Driftwood

by Marie Brennan

  Except that her faith was different. It wasn’t about war, or killing, or sacrifice. It was about preservation. Last endured; therefore, it was the duty of His followers to preserve what they could. Beginning, she said, with the stories about His deeds.

  “Good,” Ctarl whispered when he heard. She’d been the wiser one from the start. She’d known that what Ctarl was doing was wrong . . . but the spark at the heart of it was true.

  It meant he could face the end with a calm soul. Driftwood and its god were in good hands. And whatever waited for Ctarl on the other side, he trusted Last would see him through.

  recorded by Yilime

  The Community

  SOME OF THE AUDIENCE try to leave at the beginning of Teryx’s story. They’ve had dealings with one branch or another of the cult before; they don’t want to sit through more proselytization.

  But the blue-robed believers are still standing in front of the sole archway that leads from the amphitheater, and they aren’t letting anyone through. Not even as Teryx’s story draws to a close, as dawn draws near. One winged attendee takes flight from the topof the stands, but the rest stay until she’s done.

  “You worship Last?” Noirin says in disbelief when Teryx stops talking. “I’ve seen his memories. He isn’t lying to you all out of false modesty or some desire to trick you. He truly isn’t a god.”

  Teryx reaches for Noirin’s face as if to stroke her cheek, and only smiles again—that same peaceful, beatific smile—when Noirin knocks her hand away. “Yes, you carry some of His memories. I heard that He’d been seen dancing in Quinendeniua. Such a blessing for you! Truly, He has honored you above others.”

  “A blessing she paid him for,” Kuondae mutters from the benches. She casts an uneasy glance at the sky.

  Noirin leans forward, searching Teryx’s eyes as if she can find the truth in their depths. One hand rises to her mouth—and Febrenew almost knocks one of his bottles to the ground. A lot of business gets done at Spit in the Crush’s Eye, and he only hears about half of it . . . but this is part of that half.

  Noirin bites down on the nut she’s palmed into her mouth, cracking its shell, and breathes the dust it contains into Teryx’s face.

  The cult leader recoils, coughing. Febrenew grins and sets the wine bottle back in place. Not everything works on everybody, but he has yet to hear of anyone who’s immune to this. He’s only surprised there are still any truthnuts for sale in Driftwood.

  “Tell me,” Noirin says, her voice cold. “Did you truly see Last walk into the Crush?”

  The dust from the heart of a truthnut doesn’t compel anyone to speak; it only prevents them from lying. But Teryx, once she stops coughing, doesn’t flinch from answering. “He sat for a long time on the stump of the tree in Latch, looking into the Crush. He knew I was watching Him—”

  Noirin is no fool, and she’s clearly aware of the limitations of the dust. “Do you have proof that he knew, or do you only think it?”

  “I think it,” Teryx admits. “But even those who believe He is only a man would agree that He is alert to his surroundings. It is very unlikely that He did not notice me.”

  That’s enough to satisfy Noirin. “Go on.”

  “I said my prayers quietly,” Teryx says, “because I know that He does not wish to be disturbed by our worship. Then He closed his eyes. I do not think He was troubled; His look was, to me, one of peace. When He opened his eyes, He looked at something in his hand and sighed.”

  “What was it?”

  “I could not see.”

  Small enough to fit into Last’s palm . . . there are countless things that could be, ranging from the ordinary to the sentimental to the magical. Teryx says, “He stood and slipped whatever it was into His pocket. Then he walked out of Latch, across the rubble of Alok Rath, and through the rain of a world whose name we have unfortunately lost.”

  “And then?”

  The entire amphitheater seems to be holding its breath, waiting for the answer. Teryx knows it, too. She walks away from Noirin, toward the front of the stage, and turns her radiant expression on the assembled crowd. “And then the light flared and I felt in my bones a strange harmony, as if the very substance of Driftwood itself sang. Overcome, I fell to my knees, and when my vision cleared Last was gone.

  “He has transcended!” Teryx’s voice rings throughout the amphitheater. “The god of Driftwood has accepted His divinity at last! No longer bound by flesh, He has become one with his realm, and is with us all now. Give thanks to your god, and praise His name!”

  Even without the dust of a truthnut working on her, no one could doubt Teryx’s belief in her words. It echoes back in the voices of her followers, crying out, “Praise His name!”

  Their proclamation seems to shake the ground itself. Then the shaking grows stronger, and it becomes obvious to everyone the cultists have nothing to do with it.

  “Earthquake!” shouts one of the Drifters, a woman who knows them well from her work out on the Edge.

  But few people there know what to do in an earthquake. They crouch helplessly where they are, or try to move and get tossed from their feet. Febrenew goes under his table, while around him all the bottles and cups crash down to shatter on the stone.

  A deeper crashing comes from a little distance away, and with it, a cut-off scream. Only when the shaking subsides do people raise their heads and see what has happened.

  The archway that leads to the amphitheater floor has collapsed. A foot and the hem of a silver-blue robe are all that can be seen of the cultist who didn’t leap clear in time. The rest are helping each other back to their feet, exchanging frightened glances and whispers.

