He waited until he felt Brinelle come up behind him, then he crept forward to where Fi’ar waited. They moved toward the exit, straining their eyes to look for shapes in the black shadows. Windrunner couldn’t see anything, but he heard the strangers moving around them. They were trying to blockade them in.
Windrunner’s staff was so hot he could feel blisters forming on his palm. His magic’s rage churned inside him, and he didn’t try to quell it. Not this time. These people had followed them and clearly meant them harm. Windrunner couldn’t let that happen.
“There is nowhere for you to go,” a man said. His voice echoed through the empty ship. “We have you surrounded. Return the Remnant to us and we will spare your lives.”
Windrunner scoffed. “Spare them for what? A trial by the Godspeaker, who’ll have us killed despite any defense we may offer?” A momentary silence followed. “I thought so. No thanks.”
“You think we will give you a choice in the matter?”
“I think I don’t care what you say. We’re leaving, with the Remnant, whether you allow us to walk out or we have to step over your bodies.”
Brinelle stepped forward enough to make it clear she would be continuing this conversation without him. “I doubt Evantar would approve of your actions,” she said.
“Evantar does not see us,” the man replied.
Brinelle inhaled. Windrunner could feel the sudden tension in her body. “You wear the sishamen?” The knight didn’t reply, but the smug silence was answer enough. “You believe a cloak will hide you from the sight of God?”
“It’s no worse than believing you can abandon the monastery to follow this …” the man hissed, clearly at Windrunner, “this man, and still be in the Godspeaker’s favor. You disgrace Evantar.”
“Evantar disgraces itself by allowing the Varyah and Shahadán to roam free! I am following our mission to cleanse this world of Destruction magic.” Windrunner noted the slight catch in her voice, but he doubted anyone else would have. “I am not the one who is disgracing Evantar with their actions today, assassin.”
Two heartbeats passed in complete silence. Three. Four.
“Then you will die beside your beloved heathens.”
Windrunner heard a flurry of motion and braced himself, raising his staff before him. It would be blind luck to catch a blade before it hit flesh in this darkness, but what choice did he have?
Energy surrounded him—Brinelle’s shield. At least she still cared enough about him to protect him from the assassins. That had to count for something.
A light flared behind him, arcing away even as Windrunner’s eyes began to adjust. Brinelle’s belantra naan flew across the deserted ship, illuminating the scene for a brief second. Four figures shrouded in impenetrable black robes stood around them, one closing fast with a wicked-looking dagger pointed at Brinelle. She held her staff low, too low to raise in time to deflect the imminent blow, and Windrunner was too far back to reach forward.
A constellation of vivid orange tattoos appeared behind the lunging figure, drawing his arms around the attacker and slashing his throat with a bone knife. Fi’ar didn’t even pause as the Evantar assassin collapsed—he was already pouncing on another cloaked figure.
Brinelle’s belantra naan plunged into the ankle-deep water with a hiss. Oppressive darkness returned.
Windrunner sprinted to the right, where he’d seen one of the assassins. He kept his staff raised before him, parallel to the ground, in hopes of catching the man, or woman, across the chest or gut. He tried listening for sounds that would tell him where the person was, but his own sloshing footsteps and racing heart drowned out everything else.
He sensed the hostile presence as a blade whipped past his shoulder. He lunged away, striking to the side with his staff. It connected with a satisfying thud. The assassin grunted and slapped the staff away. Windrunner followed the motion, spinning the staff around to strike again. The assassin met it with their blade, jerking Windrunner’s momentum to a stop.
He was fighting blind against an opponent with much more training than he had, but Windrunner never hesitated. He moved on instinct, letting his magic’s rage guide him. The power flowing through his body fuelled his movements. The staff seemed to know where to move, when to strike, at exactly the right moments. Windrunner didn’t interfere. If his magic was somehow helping him kill this assassin, he wouldn’t do anything to stop it.
