Remnant

by Brenda J. Pierson

  “And I’m guessing if you have this magic you have to serve?”

  “It isn’t required,” she said, though her tone told him it might as well be.

  “That sounds pretty arrogant. You won’t accept the help of someone with a willing heart just because they can’t make water out of thin air? I’ll bet this place would be a lot more cheerful if you let the people who wanted to be here come and didn’t make everyone with this magic serve instead.”

  Brinelle glanced at him, eyebrow raised. Windrunner could have smacked himself. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. The last thing he wanted to do was offend this beautiful, intimidating woman.

  Brinelle tossed the ball of water onto the roots of a nearby tree. She didn’t seem angry at him for his argument. “Evantar is not a life to choose easily. It is a life of seclusion and loneliness, and the training requires strength of body and mind that can only be found in those chosen and prepared by the magic.”

  “It sounds like you guys think you’re better than everyone else because the magic ‘chose’ you.”

  Brinelle seemed distressed, but stubborn, and didn’t respond.

  Windrunner looked at her, noting the sadness her expression couldn’t hide. He could see she agreed with him, at least a little. But the tenants of Evantar wouldn’t let her admit it. “Are you happy you were chosen?”

  She turned away from him, gazing up at the trees and blue sky beyond the glass. “Most of those chosen are well suited to become Evantar. The magic gives them the disposition and desire to thrive as a person of the desert.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Are you happy to be Evantar?”

  Brinelle sighed, and he saw a flash of regret and anger in her eyes. “Being Evantar took my parents from me before I could know them. But it has also given me the only life I know. The knighthood offers me a chance at vengeance. Justice.” Her fingers tightened on the white wood of her staff. “That life is one I am happy to pursue.”

  “What about the priestess part?”

  Brinelle stood in silence for a long time. Then she shook herself and headed for the door. “We’re late for training.”

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out what that meant.

  Windrunner followed her, more than a little disappointed. Leaving the Sanctuary of Memory and returning to the pale, desolate halls of the Evantar Monastery was somehow harder than leaving the Farmlands.

  Brinelle led him to a large, open room, the walls and floor covered in bamboo mats. They were indeed late—many others were sitting at even intervals around the room, each deep in meditation. Windrunner hadn’t thought much about it, but aside from Brinelle and those in the meeting, these were the first people he’d seen since he’d arrived. How had they not run into anyone else in the hallways? He made a mental note to ask Brinelle about it later.

  Brinelle paused at an altar next to the door that matched the one in his room. She knelt before it for a heartbeat before taking a place in the back of the crowd. Windrunner hesitated. Was he supposed to kneel at that altar too? He didn’t know whether that would honor or offend them, so he followed Brinelle with a nod toward it. Hopefully that would be enough.

  They sat cross-legged and straight-backed for more than an hour. Windrunner found it impossible to stay still. His mind kept wandering, and his body ached to move and stretch. The pain of the last few days was magnified by the stillness until it took all of Windrunner’s willpower not to collapse.

  By the time they were allowed to stand he was stiff and miserable. His legs had long since fallen asleep. His ribs were sore because Brinelle had to elbow him on several occasions to keep him from snoring.

  “How do you do this all the time?” he whispered to her. “My back is killing me.”

  “Your muscles are not accustomed to the posture,” she replied. “The chatana drosand will help ease your pain.”

  “The what?”

  “The rest of the exercise.”

  “You mean there’s more?”

  “Of course. That was the beginning meditation.”

  Oh. Great. I’m going to die.

  She led him through a complicated routine of balancing, lunging, punching, and deflecting. She varied their speed from unbearably slow to quicker than Windrunner could follow. He did his best to keep up, but he flailed and stumbled more often than not. Even he could tell he was an embarrassment.

  After another torturous hour, Windrunner collapsed on the bamboo mat and closed his eyes. He was drenched in sweat. Men and women filed past him, paying no attention to the groaning lump on the floor. Brinelle nudged him with her toe, and he whimpered.