  All but Teryx. She kneels before the pile of memorial tokens, hands raised to the sky. “He has shown us His will! We have come here to honor Him, and here we shall stay!” Her wild laughter seems to light the amphitheater itself.

  But the light isn’t coming from Teryx.

  Febrenew lurches over the sea of shattered crockery. “I don’t give a piss in the Crush what you believe. Dawn’s coming. We have to get out of here, now.”

  Eshap and several other Drifters are already digging at the rubble, trying to see if they can clear a passage. Others didn’t realize the problem until Febrenew gave it voice, and now they shriek in sudden fear.

  One of the cultists tries to stop Eshap. Then he doubles over, because Dreceyl has cannoned headfirst into his stomach. Noirin cries out, “God or no god, you know Last doesn’t want people being killed in his name!”

  She inhaled some of the dust herself when she spat it in Teryx’s face, but it doesn’t take magic to make her words true. Lazr-iminya begins organizing the Drifters working at the archway, while Ioi runs to the top of the amphitheater and begins to shout, waving her arms. Not many of the people present for the memorial can fly, but those who can grab the smallest of the trapped—Febrenew’s lizard-like cup-washer; the squirming and protesting Dreceyl—and carry them out. If the fliers lurch to the ground with more speed and less grace than usual, that’s still better than remaining where they are.

  One of them comes back, bearing the top end of a ladder, followed by some ropes. Soggeny lies on the other side of that wall, and the people there are doing what they can. Down at the archway, a tiny gap opens, and Kuondae is the first to wiggle through it, while others curse her for saving her own furry hide. But not long after she vanishes, two of the rockmunchers from Skyless show up and begin chewing their way through the collapsed stone from the other end. They avoid this place when they can, which means someone must have sent them.

  Even the cultists help. The scribe’s hands bleed as he tears at the rubble blocking their way. Whatever Teryx may say, they didn’t come to the amphitheater to die.

  But Teryx herself stays, kneeling in front of the memorial, hands spread and face turned to the sky. The final Drifter out through the collapsed tunnel hears her laughing.

  Then no one hears anything at all. And when one of the fliers glides by to
take a look, carefully keeping to the safe air above Soggeny, all he sees is the empty floor of the amphitheater, and the pile of gifts laid there in Last’s name.

  Safely in the subterranean chambers of Skyless, Noirin kicks one foot out in frustration. “I waited too long. And I didn’t expect a cult.”

  “They’ve been around for ages,” Febrenew says. “Longer than probably anything except Last himself. He told me they come and go, sort of—different groups, different spins on the idea of his divinity. More of them at some times than others. A lot of them, lately.” That might be why Last thought about forgetting.

  On the far side of the chamber, someone is bandaging the scribe’s bleeding hands. His scroll is stuffed through the belt of his robe. Even if Last had forgotten, others would remember for him.

  “I wanted to question her more,” Noirin says, staring at the narrow patch of light that is all that remains of access to the amphitheater. “What she saw . . . where was she standing when it happened? Could Last have simply gone behind something while she wasn’t looking? She said it herself, in her story—he goes into the fringes of the Crush sometimes. It doesn’t mean he’s dead.”

  Much less transcended. Febrenew shrugs. “Or remember what Kuondae said. Last does lie, when he needs to. Maybe he staged that on purpose, to make the cultists think he was gone.”

  “Except that it will only encourage them,” Noirin mutters. “They’ll spread the word.”

  Febrenew grimaces. “Yeah. Then again, I’m not sure anything could stop them. Not until Driftwood itself crumbles into dust.”

  A gust of wind whistles through the crack in the collapsed tunnel, hot and dry. Like the wind in Ioi’s story, except not flaying the skin from people’s flesh.

  Everything exists in Driftwood at some point or another. Like ways to turn people into wind. And in Eshap’s story, Qoress took on the appearance of the king, not as an illusion, but for the rest of his life.

  Febrenew wonders: is there any way to do that in Driftwood right now?

  His map is still in the amphitheater, surrounded by shattered bottles. He doesn’t much fancy going back there the next night to retrieve it—and besides, he has two copies ready and waiting. This one can be his own tribute to Last.

  Because if the man has changed his appearance, then by the time the people of Driftwood notice there’s someone else who’s been around for far too long to be explained, Febrenew himself will be long gone. If Last is dead, he deserves some kind of memorial. If he truly is a god—or has become one— then this can be Febrenew’s one and only offering to him.

  And if Last shows up later at the new incarnation of Spit in the Crush’s Eye, then Febrenew will pour him a drink and they can have a good laugh over this whole affair.

  Noirin sighs. “I should get back to Surnyao. I haven’t answered my question, not really . . . but my people need me.”

  “Keep remembering,” Febrenew says.

  “Keep remembering,” she echoes, and walks away.

  It has the sound of a blessing.

  Smiling at the End of the World

  PAGGARAT WAS DOOMED from the start—or rather, from the end. Nothing new about that; every part of Driftwood, every building, every person, every bit of dirt that makes up a world fragment is there because its doom finally came calling, and every last shred of it will eventually fade to nothing. Period, the end, the rest is silence.

