Remnant

by Brenda J. Pierson

  He was asleep before he could figure out how long that had been.

  13

  Syrenia probably would have been a warm, welcoming community, had it not been for the Shahadán attack. As it was, the town was in shambles. Everyone had at least some kind of injury, and it seemed as if half the town had been burned or collapsed. Those not incapacitated by their wounds were scrambling to find some kind of stability—whether that be structural, emotional, or economical. They didn’t have time to look after a handful of misfits who’d washed up in the wake of disaster.

  Windrunner couldn’t blame them. If it had been his home, he wouldn’t have much energy to spare either.

  Then again, this might have to become their home. It wasn’t as if they had much of an option. They had nowhere to go. Until they found another way off Syrenia, they were stuck here.

  It didn’t seem like a problem for the crew of the Sea Gem. The sailors had integrated into the community so well Windrunner had a hard time picking them out from the natives. He doubted many of them would regret being shipwrecked in a place like this. But for him, Brinelle, and Fi’ar, there wasn’t much that could have been worse.

  The Shahadán were loose, and would continue to rain destruction upon the world if he didn’t do something. But they had sunk their ship, taking Windrunner and Brinelle out of the game. There was nothing they could do about it except bide their time and hope for a miracle.

  At least they were alive.

  For a few days Windrunner, Brinelle, and even Fi’ar did whatever they could to help the people of Syrenia. They tended the wounded, repaired buildings, pulled debris from the water. They attended several burials-at-sea. They learned how to fish outside the coral walls and collect the edible kelp. There was not a spare moment to wonder about the location of the Remnant—there was always more work to be done. Each night Windrunner went to bed weary and sore, but the peoples’ quiet gratitude made the labor worthwhile.

  It took days for a sense of normalcy to return to the town. As the most dire of situations were cared for and the most grievously wounded started to heal, the people of Syrenia began to come out of their shock and return to life. They were, if anything, even more warm and generous than Windrunner had expected.

  “It’s the least we can do,” Tobain said one morning, the hunchback piling Windrunner’s plate high with the most glorious breakfast he’d ever seen. “There’s no reason you need to be helping the way you are. Mighty nice of you. Some hot food’s a good way to start saying thanks.”

  While they ate, Tobain prattled on about the history of Syrenia. It was a bit early for storytime, but Windrunner tried his best to stay focused. The pancakes didn’t help. They were so fluffy he would lose entire minutes basking in their deliciousness. They were the second best thing to happen this morning.

  The first had been coming out of his room to see Tobain trapping a sullen-looking Fi’ar in the corner, telling stories about his tattoos and begging the urn warrior to do the same. Fi’ar had slipped away the moment Tobain’s attention had drifted to Windrunner and hadn’t been seen since.

  “Cap’n knew there was no sailing away from the wreck,” Tobain said, shoving another large bite into his mouth, “so he and the crew set up shelter. Turned out this place wasn’t half bad. There ain’t no tide inside the coral, and there’s even some pockets of fresh water bubbling up in places. Plenty of fish and kelp to eat. It was like the ocean was beggin’ for someone to come settle here. Was more than three years later someone spotted the Syren and came in for a look. By then, most’ve the crew wasn’t wanting to leave.”

  “Why did it take so long for another ship to find them?” Brinelle asked.

  “Ships don’t like coming too close to the shoals, for fear of ending up like the Syren here.” Tobain slurped some coffee. “There’s plenty of bounty here—pearls, coral, fish, kelp—so the cap’n didn’t have any trouble finding stuff to set up regular trade. Now Syrenia’s a prime destination for merchants, and we get plenty of imported goods to keep us running.”

  Windrunner pulled himself away from his breakfast. “What happened to the ship’s cargo?”

  “Most of it we’ve given back. Once folk found out the Syren wasn’t lost at sea, they started coming by and asking for their goods. It ain’t ours to begin with, so there ain’t no point in saying no.”

  “How about the things that weren’t claimed? What did your captain do with those?”