  “I don’t think I can get up.”

  “Of course you can,” she said. There was the slightest hint of amusement in her voice, making Windrunner open an eye and peer up at her. The sight from his viewpoint brought a smirk to his face. Brinelle kicked him again, hard enough to make him avert his eyes but no harder.

  “I sure hope you don’t greet everyone who comes to your door like this,” he said, reaching down to massage his legs. The motion made sharp pain stab into his shoulders and back.

  “Pilgrims aren’t allowed to participate in chatana drosand.”

  “Then why was I given the pleasure?”

  “Because you’re indentured to Evantar. You have a responsibility to help stop the monsters you released, and you are unfit to do so in your present condition.”

  “So now I’m not just a slave, I’m a weak, unfit slave. Thanks.” He sighed. “Anything else you’d like to say, while you’re at it?”

  She hesitated, looking him up and down. “You are also lazy, and probably hungry.”

  His stomach growled at the acknowledgement.

  “You didn’t have to actually insult me more,” he grumbled.

  “You invited me to do so.”

  Windrunner looked up at her again. The jest was a small one, but it was more than he’d expected from her. He couldn’t help but wonder what this woman would be like without the restrictions this stupid religion put on her.

  His stomach grumbled again. Right. Food.

  He struggled to his feet, groaning and grasping at joints like an old man. His entire body was one giant pain, but at least he was standing.

  Brinelle watched him with a straight face, but he swore she was laughing at him. “See? You can get up.”

  Windrunner followed Brinelle through the labyrinth of corridors. He had so many questions—about this place, about her—he had a hard time figuring out where to start. He picked the first thing that caught his attention. “What kind of wood is this? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s called bloodwood,” Brinelle replied. “It’s a tree that grows only in the deep desert.” She paused, then added, “In fact, it’s the only thing that grows in the deep desert.”

  The planks paneling the wall were not straight and even, but were curved and pieced together like a jigsaw puzzle. His eyes followed the meandering grain until he was dizzy. “It’s so light-colored. Why is it called bloodwood?”

  In response, Brinelle called forth her kakutra naan and hurled the ball of water at the wall. The moisture darkened the wood and enhanced its grain, the lines running down the thin planks like rivulets of blood. Windrunner stretched his hand toward the wall and touched the glistening trails. After a few seconds he pulled away. His fingers were covered in blood.

  “All right. That’s not creepy at all.” Windrunner stared at his scarlet fingers, then at the colorless hallway. “Why have something like this on the walls?”

  “The Godspeaker would tell you blood is the liquid representation of Creation. Without it, there is no life. And what is life but a constant act of Creation?”

  Windrunner barely stopped himself from wiping the blood onto his crisp white linen pants. “What would you say?”

  She hesitated, then looked down the hallway as if making sure they were alone. “I say Evantar has nothing else to build with, so they make do.”

 
; Windrunner smirked. They continued on their way, Windrunner’s mind too preoccupied by Brinelle’s surprising insights to ask any more questions.

  He hadn’t realized they were getting close until they entered a room full of people.

  Whenever Windrunner’s folk gathered to eat, he could hear them halfway across the farm. They would talk and eat and laugh as if every meal was a celebration. Windrunner had always loved that about his people.

  Evantar was not like them.

  Dozens of men and women sat at long tables, utterly silent as they ate. They were spaced far enough apart to make it seem like they were alone amongst their brethren. An occasional cough or the sound of a spoon scraping against a bowl broke the silence, but no laughter, no conversations. It felt unnatural to Windrunner.

  They sat away from the others at the end of a long table. A moment later a priest approached and placed steaming bowls of greenish, slimy-looking sludge in front of them. Windrunner stared. He wasn’t quite as hungry as he’d been a moment ago.

  “What is this?” he whispered as Brinelle blew on her spoonful.