  But Paggarat was especially doomed. Most worlds are big when they arrive at Driftwood’s Edge. They shrink as they go in, of course; time passes, the reality decays, and what was once a country-sized chunk of land with a population big enough to fill cities sitting on the outskirts of this place becomes a three-block ghetto of four inbred families gasping for air in the Crush that is the center of Driftwood. Paggarat was different. Paggarat showed up one day as a farm-sized bit of land with a grand total of two inhabitants.

  Bookies in the Shreds put the odds of it surviving for even five of its not particularly long years at a hundred to one.

  Thing about the bookies is, they’re full of shit. Most of them take your money and vanish to a Shred you never heard of; saves them the hassle of trying to usefully measure time when there are as many suns, moons, seasons, clocks, and calendars as there are dying worlds in Driftwood. More, actually, since some places have several of each. But the bookies really tried to make a go of this one—some did, anyway—because Paggarat was going to be gone so fast they might for once be able to make real wagers on it.

  I laughed myself sick over that one, dozens of times in the years and years that Paggarat was in Driftwood. Aun and Esr, they never laughed. They were good people, much better than me. They just smiled at each other and went on living their lives, as the inexorable cycle of Driftwood dragged Paggarat farther and farther in, away from the Edge, through the Shreds (there’s a joke; Paggarat was no bigger than a Shred to begin with), and to the lip of the Crush itself.

  No idea how they did it. No idea how they kept smiling, kept loving each other, when they were the only survivors of the cataclysm that destroyed their world (except for their farm) and everyone in it (except for themselves). No idea how they could not go crazy when their holy words said two would survive to repopulate their world after the apocalypse, but Esr was barren and there was no world left to repopulate anyway. It wasn’t that they believed the new world would come after the Crush ground them out of existence; they said they didn’t, and I believed them. I’ve seen enough people lie about it to know. Driftwood is the end, the end of ends. Nothing comes after that. Only oblivion, and maybe not even that much.

  Yet Aun and Esr kept smiling.

  Call it madness. Call it denial. Call it whatever; I don’t have a word for it. Somehow Aun and Esr smiled through the years as they aged, as Paggarat faded and shrank, as the Crush drew ever closer. Somehow, even though pretty soon there was going to be nothing left of them, of their love, they found peace and contentment in that love, and didn’t fear the end. The last time I saw them, Aun was making dinner from the food Esr had begged in the Shreds that day, and she was cleaning the one room they had left.

  Then they went into the Crush, and even I wouldn’t follow them there.

  The only thing that’s left of Paggarat is my memory. It was doomed, like the rest of Driftwood, and Aun and Esr with it. It lasted far longer than anyone expected, and so pretty much everybody lost their bets except the lunatics who took the top end, and the bookies wouldn’t pay out to them—but that’s not why the bettors really lost. Paggarat was less doomed than they wagered, not because of how long it lasted, but because of how it went out.

  Because of Aun and Esr, smiling at each other until the end of the world.

  MARIE BRENNAN holds an undergraduate degree in archaeology and folklore from Harvard University and pursued graduate studies in cultural anthropology and folklore at Indiana University before leaving to write full-time. Her academic background fed naturally into her work, providing her with the tools to build fantastical worlds.

  Her first series, the Doppelganger duology of Warrior and Witch, came out in 2006. From there she moved to historical fantasy, first with the Onyx Court series: Midnight Never Come (2008), In Ashes Lie (2009), A Star Shall Fall (2010), With Fate Conspire (2011), spanning three hundred years of London’s history, and then with the acclaimed pseudo-Victorian Memoirs of Lady Trent. The first book of that series, A Natural History of Dragons (2013), was a finalist for the World Fantasy Award, and won the Prix Imaginales in France for Best Translated Novel; the final book, Within the Sanctuary of Wings (2017), won the RT Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best Fantasy Novel. The series as a whole was a finalist for both the Hugo Award and the Grand Prix l’Imaginaire.

  Brennan is a member of the Book View Café authors’ cooperative, where she has published the Wilders urban fantasies Lies and Prophecy (2012) and Chains and Memory (2016) as well as several short story collections and nonfiction works, including Writing Fight Scenes and the Patreon-supported New Worl
ds series of worldbuilding guides. Her fondness for role-playing games has led her to write both fiction and setting material for several game lines, including Legend of the Five Rings and Tiny d6. Together with fellow author Alyc Helms, she is the author of the upcoming Rook and Rose epic fantasy trilogy, which will come out under the joint name of M. A. Carrick.

  She has taught creative writing to both college students and twelve-year-olds, and run several convention workshops on the art of fight scenes. When not writing or playing RPGs, she practices photography and shōrin-ryū karate. She lives with her husband in the San Francisco Bay Area.

  Table of Contents

  Driftwood

  A Note to the Reader

  The Storyteller

  A Heretic by Degrees

  The Defender

  Into the Wind

  The Peacemaker

  The Ascent of Reason

  The Outsider

  Remembering Light

  The Believer

  The God of Driftwood

  The Community

  Smiling at the End of the World

  About the Author

  Cover