Remnant

by Brenda J. Pierson

  “We shall hold a meeting in the Hotonii Tower to discuss the situation,” the shaman said, looking around, “after we clear the battlefield.”

  9

  L ooking up from the base of the Hotonii Tower had been impressive. Looking up from the inside made Windrunner dizzy.

  The entire spire was hollow. Paths wound their way up the walls, and a central spiral allowed for quick access to the highest levels. Rooms were carved into the sandstone, making Windrunner feel as if they’d been transported into a honeycomb.

  The elders—hotonii—were meeting near the top, of course. Three hundred feet straight up. No problem.

  And the walkways didn’t have handrails. Whimpering and crawling up on his hands and knees would jeopardize his newfound status as a ‘noble and powerful ally,’ but sucking up his fear and climbing like a man took all the courage he supposedly had. He was glad he was allowed to bring his staff with him. It was a weapon, just in case. Definitely not a walking stick.

  He’d cleaned up and the urn warriors had bound his cuts with herbs and clean cloths. They worked almost as well as Brinelle’s healing salve. He hardly even felt them, even though they’d been oozing and fresh less than an hour ago.

  The meeting room was a dome of solid rock, with large holes carved in the walls to allow sunlight and breezes in. They offered a spectacular view of the urn warriors’ valley. Windrunner would have liked to stay there and watch, but before he could even take in the view the hotonii called for his attention.

  There were fifteen of them, men and women whose hair had gone white and tattoos had faded. Many of them had grievous wounds from battle—disfigurement, missing limbs. Each had more scars than Windrunner could count. They settled around a table that looked like one giant bone.

  “Honored warriors,” Brinelle said, bowing low. Windrunner did the same. “We thank you for meeting with us.”

  “We thank you for your aid in battle,” one woman said. Her voice was deep, like a man’s, and scratchy as if she’d called out a few too many battle cries. “There are not many who would fight alongside the urn warriors.”

  Windrunner couldn’t see why. These people were amazing allies to have in a fight. The fact they didn’t have blood was just an oddity.

  “Please,” the shaman said, “tell us your story.”

  Windrunner began with finding the portal in the forest, leaving out his disgrace at Maddox’s hand. There was no reason they needed to know he was shunned among his own people.

  Nor did they need to know how dark and deadly his magic was. That part was still too sore to share aloud, even if Fi’ar had taken note of it. The urn warrior stood in the corner as an escort, or bodyguard, and never stopped glaring at Windrunner. Was that because he’d learned the secret of Windrunner’s staff, or because he didn’t like funny little men?

  Brinelle picked up the tale from Windrunner’s arrival in the Nevantian desert, the mazahnen, and the Godspeaker’s wrath. The hotonii seemed distressed to hear of the discord among Evantar.

  “We’re going to collect the treasures of Evantar, the Remnants, to use against the Shahadán,” Windrunner added. “We won’t be able to stop them before they arrive, though. We’ll do our best, but some will get through before we’re strong enough to defeat them.”

  The hotonii talked among themselves for a moment. Then the shaman looked at Windrunner and nodded. “You may rely on us. We will hunt the Shahadán. Vaharra will give us strength.”

  Windrunner hadn’t realized how much the worry was dragging him down until it was lifted. They wouldn’t be alone in this fight after all. He felt like he could breathe easy for the first time since he’d learned about the Shahadán.

  “And where are you headed, warrior-friend?” one of the men asked.

  “We’re continuing to the Aquatic Grasslands of Syrenia to collect the first of the Remnants,” Brinelle said.

  “Are you certain you will find it there?” Fi’ar asked. Windrunner couldn’t tell if he was skeptical or just surly.

  She nodded. “I am certain.”

  “Very well,” the shaman said. “Go with the allegiance of the urn warriors. Should you need us, you may call upon Shaman G’hantra.” He thumped his chest with pride.

  Windrunner and Brinelle nodded. The hotonii saluted, fists to hearts, and stood. As they were about to leave, Fi’ar stepped out of the shadows.