He ducked a strike at the very last second, the assassin’s blade grazing his right temple and shearing off the skin along his scalp. Dazed, he stumbled in the frigid water, and the assassin closed in.
Anger overrode fear. He couldn’t let this assassin win. It would mean all his work, everything he’d gone through to get here, would be for nothing. He couldn’t let the Godspeaker get the final word in this.
Windrunner poured the heat of his magic into his staff. The wood grew so hot he could smell smoke. It glowed blood red, enough to illuminate the assassin standing above him.
The man hesitated. Then he spat, “Varyah!” and swung his sword. The blade was aimed right between Windrunner’s eyes.
Windrunner shouted, pure defiance and rage, and met the assassin’s blade with his staff. His Destruction magic flared, and the sword disappeared.
The assassin stumbled, off balance from the loss of sword and impact. Windrunner got to his feet. His anger burned him as surely as the staff did. It wasn’t supposed to Destroy the sword. It was supposed to Destroy him!
It added more fuel to the bonfire roaring inside him.
He stepped toward the assassin. The man had pulled a dagger from his cloak and was circling Windrunner, wary but just as infuriated as him. Windrunner could feel the man’s hatred.
“Varyah,” he spat again.
“Yeah, yeah.” Windrunner swung his staff, a fast arc toward the assassin’s skull. He dodged. “You sure know how to make a guy feel welcome.”
“Your magic must be cleansed from this world.”
“Come give it a try.”
The assassin charged, clearly hoping to get inside Windrunner’s reach to minimize the effectiveness of his staff. Windrunner let him in. At the last moment he let go of the staff with his left hand, reached out, and grabbed the assassin’s incoming arm. The dagger blade halted inches from his throat.
Windrunner stared into the black hood of the assassin. His magic was raging through him, searing heat racing from head to toe and bursting from the staff in brief, tiny flames and trailing smoke. The man squirmed in Windrunner’s grasp, crying out and flailing. He wasn’t trying to hurt Windrunner anymore. He was trying to get away.
Windrunner grinned. He would relish this. Kill the man who’d tried to ambush him and his friends. Take the Remnant away from here, in the hands of those who would use it properly. Send a message to the Godspeaker: don’t mess with me, you bastard.
He wouldn’t just kill him. He’d Destroy this man. Everything he’d ever been, gone. That would be fitting.
The man squirmed again, jerked forward, and gurgled. He fell limp, and Windrunner released him. He splashed to the shallow water and didn’t move again.
A bone knife stuck from the assassin’s back.
“Damn it, Fi’ar, I had him!”
“You were so focused on him you didn’t see the second blade coming. You would have been dead within a minute,” the urn warrior replied, retrieving his knife from the body without even looking at Windrunner. “I have saved both of your lives this day. Do not make me regret it.”
Brinelle stepped into view before Windrunner could reply, her belantra naan relit. “We must leave before the townspeople come to investigate the noise.”
“But how will we get onboard the ship?”
Fi’ar pointed to the corpse at Windrunner’s feet. “Their cloaks.”
Windrunner and Brinelle looked at each other, squeamishness in both their features. “Take clothes from dead people?” Windrunner asked.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” Brine
lle responded, taking a tiny step away from the body. “The sishamen are heavily enchanted. They’re modeled after the cloaks of the Varyah. What they do to a person’s magic …” she took a deep, steadying breath. “It’s said those who wear the sishamen are never the same again.”
“I’m aware of that,” Fi’ar said, “but we don’t have a choice. We must escape, and soon. There’s no time for arguing.” With that, he bent down and began stripping the heavy black cloak from the dead man.
Windrunner could see how much Brinelle wanted to argue, or at least refuse, but Fi’ar was right on one thing. They didn’t have time for a better plan. They had to get out of there—now.
Windrunner waded to the next assassin and began tugging at the cloak. It was laden with water and drug down by the weight of the body inside it. He lifted the hem and pulled. The cloth felt soft in his hands, despite the water streaming from it. The body shifted to its side. An arm plopped into the water, splashing him. Windrunner shivered, and not from the cold.