  “It’s a stew made from the leaves of the bloodwood,” she replied. “They’re very nutritious, but I fear they have little taste.”

  “At least they don’t taste like blood.”

  Brinelle nodded. “Indeed.”

  He picked at the sludge, watching it ooze from his spoon back to the gelatinous mass in the bowl. He ate a few bites whenever he worked up the courage. It tasted like corn husks and felt like snail slime going down his throat. I’d rather go hungry.

  After the meal Brinelle led him back to the room where he’d met the Godspeaker. It was empty now, yet it seemed even more imposing than it had before. At least then, there had been people—Windrunner could deal with people, even ones as infuriating as the Godspeaker. But now there was just knowledge. Countless tomes filled with more than he could read in a dozen lifetimes. The Godspeaker had told him he couldn’t understand what they were facing because he was ignorant of Evantar and what they knew. Staring at the floor-to-ceiling shelves, Windrunner couldn’t help but agree with him.

  Brinelle sat him at the table and starting piling books in front of him. She dove into lectures about Evantar and the desert as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Windrunner tried to keep up, but it was like trying to absorb a flood with a sponge. There was too much to take in. He nodded and grunted every now and then to look like he was paying attention, but eventually his mind glazed over and Brinelle’s words sounded like gibberish.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to learn. There was just so much, and between sore muscles and grumbling belly he couldn’t stay focused.

  His legs were asleep and his head pounded by the time Brinelle called an end to the lessons. If anything, Windrunner felt more ignorant than he did before. Now he understood the depths of his ignorance. Somehow that was more daunting.

  Brinelle must have sensed how overloaded he was, because instead of leading him to dinner or more work, she brought him back to the Sanctuary of Memory. Stepping through the oak doors was a balm to his weary soul. Windrunner breathed in the cool, moist air with relish. After the dry heat of the monastery and the dusty smell of the library, it was a relief to be among life and moisture once again.

  He and Brinelle wandered through the trees. Every so often Windrunner would find a berry bush or some nuts, and he would pick these and munch on them. “Those are acorns,” he said, pointing out a cluster hanging above their heads. “You can’t eat them raw, but if you treat them properly they’re pretty good.”

  “I never knew,” Brinelle said. She held an assortment of their harvest in her hands—blackberries and walnuts and pine nuts extracted from some fallen cones. She nibbled each one, savoring every bite. “We harvest what we know from these plants, but that knowledge appears very limited.” She looked up at the acorns, as if wondering what other treasures she’d been missing out on.

  “Hey. Evantar isn’t the only place where people know stuff.”

  She glanced at him, a twinkle of amusement in her eyes.

  They came to rest at the top of a small hillock, little more than a hump but still the highest point in the Sanctuary. A cluster of beech trees grew there, and Windrunner leaned against their white bark and closed his eyes. This was the kind of place he belonged in. Not the stuffy halls of Evantar, or the dry Nevantian desert. Here, where there was water and life and peace. “Can I hide in here until this is all over?”

  “It is a Sanctuary,” Brinelle said, as if contemplating the idea.

  Windrunner nodded. They were quiet for a few minutes. “How bad is it?” he asked.

  Brinelle took her time answering. When she spoke, her voice was a whisper. “Bad.”

  Windrunner blew out a breath. It was bad because of him. He’d caused this. Whatever he’d done by trying to slow himself in the portal, he’d opened the way for the mazahnen to follow him to Nevantia. It didn’t matter he had no clue how he’d done it, or that it had been an accident. It was still his fault.

  “Can we beat it?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” Another pause. “If more than the mazahnen were released, I fear there may be nothing we can do.”

  “There has to be something. We’ll find it.”

  Brinelle didn’t seem convinced, but she didn’t argue.

  I’ll find it, Windrunner promised himself. I have to.

  3

  A week went by without a word from the Godspeaker.

