Was she being too hard on him? Finding out he had Varyah magic had challenged every one of her convictions. It had taken every bit of her self-control not to kill him that first night. All Varyah deserved to die.
But Windrunner was different. At the time he hadn’t used his magic for anything, let alone something dangerous or horrible. Even now, he used it for good. He’d saved lives.
Yes, he fought against the darkness it brought. Yes, he scared her sometimes. But he was fighting to remain human. Wasn’t that worth something?
They will always be Varyah.
Her words, and the Godspeaker’s before that. A conviction held so deeply she’d attacked and almost murdered her dearest friend for discovering he had that magic. The very thought sickened her. Varyah were one thing, but Windrunner was different. Unless he proved himself to be a Varyah, heart and mind, she could never dream of raising her staff against him.
But now Windrunner would never have the chance to prove himself, one way or another. Without his magic, he would die.
Her eyes fell, heavy with tears. She couldn’t stand by and watch him wither. A sudden death, like those few cases she’d read about where someone had tried what Windrunner did, would have been bad enough. But to watch him fall apart without his magic …
…shouldn’t be possible.
Brinelle paused. To separate the person from the magic was impossible. It always resulted in death. Sudden death. No lingering, no wasting away while your body starves for the magic. Not like what was happening with Windrunner.
So how was he still alive?
She sat on the bottom bunk, beneath Windrunner. Something crinkled under her.
Brinelle gasped and sat up sharply. The map. It was far too ancient, too precious, to stand treatment like that. She pulled it out from beneath her and held it in her lap. On a whim, she stretched a bit of her magic toward the map, like a greeting. Hello. Will you recognize me, too?
It didn’t greet her by name. It didn’t stir at all. Like it never had, for any Evantar knight or priestess. Not even the Godspeaker. For anyone but Windrunner, it was just a map. And yet it had greeted him by name and revealed the location of treasures long thought lost to Evantar.
A chill went down her spine. Perhaps it hadn’t been by name after all.
She stood and peered at Windrunner’s back. He was breathing slowly now, either asleep or faking it so he wouldn’t have to speak to her.
She looked at him, stretching out her magic again. Just to see.
There was no sense of magic about him. None of the dark, repellant Varyah power that had been growing around him. It was gone. Windrunner was without magic.
She was about to turn away when something caught her attention. Something else.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She reached out again, searching for that something else. Had she imagined it? Wishful thinking? It wouldn’t be the first time she’d convinced herself of something because she wanted, or feared, it to be true.
Yes. There it was. A tiny flicker, the barest spark of Creation magic. It was so small it was likely nothing, perhaps the effect of her presence around him. Just enough to sustain his life-force, to keep him alive. But only just. Not enough to sustain him for long, and certainly not enough to justify calling him anything but Varyah. Yet.
And yet the map had called him Tsenian.
Suddenly she wasn’t so sure it was only a name.
17
Brinelle had hoped escaping the Godspeaker’s ship, and the horrid sishamen, would help lighten their moods. She’d even arranged for one of the caravans to take them north to the edge of the desert. A few days on a camel rather than weeks on their feet. She’d thought that, at least, would bring a smile to Windrunner’s face. Or at least help with the sulking. But no. It seemed to make things worse.
Fi’ar was surly and reclusive, as usual. She hadn’t expected anything else. He looked as uncomfortable on the camel as anyone possibly could. The camel didn’t seem any happier to have a seven-foot-tall urn warrior on its back. But she’d hoped perhaps Windrunner would perk up. When they’d met, he’d been carefree and jocular and brimming with energy. She’d loved to be with him.
The man beside her today was moody, dejected, and hardly able to endure a day of travel—even on the back of a camel. As much as he despised the sishamen, he still wore it to keep the sun from his eyes. The continued exposure to the cloak’s magic worried her, but Windrunner refused to hear about it. She suspected it wasn’t helping him feel any better. He complained about constant headaches, fatigue, about everything in general. The sun was too bright. The sand was too hot. They were moving too fast. They weren’t making enough progress. More than once, Brinelle had to restrain either Windrunner or Fi’ar to keep them from brawling like children. She kept having to apologize to the other members of the caravan for her companions’ behavior.