  “I will accompany them.”

  The room fell silent. Everyone stared at Fi’ar. Did he offer to go with us? Windrunner thought. He hates us.

  Fi’ar gestured to Windrunner. “This man granted my son an honorable death. I must repay the debt.”

  Having an urn warrior with them could be very advantageous—no one would be able to outfight him—but Fi’ar? Even though Windrunner had won some respect, the giant man still glowered at them with as much hatred as the Godspeaker had. If he came with them, would they have a friend at their back, or an enemy?

  Windrunner looked at Brinelle. She didn’t meet his gaze. In fact, she seemed to be standing as far away as she could without seeming like she was avoiding him. Windrunner turned away, his worry sending nausea through him. Pain clenched his heart.

  “We cannot deny a request such as this,” Shaman G’hantra said, nodding toward Fi’ar. “Fight well. Die well.”

  Fi’ar saluted to the hotonii. The elders left the room. When only Windrunner, Brinelle, and Fi’ar remained, the urn warrior turned to them. “I shall go with you,” he said, “but know this: I am neither friend nor companion. I go to ensure the safety of the Remnants and avenge my son’s death upon the Shahadán. If that means ensuring your safety as well, so be it. I do not wish to be included in your meals, your campfires, or your conversations. Am I understood?”

  Brinelle and Windrunner nodded, and Fi’ar left without another word. Windrunner turned to Brinelle, but she was already on her way after the urn warriors.

  “Well,” Windrunner said, “won’t this be fun.”

  THE HOTONII HAD GIVEN him a room Windrunner felt sure he didn’t deserve. He was more than halfway up the Hotonii Tower, in a spacious cavern with a plush bed covered in furs. After the excitement of the day he should be dead asleep. Instead he was pacing his room, staring out the open window, and doing everything imaginable but resting.

  Brinelle had to have figured it out. She couldn’t have missed his Destruction magic during the battle.

  Then again, she’d hadn’t been allowed out of the prison when Windrunner was. He wasn’t sure how close she’d been, or how long she’d been out, by the time he saw her. Maybe she hadn’t seen anything. Maybe she didn’t know.

  But the way she’d ignored him …

  Windrunner plopped onto the bed, rubbing his eyes. He’d drive himself mad before he came to any conclusions at this rate.

  A light knock sounded on his door, and before he could stand to open it Brinelle slipped into his room.

  Windrunner tensed. He’d already been confused. Seeing her enter his bedroom made that exponentially worse. “Hey.”

  “Hi.” She stopped a few steps into the room. She looked about as uncomfortable as he felt.

  “Did you need something?”

  “I wanted to make sure you were all right after the battle today. Did you need any healing?”

  Some of the tension melted from Windrunner’s shoulders. He gestured to the urn warriors’ wrappings. “Nah. I can’t even feel the cuts anymore. They’ll be healed in no time. Thanks, though.” She nodded. She still seemed awkward, more so than usual. “Are you all right?”

  “I didn’t think you’d make it,” she said. Her voice cracked a little. “The urn warriors are dangerous enough, but when the mazahnen came …”

  Windrunner stood and approached her. “I made it through. I’m still here.”

  “You shouldn’t be. Your skills are so raw. By all rights you should be dead.”

  “Why does everyone think I’m so helpless?” he grumbled. His eyes flicked to his staff in the corner. Ev
en from here he could feel the heat emanating from it.

  Brinelle caught the motion. She looked at the staff, then to him, then back to the staff.

  Oh great.

  She spun in a lightning-fast kick, her heel connecting with Windrunner’s hip. He stumbled, and she kicked him again in the sternum. Windrunner flew back and landed on the bed. Brinelle was atop him in an instant, her eyes fierce, one hand on his chest, the other poised for a punch to his throat. “It is true! You’re a Varyah!”

  The starlight streaming through the window made her features look cold and hard. Windrunner thought he saw a tear trembling on her cheek.