  Windrunner was growing used to their routine—mornings at chatana drosand, afternoon lectures on the boring details of Evantar’s history. He wasn’t sure which was worse. His body ached from the demands of the exercise, and his brain hurt from the knowledge being crammed into it. Why should it matter whether Evantar was the god of Creation, or the most powerful Creation mage in history, or both—especially since even the priests and knights couldn’t seem to agree? Who cares that some priest wrote the laws governing the proper behavior for a servant of Evantar five hundred years ago? It’s not like any of that pertained to him.

  His eyes wandered the shelves. There had to be books here a thousand times more exciting than the ones Brinelle decided were important.

  “You should be teaching me about what’s coming,” he’d tell Brinelle. “When I’m fighting for my life against the mazahnen it won’t matter whether I know the twelve sacred names of Evantar.”

  “Patience,” was all she’d reply.

  The only thing of interest Brinelle allowed him to study was a map of the portals. The parchment was so ancient it was locked in a glass case Brinelle refused to open. Windrunner leaned over it, pressing his nose to the glass, tracing the confusing network of lines and arrows with his eyes. These portals made the world so much smaller, so much more accessible. If he could figure out how they worked, he could see everything he’d wanted to see. He could be free to explore, to learn … maybe even to go home. But no matter how often he stared at it, tracing the lines between portals, he couldn’t figure out how a traveler determined their destination.

  When he wasn’t sleeping, beating himself senseless with chatana drosand, or daydreaming through his lessons, he would beg Brinelle to take him back to the Sanctuary of Memory. It was the one place in the entire monastery Windrunner didn’t feel out of place. He wasn’t ignorant or weak there—among the trees, he was the one with the knowledge. He could relax, catch his breath, and try to make sense of the world in the Sanctuary.

  Brinelle didn’t seem to mind. He thought she even enjoyed the trees as much as he did. She would talk more freely in the Sanctuary and seemed eager to hear his stories of the Farmlands. He avoided talking about the day he left home or the way his people viewed him, though. He wasn’t quite ready to share that yet.

  One night he was woken by a loud knock on his door. A young man spoke as soon as Windrunner opened it. “The Godspeaker has called a meeting. You are to attend at once.”

  Before he could respond, the man w
as gone. Seconds later Brinelle appeared, trying to smooth her hair and straighten the hem of her dress at the same time. “Good. You heard.” Her eyes looked frazzled. Windrunner couldn’t blame her. He was fighting butterflies in his stomach already. What had the Godspeaker decided about his fate? Had they learned anything more about the threat posed by the mazahnen, and whatever mysterious danger lurked behind them? Would they be heading off to battle some enemy Brinelle didn’t think they could beat?

  Windrunner wasn’t so sure he was eager to leave the lessons and chatana drosand behind after all.

  The library was cold and dim, the massive room lit by a handful of candles. Most of the high priests and knights were already sitting around the table, their expressions weary and distant. Windrunner and Brinelle took their places without a word.

  They waited in awkward silence for what felt like an eternity. Windrunner’s palms were slick with sweat, and his legs twitched to get up and pace. Minutes passed with nothing but the sounds of people breathing and Windrunner’s impatient sighs.

  Finally the Godspeaker arrived. He stormed into the room without looking at anyone. “You all know why you’ve been called here,” he began without ceremony, “so there’s no need to reiterate the obvious. What we must discuss is how to proceed from here.” He sat in the high-backed chair at the head of the table, placing his steepled fingers to his lips and waiting for someone to speak. His ring of office gleamed in the candlelight.

  In the following silence, Windrunner felt the Godspeaker’s eyes turn toward him. The scorn in that stare burned straight through his skull. He tried to ignore it, but the weight was too much to shake off.

  Windrunner shifted in his seat. This man was supposedly the closest to Evantar, the leader of an entire monastery. He’d expected that to mean he’d be wise and gentle. But the Godspeaker was fuming—Windrunner could feel the hatred coming off him even from a distance. This wasn’t the kind of man to listen or forgive. He was the kind who left bodies in his wake when he got angry.