She missed Windrunner, the way he used to be. Before he’d been pulled down by the weight of his magic. Before he’d gotten so angry he’d banished it.
Brinelle still couldn’t believe he’d done that. Magic was essential. It was integral to the working of a person’s body. Windrunner could no better survive without his magic than he could without air or water. He insisted he was fine, but Brinelle knew he was not. She suspected he did, as well. But no amount of coercion or discussion, logic or pleas, could convince him to change his mind.
She was terrified she would lose him, even more than she had already, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Brinelle shook herself out of the thoughts and looked around. Still nothing to see but dunes on her right, waves on her left, and a camel’s rear in front of her. She loved the animals, even though they were surly as an urn warrior. But after a few days she was itching to leave the smell and braying behind.
A shadow passed over them, then another. Brinelle looked up, squinting against the bright blue sky. Nothing.
Then another shadow, and the faintest hint of something different about the patch of blue above them …
“Out of the way,” she called. She leapt from the camel’s back and rolled through the sand, avoiding the stomping beasts more from luck than skill. Windrunner and Fi’ar joined her a moment later. The camels scattered as soon as they were free, racing away as fast as they could. The caravan owners ran after them, shouting. They’d be lucky to recover their wares, let alone the camels.
The shadows grew larger. She had time to take one hasty breath, to hear Windrunner swearing under his breath, before she felt the impact of the mazahn and grains of sand pelt her exposed skin.
By the time she raised her head, everyone but them had fled. Dozens of shadows hovered above them. The ground shook with the staccato thumps of attacking mazahnen. Windrunner had rolled atop her, shielding her from the mazahnen with his body. For a moment, she smiled. Perhaps her Windrunner was still in there after all.
The deluge of mazahnen was over in moments. As soon as the shadows were gone and the thumping ceased, all three leaped to their feet. Fi’ar had his bone knives drawn and his first mazahn dead before Brinelle had even readied her staff. She pulled a bit of magic from the wood and Created a shield of energy around her and Windrunner. They would need all the defense they could get against the brutal mazahnen.
She spun and knocked a mazahn away, then continued the motion and crushed another with a downward chop. The staff flowed in her hands, the chatana moves second nature. Her muscles were stiff from days aboard the ship, so she drew upon more magic and Created strength in her. The stiffness dwindled. The next mazahn she hit was crushed like a tomato.
Windrunner worked his blood red staff beside her, the mazahnen he hit crumbling to ash. As much as the magic disgusted her, it was impressive. And useful.
They fought side by side, moving from offense to defense in a moment, fighting as if they’d been born for it. Windrunner seemed to forget his aches and worries. His staff was a crimson blur as the ash piled up before him.
&nbs
p; The mazahnen fought back, their barbed legs striking with uncanny strength and speed. Even through the shields the impacts were devastating. Her legs were already streaked with blood, the bones bruised. It was better than they’d fair without the magic, but they would have to do something quick if they wanted to survive.
Brinelle knocked mazahnen into Windrunner’s path as often as she could, settling for blunt force trauma when she couldn’t. To her right, she could hear Fi’ar carving through the mazahnen with his large knives. The urn warrior was as impressive as Windrunner’s magic.
Dozens of mazahnen were down when Windrunner’s staff connected with another creature. It shuddered, standing still for the span of a breath before slowly, almost reluctantly, crumbling to bits. Small pieces of the monster sloughed off and remained intact. Not at all like the fine ash they’d been crumbling to a moment ago.
Windrunner’s staff was running out of magic, and with his own banished, there was no way to replenish it.
He cursed and swore, taking out his anger on the mazahnen. He blasted through some, while others were beat to a pulp by the force of his rage.
The single moment it took Brinelle to recover from her shock cost her a deep gash across her outer thigh. If her shield hadn’t been up, it would have severed her leg.