  “Brinelle …”

  “I’d hoped I was wrong. That when you called up your magic again, it wouldn’t be …” She paused, shaking her head as if to flick away her sentimentality. “How could you fool me for so long? I defended you to the Godspeaker. I risked my entire standing in the knights of Evantar by protecting you. And you’re the enemy.”

  Windrunner tried to raise his hands, but she put a bit more pressure on his chest. It was hard to breathe. He let his arms flop back to the bed. “Brinelle, I don’t want to fight you!”

  She released him, leaping off the bed and assuming an unfamiliar chatana pose. Her voice was hard, but he heard the brittle pain behind it. “You have no choice, Varyah.”

  Windrunner didn’t get off the bed. If he did, she could charge, and he knew he couldn’t compete with her. Especially not with how betrayed she felt right now.

  “Brinelle,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable despite the fear and anger flooding him. “I’m not a Varyah!”

  “You have Varyah magic.”

  “So? That doesn’t mean I’m evil.”

  She stayed in position.

  “Come on, Brinelle. You know me. We’re friends. How could I become one of these horrible mages?”

  “Destruction magic taints everything it comes in contact with. That is its very nature.” Her voice was trembling now. “You cannot have Destruction magic and be a good man.”

  Windrunner knew he couldn’t beat Brinelle in a fight, especially when she thought she was facing her mortal enemy. He had to get her to see him as Windrunner again, not a Varyah.

  He’d heard the tears in her voice. He knew she was more hurt than angry. She liked him. Perhaps that could be enough to get through to her.

  Time to take a gamble.

  Windrunner raised himself from the bed, standing slowly as if trying not to startle a frightened animal. Brinelle watched his every move like a hawk.

  He stood with his arms out, hands open, taking a tiny step toward her. Brinelle’s muscles tensed, ready to strike. But he could see the doubt in her eyes. “If you really think I’m evil, then go ahead. I’d rather die by your hand than let myself become one of those awful men anyway.”

  Her expression was torn between rage and heartbreak. She still held position, but it looked fragile now.

  “I’m Windrunner, Brinelle. I’m not a different person than the one you’ve known these weeks. You know what I’m like. If you think I deserve to die … then fine.” He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and met Brinelle’s eyes.

  He didn’t look away. Didn’t close his eyes. If she was going to kill him, he would watch it coming. No hiding.

  She took a step toward him. Windrunner didn’t know what she would do. He suspected she didn’t, either.

  He tried not to flinch at the steel in her eyes as she raised her fist. Took another step forward. One more and she’d be within striking distance.

  She took that step. And then another one.

  Sweat dripped down Windrunner’s forehead. He couldn’t even try to keep his hands from shaking. He was surprised he was still on his feet, he was trembling so much.

  They watched each other for several heartbeats, neither of them moving.

  “Please, Brinelle. I don’t want to die.”

  “You’re a Varyah,” she replied. Her voice shook, whether from pain or anger Windrunner couldn’t tell.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “It’s what you are. It’s inevitable.”

  “I don’t believe that,” he said. He was finally able to infuse some strength into his tone. “I don’t want to become a Varyah any more than you want me to. I’ll fight it with everything I have. Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “And what happens when the magic becomes too strong for you to fight?”

  It was the same fear Windrunner held. What if there came a time when he could no longer contain the dark anger inside him? Would it change him? He didn’t know. But he had to believe it wouldn’t.

  “Destruction magic can’t force me to be evil any more than Creation magic can force someone to be good,” he replied. “Look at the Godspeaker. If anyone acted like a Varyah, it’s him. Who says I can’t be a good Destruction mage, like he’s a bad Creation mage?”

  Brinelle seemed taken aback by that. Doubt flooded her eyes and she let out a long, slow breath. Her fist lowered ever so slightly.

  Windrunner took a chance and stepped a tiny bit closer to her. She stiffened, but didn’t move to attack. “Let me prove to you I’m still me,” he said.

  He searched her eyes for some hint of the companionship they’d had before. Some of the warmth that had been building between them. But it was gone. Now there was only pain and suspicion in her gaze.

