Several people were clustered at the far end of the table. Windrunner didn’t need Brinelle to tell him they were important—he knew it from the way they sat with erect postures, speaking about intellectual subjects and not even trying to hide their disdain for one another.
“These men and women hold the six highest offices in Evantar, behind the Godspeaker,” she whispered.
Right. Don’t piss them off.
They didn’t even glance at him as he sat next to Brinelle.
He tried not to fidget, but he couldn’t contain his nerves. Why were these important people here? Or, better yet, why was he? He was just the stranger who’d tumbled through some magic tunnel, chased by monsters.
Now that he thought about it, he’d bet that was exactly why he was here with them.
He glanced at the mazahnen outside. Every now and then, the others at the table did too. They were clearly disturbed by the sight.
Windrunner leaned toward Brinelle. “Now what?” he whispered.
She glanced around the table. “We wait for the Godspeaker.”
Great. The seven most important people in this place, Brinelle, and him. Wouldn’t that be fun.
When the Godspeaker entered, Windrunner felt as tiny as a flea. He was a tall man in his early fifties, his dark hair sprinkled with grey. His strong, clean-shaven jaw was set in a bitter scowl and his deep brown eyes scanned the attendants with pious disdain. He wore a large ring on his right hand, clearly a badge of high office. The thin linen robe he wore could not hide his square shoulders and powerful muscles.
He scowled at the room and everyone in it, as if the sight was offensive. Definitely more vengeful knight than benevolent priest.
“What is the meaning of this?” He didn’t speak, he bellowed—and the entire room tensed at his anger.
Then all eyes turned to Windrunner.
He’d thought his mother had a wicked glare when he was a kid. She had nothing on the knights and priests here. Their eyes were full of condemnation and haughtiness, though some did show signs of genuine curiosity or fear. Windrunner wanted to sink under the table and escape.
Yeah, sorry. New guy here.
“Brinelle,” the Godspeaker said. The woman jumped at her name. “Explain.”
Brinelle seemed terrified by the Godspeaker’s wrath. She wrung her hands beneath the table. Windrunner could see she was having a hard time sorting through her thoughts, finding suitable answers.
“Godspeaker,” she said, nodding to the man. “I wish I had the explanations you seek, but I don’t understand the situation myself. I was patrolling the perimeter, as was my duty this day, when I saw a flash of light from the portal.” She paused, and Windrunner could see the priests and knights glancing at one another. “I went to investigate and found this man, called Windrunner, being attacked by mazahnen.”
A few of the people present murmured to themselves or their neighbors. They sounded nervous.
“It was clear Windrunner had activated the portal and been brought here, so I decided it must be the will of Evantar. I led him inside …”
“What gave you the right to decide the will of Evantar?” the Godspeaker asked. The question was deathly quiet, even more frightening than if he’d bellowed it like he’d done earlier. “You allowed an outsider into our halls based on your supposition of a god’s will?”
Brinelle’s shoulders fell, and she stared at the table like she was trying not to cry.
“The child did well,” one of the priests said. At least, Windrunner assumed he was a priest. He didn’t look like a knight. Small and old, but with keen eyes, his skin was so pale it looked as if he hadn’t seen the sun in years. “It’s clear the boy is not from Nevantia and is not a pilgrim. The light from the portal and the presence of the mazahnen would be a clear enough sign this boy deserves our attention.”
The Godspeaker glared at the man, but did not refute his statement. “Then the question becomes,” he said, turning his hateful stare back to Windrunner, “what to do with you now.”
“You’re certain they are mazahnen?” one of the women asked Brinelle. She did not glance behind her, out the window, though several others did. Black spots still littered the sky.
Brinelle nodded.
Silence fell over the room, as if a shroud had been laid atop it.
