Remnant

by Brenda J. Pierson

  Still, Fi’ar had saved her life, and Windrunner’s, on many occasions. They would not be here, with one piece of the Remnant, without the urn warrior. It was unseemly to be suspicious of the man to whom she owed her life.

  “Fi’ar, have you seen any sign of the Varyah lately?” she asked, breaking off the tension building between Windrunner and Fi’ar. Once again, a simple discussion had nearly turned into a fight.

  The urn warrior stiffened slightly. “No.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”

  “When we were fighting the mazahnen, I thought I sensed Destruction magic. Mazahnen disappearing when I’d sworn I saw them. And when we got the Remnant in Syrenia, the coral holding it seemed to vanish rather than break. I was hoping the Varyah hadn’t caught up to us.”

  “I haven’t seen any evidence we’re being followed,” Fi’ar said.

  “Could you have missed it?” Windrunner asked.

  The urn warrior glared at him. “I am not as easily distracted as you are, funny man.”

  “But you’re not infallible, either.”

  The men glared at one another with such hatred Brinelle braced for a brawl. She could see Windrunner fighting his rage, pushing it down and trying to calm himself. Her heart lightened at the sight.

  “No,” Fi’ar said at last. “I am not.”

  Brinelle ignored the hostility between them. “I can’t shake the feeling this person is on our trail. I’ve not sensed much Destruction magic, just on those few occasions, but still …”

  “It’s worth investigating,” Windrunner said. “We can’t be too careful when it comes to the Varyah.”

  Fi’ar looked like he swallowed a lemon. He seemed to despise taking orders from normal humans. “Very well. I will see what I can find. But we can’t slow down. The Shahadán’s magic will continue to eat away our world until we stop them. We haven’t much time left.”

  18

  I f swearing could hurt the Shahadán, Windrunner would have killed every single one of them ten times over by now.

  The darkness in the sky allowed him to remove the accursed sishamen, which he had to admit made him feel better. Brinelle had warned him of the cloak, but he hadn’t thought it had done that much. Once he’d removed it he couldn’t stand to touch it or even look at it. He and Brinelle had shredded it, negating its magic, and buried the strips. He didn’t feel like leaping with joy, but being free of the cloak did bring a measure of lightness back to his soul.

  If only it had lightened the sky as well.

  It was a constant reminder of how close the Shahadán were to winning. How close he was to losing everything.

  His arm throbbed where the mazahnen had cut it. Brinelle’s healing salve dulled the pain, but everything hurt these days. His head was a constant stabbing ache. His joints hurt with every movement, but resting was almost as bad. He felt as if he’d aged decades in a few short days.

  His magic had been right, he knew. He couldn’t survive without it. Chasing it away as he had was killing him. But he couldn’t relent now. All he had to do was look to the darkened sky to remember what Destruction magic brought about. He couldn’t let that become him. He wouldn’t allow it.

  And on top of all that, he was heading home.

  Windrunner had always intended to go home. Eventually. After he’d seen the world and lived a few adventures. When he’d collected stories to tell and was ready for some rest and relaxation in the quiet of the Farmlands. He hadn’t anticipated going home in the middle of a quest to save the world. From an accident he’d caused.

  It wouldn’t be easy to avoid home, either. They needed rest and supplies. How could he get within half a day’s walk from his home and not stop to reassure his parents all was well?

  How could he convince them of that when all was certainly not well?

  He mulled over these thoughts day in and day out, while the desert gave way to grasslands and then sparse forests. The weather grew cooler, until they were grateful to have their cloaks to sleep in at night. Fi’ar began scouting farther out, returning at sundown with small game. Windrunner and Brinelle picked what berries and nuts they could find. It was a relief to have the change in diet after weeks of hard, dry traveling food.

  Windrunner tried to find what bits of joy he could in the plants, the moisture, the days spent with Brinelle while the prickly urn warrior was off hunting. He knew he should be enjoying this. But the pain of his headache and the knowledge that home was around the corner kept his mood dreary.

  Like the world was becoming.

  The Shahadán’s passage seemed to have ripped through the very fabric of the sky. The sun had never recovered its full brilliance, and each day he swore there was less blue and more grey. Would they end up losing the sunshine entirely? At this rate, it would be perpetually dark by winter.

  They were running out of time. They’d gotten one piece of the Remnant—not enough to make any measurable difference—and the Shahadán were already on the move. He was terrified to think of what kind of damage they’d already spread in the civilized world. They were so isolated here. The Shahadán could have destroyed entire cities by now and they’d have no idea. For all he knew, it could already be too late.

  Pain and fear and anger followed him until the hot desert sun was a memory and the trees were thick around them, green leaves and bright blossoms heralding the arrival of fruit in the next few months. Brinelle spent most of her days with her head on a swivel, her eyes wide. Trying to see everything all at once.

  “It’s like the Sanctuary of Memory back at the monastery,” she said, breathless with wonder, “everywhere.”

  Windrunner managed a thin smile. His headache faded a little whenever he saw Brinelle happy like this. “This is nothing. Wait until you see the fields of the Farmlands. When the harvest is ready, the entire valley is green and gold. When the sun sets it turns everything so rich and vibrant it’s like living in a painting.”

  “You seem to miss your homeland very much,” she said. A small pause. “And yet, you don’t seem anxious to see your home again.”

  Windrunner shook his head. “I’m not. I mean, I am, but …” He sighed. “It’s complicated.”