A few moments ago this person had been living, breathing, doing. Now it was little more than a hunk of meat and bones. A corpse Windrunner was desecrating.
He didn’t even know if this was a man or a woman. What had they been like, before all this? Were they happy in Evantar, or did they harbor secret desires of freedom like Brinelle? Why did they agree to kill him? Did the sishamen have anything to do with that decision?
Windrunner shuddered again. He tried not to think about that, but Brinelle’s words circled through his head like vultures. What they do to a person’s magic … It’s said those who wear the sishamen are never the same again.
What would this thing to do his magic? If Brinelle was right—and of course she was—there were consequences to wearing the sishamen. And if those who had Creation magic struggled against the cloaks’ power, what would happen to his?
A tall black shadow glided up behind him. “No time to waste, funny man,” Fi’ar said from the depths of the hood.
Windrunner sighed and slung the heavy fabric over his shoulders.
He’d expected to feel something—a shadow fall upon him, or a darkness creeping through his soul, but he felt nothing. It was like any other, ordinary cloak. Heavy, especially since it was soaked with water. But it was soft, and it would be very warm when it wasn’t dripping icy water down his back.
He turned to follow Fi’ar out of the ship. Brinelle came up beside him, silent in her cloak. Windrunner could tell she was uncomfortable. He could feel her tension as if it were his own.
Part of it had to be his own. He was terrified of what might happen. His magic had been stirring more and more, and he was succumbing to its rage more easily. He could feel it awakening inside him. Would the sishamen affect that? Would it stir his magic more powerfully, sooner? Windrunner wasn’t sure he’d be able to control it if that happened, and that terrified him.
He saw very little of the ship as they exited, so focused on his fears and the weight of the sishamen on his back—and his soul.
15
T he Godspeaker’s ship wasn’t all that impressive. He’d expected it to be extravagant beyond words, but this was a modest trading ship. Not very different from the Sea Gem, in fact, which lay half-sunken a few paces to their right.
Brinelle led the way up to the deck, keeping their pace slow and rhythmic. Windrunner tried to match her composure. Even though she was scared of the sishamen, she walked with authority and grace. He envied her skill. He couldn’t have maintained that kind of composure even without the cloak.
The captain watched the three of them climb aboard his ship with obvious apprehension. He seemed afraid to even approach them. Windrunner couldn’t blame him. If three figures clad in all-encompassing black had showed up on his farm, he’d have reached for some kind of weapon.
“Are we prepared to sail?” Brinelle asked. Her crisp, authoritative tone was unsettling coming from the featureless black hood.
“Aye, ma’am,” the captain said, bowing. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.
“And our cabins?”
The captain wiped at his brow, then gestured behind him. “Undisturbed, as commanded.”
“Very well. We depart at once.” Brinelle swept past him without another word, as if he was below her consideration. Windrunner followed, feeling horribly rude with every step.
The captain stammered. “Ain’t we gonna wait for the fourth?”
Brinelle spun. Windrunner could feel her glare. “Do you believe it wise to inquire after the details of Evantar’s mission?” she asked. He paled and shook his head. “Question us again, and you will find yourself sailing home on a piece of driftwood. Am I understood?”
The captain quailed, bowing so low his head nearly bumped his knees. “Yes, ma’am.”
Brinelle ducked into the small doorway leading to the cabins beneath the helm, where the captain had gestured. Fi’ar followed, hunched in his cloak to hide his height. Windrunner lingered long enough to hear the captain mumbling to himself.
“I didn’t know one of ’em was a girl,” he said. Then he saw Windrunner and jumped back, as if burned. “Not that it’s any of my business. None at all.”
He scurried away, leaving Windrunner alone on the deck of their commandeered ship.
THE ASSASSINS of Evantar had occupied two rooms adjoining the captain’s cabin. Brinelle went into the room on the left, and Fi’ar moved to the one on the right. Windrunner paused in the narrow hallway before angling to follow Fi’ar.