“What does that mean?” Windrunner asked. He could tell there was much more going on than what he could see. Something about those mazahnen frightened these people—men and women who were knights, or priests, and were capable of magic—so much it left them stunned. Windrunner couldn’t help but be nervous too. If people as powerful as them were scared, he’d be an idiot not to follow suit.
The Godspeaker placed his head in his hands, rubbing his forehead as if Windrunner’s questions gave him a headache. “You could not begin to understand the implications.”
Shame-fueled anger surged through Windrunner. It was the same thing he’d heard from the people back home his entire life—you aren’t important enough to know. Too naïve, too immature. “Why? Because I’m young and stupid?”
The Godspeaker raised his head, glaring at Windrunner like he couldn’t believe he’d been spoken to that way. Windrunner wasn’t sure he believed it himself. He hadn’t meant for it to burst from his mouth like that. But now that it was out, he stared at the Godspeaker with all the anger boiling inside him. His knuckles cracked as he squeezed his hands into fists.
“You have no training in the ways of Evantar,” the Godspeaker said with exaggerated, forced calm. “You do not understand our history, our ways, or have even the most basic foundation of our knowledge. There is no way you could understand the implications because you are an outsider.”
Windrunner felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He sat back, his fists falling open and limp at his sides. The sinking-under-the-table routine was starting to sound better and better.
“The boy must be trained,” the first man who’d spoken said. Everyone turned to him as if he’d said they should invite the mazahnen in for tea.
“Absolutely not.”
“If he has been brought here by the will of Evantar, it’s our duty to ensure he is equipped for whatever is required of him.”
“Master Kelsen has a point,” another woman said. Then she gestured to Windrunner. “Besides, he has released the mazahnen. He is indebted to Evantar.” Many of the others nodded. Windrunner caught several of them glancing back at him, appraisingly. “He has a responsibility to better himself and train for the fight ahead.”
In other words, you’re scrawny. Bulk up and kill the monsters you brought with you.
“You’re suggesting we welcome this boy into our sacred places and train him in ways none outside Evantar has been trained?” The Godspeaker’s wrath had gone cold again, making Windrunner shudder. “Even knowing what he has done?”
“Suspecting,” Brinelle corrected. Her voice was small and scared, but still she looked the others in the eye. Except for the Godspeaker.
“Suspecting,” Kelsen agreed. He seemed to be the only one willing to stick his neck out for Windrunner. “We cannot know what has happened for certain without further investigation.”
The Godspeaker took in the others, clearly wishing he could find someone who would agree with him. Then he turned back to Windrunner. “Very well,” he spat. “You will remain here until more details can be ascertained. Brinelle, he will be your responsibility. I expect you to ensure he is taught what he needs to know and does not disrupt our activities in any way.”
She nodded, but Windrunner couldn’t read her feelings on the matter.
“We will meet again when the threat has become clearer,” the Godspeaker said. Windrunner wasn’t sure whether the “threat” was the mazahnen or him.
The Godspeaker left the room with a contemptuous sweep of his robes. They’d been dismissed.
Brinelle led Windrunner out of the meeting hall and through a maze of corridors. How could she keep track of where she was? All these hallways looked the sa
me.
“So now what happens?” Windrunner asked. He was having trouble keeping up with her.
“You have become a pilgrim of Evantar. You will be treated as one of us until the Godspeaker says otherwise.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you will train with us, and we will teach you what you need to know. When you are ready, you will fight alongside us to right the wrong you have done.”
“Or until the Godspeaker decides I’m not worth the trouble,” Windrunner muttered.
He hadn’t expected Brinelle to respond, but she nodded. Great. That’s comforting.
“What if I don’t want to be a pilgrim of Evantar?”
“You don’t have a choice. The moment you brought the mazahnen to us, you became indentured to Evantar. You belong to the monastery.”
“Like hell I do! I don’t belong to anyone.”
“This is your penance, Windrunner. You have released a great evil upon us. You cannot shrug off the duty of correcting your wrongs.”