She could feel that magic beginning to dwindle, too. She had enough to hold the shield, but the pull on her attention and energy was beginning to slow her movements. She released the strength she’d Created. Exhaustion washed over her without it. She couldn’t keep going for long at this rate.
Brinelle shook the thoughts away. Now was not the time for worry. Not when they were surrounded by mazahnen and the magics that were giving them the biggest advantage were about to die.
The monsters seemed to sense that, too. They crowded around Windrunner, as if eager to take a hit from the no-longer-enchanted staff. Windrunner’s skill was excellent for someone who’d only been practicing for a short time, but he was still a novice. He would never be able to keep that many mazahnen at bay. All it would take is one getting through their defenses, and they’d be done.
Brinelle had to do something. She reached for more magic. Her own supply was small, her staff’s gone. But there was power within reach … the Remnant in Windrunner’s pack. She could feel its magic. She pulled it to her, bracing for the euphoria of pure Creation magic filling her.
Energy flooded her. She Created strength again and spun her staff into the mazahnen surrounding her. The force of the hit was so strong they seemed to disintegrate like they had under Windrunner’s magic.
She laughed. The power flowing through her was incredible. Magic was now as effortless as breathing.
Brinelle Created fire, lobbing it into the center of the mazahnen. A few were incinerated, but most scattered and escaped unharmed.
She bashed a few that got within reach, using the momentum to sidle closer to Windrunner. She Created wind and blasted a mazahn backwards, bowling it into the creatures behind. That gave her and Windrunner a little room to breathe, if only for a heartbeat.
The effort of using magic so quickly was making her lightheaded. Or was that loss of blood? Her leg was soaked in it. She took the all-too-brief reprieve to catch her breath and gather more magic, focusing some on the cut on her leg to Create new muscle where it had torn. She felt the strain of using so much magic. The power of the Remnant may be immense, but it wasn’t limitless. Nor was she powerful enough to handle that much at once. It made her stronger than she’d ever thought possible, but that didn’t mean she could do everything she wished. She settled for Creating a scab over her cut. She’d have to tend to it properly when the battle was over, when she could focus.
She caught movement from the corner of her eye, spinning away from Windrunner to protect their flank. Nothing there. She must have been seeing things.
The mazahnen kept coming in an endless flood despite the growing piles of corpses. She and her companions fought and killed but their numbers never seemed to dwindle.
A foul wind began to blow. It smelled of sulfur and rot, and it kicked up grains of sand to pelt Brinelle and her friends. She struggled against the urge to shield her face, to curl away from the wind until the stinging sand fell.
A shadow fell over them. Brinelle looked up, ready to defend, but there was no falling mazahn. The shadow had disappeared. This time she knew she wasn’t seeing things. There had been a mazahn up there. And in the air … she could taste the bitter Varyah power. Had Windrunner used his magic? Impossible. He’d banished it. And his staff had long since stopped disintegrating the mazahnen. Then where had that magic come from?
Before she could find an answer, another shadow crept along the desert floor. This one was much larger, much more frightening. The wind increased, driving the sand even harder against them. The mazahnen slowed, backed up, then launched themselves into the air. Brinelle prepared herself for another aerial assault, but the mazahnen didn’t drive down upon them. They moved on, ahead of the shadow blanketing the desert.
“Get down!” Fi’ar whispered, pushing her and Windrunner to the ground.
The sky turned grey as ash, draining all color from the landscape. Flashes of eerie lightning lit the cloudless sky. The blood of the mazahnen, more black than red under this sky, grew icy. Brinelle shivered.
She didn’t need to look to know what was coming. She could feel the oppressive, Destructive magic. She could smell the stench of death. Even so, Brinelle couldn’t resist peeking up to catch a glimpse.
The Shahadán was huge, filling a quarter of the sky above them. It was horrifying to look at, all decaying meat and sagging skin. Windrunner’s description to Tobain had been perfect: it looked like a giant, rotting fish. It swam through the air gracefully, which seemed like a sacrilege. Something that hideous should not be graceful.