The urn warrior stopped him with a hand to his chest. “I do not share rooms.”
“But …” Windrunner glanced behind him. “That’s her room.”
Fi’ar snorted. “Do you have a problem in your pants, funny man?”
Windrunner felt his cheeks flush. “No.”
“Then go make her your woman, or do whatever you want with her, and leave me be.” He entered the room and slammed the door in Windrunner’s face.
Brinelle leaned out of her room. She’d thrown back the hood of her sishamen, so at least he could see her face. Much better than the black emptiness.
Or it would have been, if she wasn’t looking at him with such trepidation. She watched him as if he were a burglar at her door. “There are two bunks in here,” she said at last, doubtful. She took a step back to allow Windrunner into the room. “I guess we can share.”
He nodded, dumbly, and entered the room.
It wasn’t what he could call decorated. Two narrow bunks, one atop another; two chests nailed to the floor; a small desk attached to the wall with a basin built into it. One tiny porthole above the desk, showing a view of blue waves and blue sky through thick, grimy glass. Nothing else, not even a portrait or map on the wall.
Brinelle had placed her things on the bottom bed, so Windrunner flung his pack onto the top. He peeled off the sishamen and let it fall to the floor. Relief flooded him, only partly because he could finally get a breath of fresh air away from the soaking wet cloak.
Brinelle glanced at him and reached for her pack. She pulled out the jar of healing salve and summoned the kakutra naan in her other hand. The ball of water hovered over her palm.
Windrunner looked at it, then at her.
“For your head,” she said. “You’re covered in blood.”
Windrunner reached up. He’d forgotten about the gouge the assassin’s blade had made in his scalp. He cupped the water in his hands and splashed it over his face, wiping the crusted blood off with his sishamen.
Brinelle approached and began spreading the healing salve over his wound. She’d only hesitated for a heartbeat before touching him, but he’d noticed.
Welcome warmth spread through him as she used her magic on the wound. Soon the pounding in his head subsided, though he hadn’t recognized it was there.
“Thanks.”
She looked up at him, met his eyes, and looked away. She stepped back and replaced the jar. Then, as if she could think of nothing better to do, she kicked awa
y the sishamen on the floor and started to stretch.
“It feels good to be out of it,” Brinelle said, nudging the black fabric with her toe. She kept watch over him from the corner of her eye.
“Yeah,” he replied. He paused for a moment, stretching next to Brinelle. He felt the ship starting to move. They were leaving Syrenia. “I can’t believe we did it.”
Brinelle hesitated. “Neither can I,” she said. She sounded puzzled, as if she didn’t understand how they’d succeeded.
Windrunner reached up to his pack and pulled out the Remnant. It was the first time he’d gotten a decent look at it. Its surface was rough and uneven, but beneath that it had the clarity of a quality gem. Brilliant reds and golds streaked the cooler blue-green base coloring like angry bolts of lightning. Windrunner could feel the heat of those slashes contrasting against the chill stone.
However they’d managed it, and whatever it had cost, they’d done it. They had the first piece of the Remnant, the first bit of the weapon they’d need to drive back the Shahadán. It was too good to be true.
Windrunner doubted Syrenia would agree, though, when the waves began to break over the coral wall and their peaceful sanctuary was lost to the sea.
He pushed the thoughts away. He’d had no other choice—it was take the Remnant and allow Syrenia to be destroyed, or leave it and allow the Shahadán to Destroy the entire world. He couldn’t have chosen that one village over the thousands of others. It wasn’t that it had been the right choice. It had been his only choice.
Brinelle took a step closer to him, placing her hand on his arm above the stone. Windrunner realized he’d been staring at it for a long time. That his knuckles were white and his hand was shaking with how hard he’d been gripping the stone. He shook himself and pried his eyes away from the Remnant.
She was watching him, wariness and concern in her expression. How long had he stood there?
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