Windrunner’s rage died in his chest. Of course he couldn’t. He didn’t even want to—as much as he hated the thought of belonging to Evantar, he wanted to help. This was his mess, and he wasn’t going to let a bunch of strangers clean it up for him. Still, the thought of being indentured to the Godspeaker chafed.
“The mazahnen were annoying, but they didn’t seem like that big of a threat,” he muttered.
“They aren’t,” Brinelle replied. Her voice was quiet, the fear in it very real. “But the mazahnen are not the only evil that followed you to Nevantia.”
Sour, icy dread seeped into Windrunner’s stomach. “What do you mean?”
Brinelle stared at him in silence. Several times he thought she would explain, but she never did. “Come,” she said, turning away. “You must be tired.”
He grabbed her arm before she could walk away. “What are you talking about? What evil did I bring with me?” His heart was racing, and the fear in her eyes made his own terror grow.
“I dare not say,” she said. “I may be wrong.”
“But you don’t think you are,” he guessed.
“The best thing any of us can do right now is prepare,” Brinelle said. “We must be ready for whatever comes.”
He wished she would answer his questions, but he could tell nothing would pry the information from her. Fine. He would learn in time. Until then, Brinelle had a point. He couldn’t be much use in the battles ahead if he was weak and ignorant. As much as he might hate his situation, he had a lot to learn from Evantar in the meantime.
He’d prove to them he could do it. He’d prove it to everyone.
They walked in silence for several minutes before Brinelle stopped in front of a door that looked exactly like all the others they’d passed. “This will be your room while you are here. I will come get you at sunrise tomorrow morning. I suggest you be ready.”
Without another word, she turned and left.
Windrunner entered the small room and looked around. It was sparse, like he’d expect from a monastery, but comfortable enough. The bed was soft. A writing desk stood in one corner, made of the same pale wood that paneled the walls, holding a large bowl and a box of writing supplies. Next to that was something like an altar. A slab of white marble—what else?—carved in graceful patterns that made him think of freedom. A rug of thick linen covered the tile floor, and a curtain of the same material hung over a small, high window in the far wall.
Slinging his pack into a corner, he lay down and was instantly asleep.
IT WAS STILL DARK when Windrunner was woken by a knock on his door. He’d had plenty of experience waking before the sun in his lifetime, but those early mornings hadn’t been after a day like yesterday. A few hours’ sleep after being sucked through a magical portal and chased through the desert by strange monsters didn’t leave him feeling refreshed.
Windrunner stumbled from his bed and opened the door. Brinelle stood on the other side, leaning on her white staff, exuding poise and grace. Windrunner tried not to let his jaw hang open. She wore a tiny white top and matching skirt, leaving her arms, legs, and midsection bare. Her skin was smooth, her curves graceful and enticing.
And here he was, rumpled and filthy and surely looking as banged up as he felt. He combed his hands through his hair and tried to smooth some of the wrinkles from his clothes. “Uh … hi.”
“Good morning,” Brinelle said. She raised an eyebrow at his appearance, but made no comment about it. “I have brought you suitable clothing.”
She handed him a stack of neatly folded clothes, all made of crisp cream linen. Tunic, trousers, and another pair of pants cropped above the knee. They were of a strange cut, loose and flowing, and the material was so light he wondered if he’d even feel them.
If nothing else, they’d be better than the grubby clothes he was wearing. Bloodstained wool didn’t feel very appealing right now.
“Put on the okura.” Brinelle said. Windrunner gave her a blank look. “The short pants.”
“All right.”
“And bring me that bowl.”
Windrunner put the clothes on his bed and held the bowl in front of Brinelle. She raised her palm. A ball of water appeared above it, swirling with an invisible current. She tipped her hand and the water splashed into the bowl. “Clean yourself up first. And don’t take long. I would rather not have to explain our tardiness.”
