Free Breath by Jackie Morse Kessler Page A

the color of death? Ridiculous. Death didn’t wear white.
    Actually, Death wore whatever the hell he wanted to wear, and no one said boo about it.
    Pestilence, the White Rider of the Apocalypse, stood beneath a large acacia tree, his snowy uniform a stark contrast to the sunbaked browns and greens around him. Creepers of dust clung to the edges of his coat sleeves, marring the pristine whiteness with hints of decay. A silver band rested on his forehead, winking beneath thick strands of white-streaked hair. His face was clear of acne and blackheads—a slight vanity, but he figured he was allowed the occasional perk. Next to him, a thin white horse nibbled contentedly on the parched grass. It didn’t need to eat, but it found the action comforting; Pestilence knew this, because there was a connection between a steed and its Rider, one that surpassed the need for words. Besides, who didn’t like a little comfort food?
    Well. Other than Famine, who didn’t like a little comfort food?
    Absently patting the horse’s back, Pestilence focused on his work. While the volunteer attempted to fight superstition with fact, Pestilence battled disease. Coaxed, really; there was no need for him to fight it. He controlled disease. If he wished, he could eradicate the malaria with a thought, banish it like smallpox, rather than slowly absorb parts of it into his system and leave the rest to feast upon mosquitos and plague humanity. But Pestilence had learned the hard way that completely eliminating a disease only made things worse—another sickness would take its place, one that was far crueler. Far more deadly.
    Pestilence frowned as he continued to rein in the parasites that spread malaria. Was it he who had learned what happened when sickness was thrown out of balance? Or had it been a previous White Rider? He didn’t know. Lately, it was becoming more difficult to separate his thoughts from those of his predecessors. If he didn’t know better, he’d be worried. Figments whispering to you, telling you things you otherwise didn’t know? That could be a sign of anything from fatigue to schizophrenia.
    But the difference was that the voices in his head were real.
    Gently, gently,
the Elder said.
If you are too heavy-handed, they’ll fight you.
    I know.
    Pestilence had come to recognize the voices of the previous White Riders, from the soft-spoken Slave, who had been a helot in Sparta, to the commanding tones of the King, ruler of the land of Phrygia. He knew the King best and liked him least. Pestilence’s favorite voice was that of the Elder, who had been the magic man of his tribe. The Elder had taken the Crown after the sky had fallen and the land had turned to ice.
    He’d seen the end of the world, and it had begun on a sheet of white.
    Pestilence shook that thought away. That was the King whispering to him, attempting to cloud his perception. The King didn’t like the cold.
    Happily, he didn’t have to worry about the cold, not in this part of the world. As Pestilence continued to nudge the malaria into something less widespread, he ignored heat that otherwise would have left him drowning in sweat. That was just one of the side effects he had as the White Rider: temperature control. Other benefits of being a Horseman of the Apocalypse included uniforms, company cars, and picking up new skill sets—as long as you didn’t mind single colors, cars that were really flying horses, and wielding phenomenal power that sometimes had a mind of its own.
    Focus,
the Elder scolded.
    I’m focusing,
Pestilence sighed.
    Now the village woman were debating whether the netting would be put to better use if it were sewn into fishing nets, much to the chagrin of the volunteer. Their words sparked a memory in Pestilence’s mind: he saw himself as a boy of ten, trapping fish in nets of flax, remembered the joy he’d taken as he’d pulled his catch ashore.
    No. That hadn’t been him. That had been the Fisher, who’d taken the Crown after a