  “They’d be in the Treasury now.”

  Windrunner glanced at Brinelle. That sounded like the perfect place to start their search for the Remnant. As long as Evantar hadn’t come by in the past century and reclaimed it.

  Brinelle didn’t meet his gaze, but she seemed to have the same thought. “Could we see the Treasury?” she asked.

  Tobain shrugged. “Don’t see why not. You’ve more than earned your place among us.”

  They finished eating and emerged into the Syren’s shadow. It was a beautiful day, green water reflecting the cloudless blue sky, a warm breeze smelling of salt and clean air blowing the stench of smoke and Shahadán away. Their footsteps sounded loudly on the walkways, the noise comforting to Windrunner. It sounded the same as the old wooden floors back home.

  As long as he ignored the ravaged buildings and desolate expressions on the townsfolk, Windrunner could believe everything was all right with the world.

  He and Brinelle followed Tobain around the Syren, peering through holes in the hull with the curiosity of children. Something about the old, abandoned ship called to Windrunner, as the woods outside the Farmlands had called to him. He wanted to go exploring, to learn the secrets and find the hidden places where anything could be waiting. The urge was so great he almost slipped through a few of the cracks to see what was on the other side.

  “I wouldn’t be doing that, lad,” Tobain said. He’d stopped and turned as Windrunner poked his head through a hole. His voice had a low, ominous tone to it. “Ain’t nobody allowed inside the Syren. She’s sacred ’round here.”

  Windrunner took a step backward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. I just …” He glanced toward the hole again. “I like exploring. There’s so much mystery about this ship. It would be so …” He cleared his throat. He was rambling, and probably not helping the situation.

  Tobain glared at him, but there wasn’t much malice behind it. It was more of a warning. “That ship belongs to the dead. Those who didn’t make it through the storm the night she hit the shoals. It’s their home. Not ours.”

  He said it with such finality Windrunner knew there was no negotiation. Still, he couldn’t help but peer into any crack he came across. His imagination was running wild. Focus, Windrunner. Leave it alone.

  Tobain stopped them outside a small flotsam shack behind the Syren’s stern. One wall bulged outward before narrowing at the roof. Likely part of the hull that had been ripped from the ship’s bilges. The incessant ocean sun had drained all color from the structure, leaving it a pallid shade of grey. It looked old and frail, as if the slightest wave would cause it to crumble to dust.

  Tobain opened the door—a slab of decking held on with rope hinges—and ushered them into the Treasury. “Hope you’ll be understanding I’ve got to leave you. Lots to do to get the place all fixed up, you know.” He bowed, somewhat awkwardly. “Take your time looking around. I’ll be seeing you later on back at the inn.”

  The inside smelled as old and ignored as the outside looked. Every surface was choked with layers of caked dirt and algae. A small, oily torch flickered to life when Brinelle lit it with her belantra naan, and dancing shadows leapt among the forgotten treasures. Much of it was unrecognizable after more than a century of neglect and humid ocean air. Some of it had already crumbled to ruin.

  They poked through the items, careful not to touch anything that looked too fragile. There were several traveling trunks and a large number of crates, some of which had been opened to reveal their contents. A few smaller items were scattered around
—Windrunner found a stack of books that virtually disintegrated when Brinelle picked them up and a paper-thin parasol neither of them dared disturb. But nothing looked like a piece of stone holding pure Creation magic.

  Disappointment and anger rose in him like a wave. If the Remnant wasn’t here, where could it be? It’s not like there was an abundance of hiding places in the middle of the ocean. And the longer they took finding it, the more Shahadán would get loose. He didn’t even know how many there were. If he and Brinelle took too long, would the skies fill with Shahadán? How many had already gotten out? The thought made him shudder.

  He’d seen what this one Shahadán had done to Syrenia, and he knew it wasn’t the kind of damage it was capable of inflicting. Creatures that commanded the kind of Destruction magic he’d felt from it could have turned this entire place to flotsam and not even noticed. So why hadn’t it?