Windrunner closed the door, shaking his head. He’d known she could do magic, but watching it happen was completely different. He had a million questions. A million more. He sighed. If only there was something here he understood. A few hours and he was already tired of needing Brinelle to explain every tiny detail to him.
He washed up in the cold water. His cheek was still tender to the touch, but the cut was almost completely healed. Whatever Brinelle had put on it last night, he’d have to see if he could get some. It’d be nice to heal injuries in a day. Then again, without her magic it probably wouldn’t do much.
The pants fit low on his waist, the light fabric floating around his thighs. He felt naked with his chest and feet bare. Still, Brinelle hadn’t been wearing much more and she’d seemed confident enough. He could go along with it, right?
Acting confident was a lot different than being confident, though. As soon as he opened the door Windrunner’s bravado faltered.
Just do what she does, he told himself. You’re in a different culture now. Follow her lead.
They walked down the hall on silent, shoeless feet, passing countless doors and side passages. Everything melded together into a canvas of white tile and pale wood. Would it kill these people to add some color?
He’d stopped paying attention to their surroundings when a square of darkness appeared down a passageway. Windrunner spun toward it. It was a door—dark stained oak rather than the pale, white wood of the rest of the monastery. It was carved to look like vines had grown around it, like the columns in the forest had been. The memory stabbed him, made him feel even farther from the home he’d been pulled away from.
“What’s in there?” he asked, pointing to the door.
Brinelle paused and for a moment he thought she would ignore his question and pull him along. But something softened in her demeanor, just a little, and she led him toward the oak door. Brinelle pushed it open.
Green. His eyes hurt from the intensity of the color. The entire room beyond was filled with greenery, bushes and leaves and every kind of plant imaginable. Blankets of grass and moss grew on everything. Windrunner sucked in a breath and smelled moisture and loam, like back home. His eyes stung and he shook his head. You are not going to cry at a couple of trees.
The ceiling was stories high and made of glass, allowing brilliant sunlight to stream into the room. Despite the desert sun it was cool and moist inside. Windrunner peered through the trees. This place must be as big as his family’s farm—he couldn’t even begin to see where it ended.
“What is this place?” he asked, ap
proaching one of the gigantic trees. He couldn’t keep the reverence from his voice.
“This is the Sanctuary of Memory. It’s a place set aside to remind us of the homelands we left.”
“You mean you left all this,” he asked as he motioned to the trees, “for that desert out there?”
She hesitated. “Others did, yes.”
“But not you?”
“My parents were Evantar,” she said. Her tone told him that was all she would say on the matter.
He noted the were and made a mental note to avoid any questions about family in the future.
Windrunner closed his eyes, smelling the scents of water and life, listening to the peaceful silence. How could anyone leave this for such an arid, barren place? If they walked away from this seeking holiness, they weren’t looking in the right place.
“But why do you have to seclude yourselves here?” he asked, opening his eyes to look at Brinelle.
“Many reasons. Fewer distractions, more dedication. Our enemies would love nothing better than to see us destroyed, and the deep desert offers us a measure of protection with its hostility and remoteness. More than anything, though, the magic is more potent here than elsewhere in the world. We don’t know why, but it is, and therefore mages from across the world flock here.”
Windrunner nodded, only half-listening. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the trees. He stepped between then, exploring like a child let loose in a corn maze. “Where do you get the water … oh. Never mind. You can make it.”
Brinelle nodded, Creating another swirl of water in her palm. “Evantar is service to the magic of Creation. Water is among the simplest things to Create. We call it the kakutra naan, and it is one of the things everyone in Evantar can do.”
“So everyone here serves magic. You can all use it?”
“Yes.”
“What if you don’t have magic, but you want to be a knight of Evantar?”
“Evantar would never accept pilgrims without the magic of Creation. It is the essence of what we are.”
“People can’t join because they want to?”
“No. One must experience the magic of Creation to serve it properly. Otherwise they cannot understand.”
Remnant Page 3
