Listen for it. They know he’s close.”

Anan stopped right there in the snow and cocked his head to one side. Raising his voice, he announced, “Dima, I believe him.”

It reminded Kyrie of that first night on the shore, when he’d been soaked through and too cold and at a loss. Anan had said, he believed me. That time, Kyrie was embarrassed to admit that—for a moment—he’d thought Anan was triumphing over him. That Kyrie had trusted amiss. Believed a lie.

But Kyrie understood the thunderstorm better now. Anan had been telling the truth when he said he didn’t really understand lies. The newly descended wind imp had been telling Dima something about Kyrie. That Kyrie had believed Anan.

According to lore, not many people believed in winds. Too fickle, too flighty. They could be a passing fancy, but winds—supposedly—never stayed. Kyrie thought that perhaps, long ago, another person had believed Anan. And that’s why his wind still treasured his friend Bethiel.

Anan added, “He’s right. You’d like these woods. They’re sturdy. And full of wolves. And the trees whisper small songs. It would be impolite to flatten them.”

Kyrie wondered if Anan was trying to give Dima reasons to descend. So he offered, “I walk among these trees, and I tell them their names. They welcome me into their midst, and they sing for me.”

Sibley asked, “Is it the trees that love you or the crystals you put in them?”

“Both, I think. A ring becomes a ring once the stone is in its setting. This forest is the setting for remnants and their songs.”

“You took two things and made something new?”

“He changed them,” said Anan. “Reshaped them like the winds that dance among the dunes, sculpting as they go. Right, Haizea?”

The whirlwind didn’t answer. But Dima did, blunt and bold.

“Shepherd of woodlands, lowlier than skies, what are they for?”

“The trees?” checked Kyrie.

“Why take them? Why remake them?”

Something in her tone made him ask, “Do you think I should not have done it?”

“Answer me. Explain yourself.”

“Yes, all right. It is an interesting question.” Kyrie peered around as Anan began to walk again. “Normally, I would say that trees are for shelter and shade and food and climbing. Trees have their own beauty.”

“But you intruded upon their simplicity,” challenged Dima. “You complicated their existence. Why?”

Anan added his own accusation. “You found a use for them, and so you became generous. You gave them voices so they could serve you.”

Kyrie weighed their words carefully. Did these winds think he’d enslaved the trees? Their perspective was unique, being embodiments of nature. Finally, he shook his head. “I do not think I am looking down on them.”

“Would you know if you were?” countered the thunderstorm.

“With a friend like you to call my motives into question? Yes.”

“Friends, are we?”

Kyrie silently offered up his free hand, where Anan’s mark shone so brightly, nobody would consider it subtle. Or even hidden.

“Strange boy,” muttered Anan.

“Suits you,”accused Dima.

“And you? What will you do, Dima?”

The typhoon fell silent, and Kyrie thought it was a brooding, building sort of silence, like the gathering of a storm. It would break eventually. Probably directly overhead.