The winds, kicked up by the Shahadán’s passage, were covering them in a fine layer of sand. Brinelle lay still, hoping that would help shield them from the Shahadán’s sight. She did not want that giant monster noticing them. Even if it didn’t deign to use its Destruction magic, it could rain death upon them in numerous ways. None of which would be at all pleasant.
It felt like hours she lay there, slowly being buried in sand, not daring to breathe in case the Shahadán saw her. All her Evantar training couldn’t quell the terror racing through her. This was a Shahadán, Destruction magic made flesh. The monster every Evantar priest and knight prayed would never see the light of day. The beast that was rumored to bring about the end of the world. Unstoppable. Unbeatable.
Brinelle couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down her cheeks.
Finally the monster passed over them, its path toward the distant horizon—the same horizon they were traveling toward—unbroken.
“Anyone wounded?” Brinelle asked. Her voice quivered despite her work at infusing strength into it.
“No,” Fi’ar replied. He had a few small cuts Brinelle could see, ashy around the edges where he’d “bled,” but he seemed none the worse for wear.
“Not really,” Windrunner said. He sat up and pulled back the sleeve of his cloak. One of the mazahnen had torn a gash along his forearm, clear from elbow to wrist. It was crusted with blood and sand, still oozing in places. Brinelle took a breath before kneeling next to him and pulling her pack from her shoulders.
The healing salve would fix that cut in a matter of days, she knew, but she still cringed as she cleaned the wound with water from her kakutra naan. It had to hurt, but Windrunner sat in silence and winced without complaint.
“We must be careful,” she said, more to herself than her companions. “We’ll run out of salve soon if we get too many more injuries.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Windrunner mumbled.
She looked up at him, meeting his eyes for a heartbeat before his fell back to the sand. “Sorry. That wasn’t an accusation,” he said. He shook his head a few times, sighing, clearly upset at himself.
Brinelle didn’t k
now what to say, or how to help, so she treated the wound in silence. She ripped a few strips of cloth from her sishamen and wrapped Windrunner’s arm in them. She had to admit to a certain satisfaction tearing up the cloak. Each time she took a piece of it she felt its magic shatter. It was as if a cloud was dissipating over her thoughts.
Once Windrunner was tended, she stopped to check herself for injuries.
The cut on her leg required attention, but the rest would heal on their own. A few other cuts weren’t worth wasting their precious salve on, and she spotted a few bruises that were sure to look spectacular in a couple days. She’d had worse.
They were lucky, she knew. The appearance of the Shahadán had drawn the mazahnen away. If it hadn’t they’d have been overrun. As horrible as seeing the Shahadán had been, knowing it was here, it had saved their lives.
Brinelle shuddered. What a dreadful thought. At least it was gone now.
She peered at the horizon, just to make sure.
She saw no sign of the caravan or stray camels. She sighed. The caravan had taken them most of the way across the desert in a fraction of the time they could have walked it. They would just have to be grateful for that and continue on foot.
Even with the Shahadán gone, the sky didn’t return to its normal brightness. It retained a measure of grey in its blue, seeming dim and dull compared to what it should be. The land was cast in a perpetual shadow, even though the only clouds to be seen were far away and not threatening. The air felt thick and sluggish.
Windrunner stood, brushing sand off his sishamen. “What …?” He couldn’t seem to find the words, gesturing to the sky and looking to her and Fi’ar for answers.
“The Shahadán’s magic,” the urn warrior replied. “It’s permeating our world, beginning to tear it apart.”
Brinelle glanced at Fi’ar while he continued talking to Windrunner. He knew a lot about magic for an urn warrior. His race was isolated in the desert, rarely having contact with anyone outside their tribe. Yet Fi’ar hadn’t seemed surprised by anything they’d come across—the ocean, Syrenia, the Shahadán. He’d known far more than she’d expected, even for a forward scout.
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