  “What if the Remnant isn’t here?” he asked. “The Shahadán would have noticed that kind of magic, wouldn’t it? It wouldn’t have passed this place by if it knew a chunk of Creation magic was here.”

  “I doubt the Shahadán could have noticed it. They aren’t sentient beings. They aren’t intelligent enough to pick out one thing to Destroy over another. They simply spread Destruction wherever they go, without motive or purpose.” Brinelle shook her head. “The Remnant must be here. There’s nowhere else it could be.”

  Windrunner looked around the Treasury. “It’s not here.”

  “The Syren of the Seas crashed into these shoals a hundred years or so ago,” Brinelle said, gently poking through a chest of moldering clothes. She paused, then stood as if she’d had a revelation. “But the Remnants would have been hidden long before that.”

  Windrunner spun around, looking at the lost cargo of the Syren. No, these things were too new to hold the Remnant. “Right. The Remnant couldn’t have been aboard the Syren. It would have been here already.” Windrunner moved toward the door, leaning against the rickety jamb and looking out at the grass-green water. “So where would it be? It’s not like they could have buried it out in a field or something.”

  He slung his pack off his shoulder and rummaged through it until he found the map. It had led them here in the first place. Perhaps it would give them more directions now that they’d arrived?

  He stared at it, but it remained the same as always. No running of ink or hidden messages coming forth this time. He tried to force something to happen, like he had when he’d made the winds disappear, but he didn’t dare try all that hard. The last thing he wanted to do was Destroy the map. Then they’d be completely lost.

  He put the map back in his pack and stared out the door, at a loss. His eyes traveled the waters, glistening green nearby and crystal blue beyond the coral walls. The water here was shallow, knee- or thigh-deep at best, but it would make a poor hiding place. One big storm and poof—priceless chunk of magic, gone.

  The portal sat outside the coral, placid and heavy and completely out of place. Why would it be here, of all places? There was nothing for days in any direction. When the portal was constructed, there wasn’t even a town. Just a shoal in the middle of the ocean, somehow protected from the elements …

  He should have seen it earlier. This place wasn’t convenient, or even perfect. It was too perfect. What are the odds a shoal would have been able to stand against the pounding of the ocean, and the wind and waves and sun? What are the odds Evantar would have stumbled upon it while they were looking for a place to stash the Remnant?

  Evantar hadn’t found the perfect place to hide it. They’d Created the perfect place. The Syren had just happened to crash into Evantar’s hiding place and claim it for themselves.

  “It won’t be anywhere in town,” Windrunner said, more to himself than Brinelle. “It’ll be in the shoal itself.” His eyes remained locked on the portal. “And that’s the only thing that’s been here long enough to give us a clue.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Brinelle said. She sounded skeptical. Or maybe unhappy about following the suggestion of a Varyah.

  Windrunner sighed. “Can’t we pretend everything’s all right between us?” he asked, more out of frustration than expecting any kind of answer.

  He glanced back at Brinelle. She’d frozen as if he’d slapped her.

  “I …” He didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry. I just hate that you refuse to talk to me now. We had something great for a while there, but now it’s like you’re waiting for me to grow fangs and attack. How can I try to stay myself when the only person I can talk to, who won’t constantly insult me, treats me like a monster-in-training?”

  He hadn’t realized how much pent-up frustration he had until the words had come pouring out. He felt like he should regret them, but it was too good to have said it.

  Brinelle’s eyes fell. She seemed to struggle with words as much as he had at first.

  Damn it. Now he’d put her on the spot, in a situation he knew was hard for her. Way to be the good guy, Windrunner.

  He turned and left the Treasury, standing in the sunlight as if that could cleanse the darkness from his soul. If only it could. That would solve a lot of problems.

  After a moment Brinelle came and stood beside him, closer than she had been before. She seemed uncomfortable, but she was making an effort. That would have to do.