  Windrunner tried not to let his own pain at that show.

  Brinelle’s shoulders slumped and her arm fell to her side. She took a step back. She looked down for a moment, shaking her head. When she met his eyes again, they were fierce. “You had better not prove me wrong,” she said. Then she turned and marched away.

  Windrunner collapsed onto the bed. Now sleep was truly out of the question.

  VARYAH.

  Brinelle still couldn’t wrap her mind around that. Windrunner was a Varyah.

  And she’d let him live.

  She wasn’t sure which was more shocking to her. That the charming, funny, kind man who’d come to her monastery had Destruction magic … or that she hadn’t killed him.

  Her entire life had been lived to exact vengeance on the Varyah. Every moment of training, every hour of studying had been for that singular goal. To make them suffer for all the pain they’d caused her. For that horrible image burned into her mind—the only memory she had of her parents. Gone because of the Varyah. For condemning her to a childhood of sadness and loneliness. And that was without considering what they did to the world at large. That was just what they’d done to her. They had earned every bit of hatred and animosity she had a thousand times over. She would make them pay for the actions of their horrible magic.

  But Windrunner?

  She still wasn’t even sure why she hadn’t thrust her fist into his skull. Was it the shock? Windrunner was her friend. Surely that had something to do with it.

  Or perhaps she wanted to believe what he said could be true.

  She shook her head. No. She didn’t want to believe a Varyah could be good. That complicated matters too much. Varyah were evil, their magic brought nothing but destruction, and they deserved to die. It was as simple as that.

  But Windrunner?

  She wanted to believe Windrunner could be good. Just him. No other Varyah but the man who made her laugh, who looked at her like a woman rather than a parentless child in a monastery of zealots. Who hadn’t balked at the idea of having her along, who’d seemed eager to help her out of the monastery to do her duty.

  Her duty, to kill Varyah. While she was traveling beside one.

  Brinelle groaned. She had never been so confused in her entire life.

  She looked behind her, toward Windrunner’s room. She couldn’t forget the way his face had fallen when she’d confronted him. The pain in his eyes had almost matched her own.

  She tried to envision him as a Varyah—dark, powerful, selfish, commanding. Using his magic for his own good, damn the consequences.


  She couldn’t fit him into that paradigm.

  But she knew better than to be fooled. All Varyah became that way eventually. They couldn’t help it. The influence of Destruction magic had that effect, whether or not the person had given their consent. It would happen to Windrunner too.

  And when it did …

  Her fist clenched, longing for her staff. Despite the way it twisted her gut and shattered her heart, she knew what she’d have to do.

  10

  T here was no grand ceremony to celebrate their departure. The urn warriors loaded them with all kinds of provisions and sent them on their way without so much as a “good luck.” They were out of the valley and navigating the narrow passageway out of Ta’ranq without a word to anyone.

  Once on the other side of Ta’ranq’s dagger-like mountains, the desert returned to its monotony. Endless miles of dunes, occasionally broken by bloodwood groves. Exactly the same as the desert they’d traversed to reach Ta’ranq. Brinelle had grown up here, had never known anything different, but even she was beginning to get anxious for a sight other than mirages and dust.

  It took no effort to fall back into the pattern of traveling by night, practicing chatana drosand in the evenings and clearing bloodwood groves of mazahnen as the sun rose. Windrunner continued his revolting work on the staff, oiling the wood with his blood until it shone crimson. Looking at it made Brinelle queasy. She could feel the Destruction magic in it more strongly each day. Whenever Windrunner held it she wanted to beat that magic out of him.

  Fi’ar stalked around like a cat on the prowl, often leaving them for hours or even days at a time. They knew he was nearby, they just couldn’t seem to find him if he didn’t want to be found.

  That left her and Windrunner alone the majority of the time. Before Ta’ranq she’d have cherished it. Now it was nothing but heartbreak and frustration. He hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to her in days, which suited her fine. She couldn’t bring herself to hold a conversation with him as if everything was normal.