  They didn’t say any more on the subject. They left the Treasury behind and went to find Tobain. When they mentioned the portal, his face darkened. “That thing ain’t right,” he said. “Those monsters that burned us up came from there. Bad things happen to folk who get too close to it. Back in the first days of Syrenia, some of the crew tried to take it down and use the stone. Good material, y’know? They didn’t last.”

  “What do you mean?” Windrunner asked.

  “It killed them. Struck ’em down when they tried to move it.”

  Windrunner wanted to glance at Brinelle, to see her reaction, but he didn’t want to seem suspicious. Tobain was already keeping an eye on him after he’d poked his head into the Syren. He had a feeling if Tobain knew they were associated with Evantar, and the portal and Shahadán, he would get much less friendly.

  “Ever since, we don’t venture near that thing. It’s cursed something fierce.”

  Someone called Tobain’s name, and the hunchback excused himself. Windrunner waited until he was out of earshot before releasing a sigh. “Great. Now what?”

  “We must still reach the portal,” Brinelle said.

  “So we need a boat.” Windrunner looked around. “I don’t think they’d be happy to lend us one if they knew where we wanted to go.”

  Then don’t tell them. Better yet, don’t ask.

  Windrunner shook the thought from his mind. He was going to get into some serious trouble if he let the darkness of his magic direct him.

  They moved through the town until they found Fi’ar knee deep in water and kelp, supporting giant columns while men above braced and hammered them into place. It was a job for three or four men, but Fi’ar made it look easy.

  They waited until he was done and the urn warrior waded over to them. His forehead was beaded with sweat, making his vivid orange tattoos seem all the brighter. Windrunner had to consciously look away from them and focus on the man’s eyes.

  “We need to get to the portal,” he said. No need to bother with pleasantries around him. Fi’ar would just scoff and insult Windrunner some more.

  “Then borrow a boat.”

  “The portal is considered taboo,” Brinelle said.

  “Then don’t tell them where you’ll take it.”

  “These people trust us. We don’t want to betray that,” Windrunner said. “And that means no stealing a boat, either.”

  Fi’ar turned his dark eyes to Windrunner and looked at him for a moment, sizing him up.

  “Would you stop that?” he said, his hands balling into fists. “If you aren’t calling me names you’re looking at me like some interesting fungus growing under your boots.”


  A smirk spread across Fi’ar’s face, but he didn’t respond to Windrunner’s outburst. “If they will not give you a boat, and you do not want to steal one, you will have to find another way to the portal.” He looked out toward the coral wall. “Perhaps you could wade there, but I doubt it.”

  Windrunner sighed, forcing his fists to relax. He took a few deep breaths and thought things through. They had to get out there, and rowing was the only way. They couldn’t afford to wait any longer—they’d already lost days helping out around Syrenia, while the Shahadán had gone who-knows-where. The longer they delayed, the more places would meet the Destruction of the Shahadán.

  He turned to Brinelle. “Could you Create a boat?”

  Her face scrunched up as she thought about it. “Possibly. But the drain on my magic would be significant. I would need time to prepare, to meditate.”

  Something in her tone told Windrunner she wasn’t looking forward to the prospect. He didn’t want to overtax her magic, given he had no idea what that would do to her. If she was wary of that, he would be, too.

  But they still needed a boat.

  “I guess it’s not really stealing, since we’ll give it back,” he said. “We’ll just borrow a boat for a while.”

  He glanced at Brinelle. Would she condemn his justification? Would she see this action as one a Varyah would make and bring her fury down upon him? He’d just gotten her to speak to him again.

  She nodded, though her face looked like she’d eaten something sour. “We must,” she said.

  Windrunner finally let out his breath.

  “I’ll stay here,” Fi’ar said. “If all three of us disappear, it will raise suspicions. But if I still work, they’ll assume you two are around as well.”

  Borrowing a boat in Syrenia turned out to be the easiest task they’d undertaken thus far. There were dozens tied to the base of every building in sight, and no one seemed to pay much attention to them. Windrunner didn’t even feel guilty as he and Brinelle paddled away from the town.