  “You don’t wish for your parents to know about your magic.”

  “Of course not. I didn’t even tell them I was leaving. They knew I wanted to, but I didn’t let them know when I decided to leave. And now I’ll just show up back home? ‘Hey Mom, hey Dad, it’s been a while. What’s new? Nothing much with me, developing some evil magic powers and trying to stop an even more evil monster from destroying the world. It’s my responsibility, after all, since I’m the one who let it out.’” He chuckled without humor. “Mom always did tell me to clean up my messes.”

  “None of this is your fault, Windrunner.”

  He raised his hand, stopping her argument before she got started. “I know what you’re going to say, Brinelle, and I appreciate it. But whether it’s my fault or not doesn’t matter. What matters is that I have to face my parents and admit to everything that’s happened since I left, and I have no idea how they’re going to take it.”

  “Are you more afraid of their reaction, or your admission?”

  Windrunner opened his mouth to answer, hesitated, and closed it without a sound. “What kind of question is that?” he asked. Stalling.

  “We’re taught in Evantar to analyze our emotions. Find what’s driving them so we can lay them to rest. From what I know of your character, you would be far less worried about what other people think of the situation than you would be admitting your own fault in the matter, or your own shortcomings, however little you may be to blame for them.”

  Windrunner squirmed a bit. “Maybe, I guess. But …” He took a deep breath. It was about time he stopped carrying this secret. She was bound to find out sooner or later, anyway. Better to hear it from him than scuttlebutt around the Farmlands. “I never told you about the day I left home, did I?” He told her the story, leaving nothing out. Not Maddox, or the years of bu
llying, or the loss of temper that sealed his fate. “Maddox isn’t the kind of guy to let something like that go. He’d already turned most of the Farmlands against me. He’s determined to keep me beneath his boot, as a boy who could never be worth respecting. No one in the Farmlands has the balls to stand up to him. They just follow his lead. So now in the eyes of everyone I’ve ever known I have no honor, no status, no respect.”

  He glanced at her. She was listening, her eyes filled with more compassion than he’d seen in weeks. For once, she wasn’t even thinking of him as a Varyah. That gave him strength to continue.

  “So I ran away. I left everything behind so I could start fresh, somewhere far away from my humiliation. And what happened? I released the Shahadán. How many thousands of people will die because of my latest disgrace?” He turned away from her, running his hands through his hair. “How can I return, when my failures as a child are nothing compared to the catastrophe I’ve caused since I left?”

  She didn’t seem to know what to say. He continued on more to himself than to her.

  “I left, hoping to find adventure. But this isn’t about adventure anymore. This is about honor. I have to stop the Shahadán and avenge the blood on my hands. If I can do that, maybe I can gain back what I’ve lost. I can prove I’m a man with the respect to lead and the strength to defend my home. That’s been my wish for as long as I can remember, but now I want it more than ever.”

  He met her eyes again. “That’s why I don’t want to go home. Until I’ve put all this right and can walk in there with my head high, knowing I’ve proven myself, how can I even think of going back?”

  “You’re too hard on yourself, Windrunner.” She paused, seemed to hear what she’d said, and dropped her eyes. She watched the horizon for a moment before continuing. “I think … maybe we’ve all been too hard on you.”

  That stopped him short.

  “I know it isn’t your fault you have the magic you do. And I can see you fighting it, much better than I thought you could. Perhaps things aren’t quite as bad as I’d feared.”

  Windrunner didn’t dare breathe, in case it broke the spell and brought angry Brinelle back.

  “I’m not saying I can accept you as a Varyah,” she said. Then she met his eyes, took a breath, and seemed to relax. “But I can accept you have Destruction magic, and perhaps that doesn’t necessarily condemn you.”

  Windrunner felt a smile come to him for the first time in days.

  “I couldn’t do this without you,” he said. “I hope you know that.”

  Brinelle looked down, watching her feet as they walked. “You mean that?”

  Windrunner felt his face go hot and mentally smacked himself upside the head. “Well, yeah. I mean, you’ve helped me so much, and you know so much more than I do, and … uh …”

  She glanced up, her face as red as he imagined his was. She smiled, and Windrunner’s heart flopped in his chest. “I had begun to think I was becoming a burden to you.”

  “What? Why would you think that?”

  She looked down again, clasping her hands together and wringing her fingers. “You’ve been so distant, rarely having anything other than complaints to offer. You’re always in pain, Windrunner, even though you try to hide it. And your anger …”

  Windrunner sighed. Of course it always came back to that. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “I know,” she said. “I understand it isn’t easy. But instead of allowing me to help you, you seemed to have decided it was better to push me away. I thought perhaps …”

  Windrunner shook his head, reached over, and took her hand in his. He half expected her to pull away, or punch him, but other than a slight stiffening she didn’t react. Good sign. “No. It’s not you. I just don’t want to hurt you.” He closed his eyes and let his hand fall. “I don’t trust myself anymore, Brinelle. The last thing I want to do is say something I’m going to regret and chase you away. I guess I figured it was better for me to be distant and at least have you here than try to keep this up and risk losing you.”

  Brinelle took a few quick steps to get in front of Windrunner, then stopped and faced him. She put her hands on his shoulders and stared at him until he met her eyes. “I am not going anywhere, Windrunner,” she said, enunciating each word. “I would rather try to help you through this than be pushed away.”

  He pictured his rage rising to the surface, throwing her hands off his shoulders, shouting some ridiculous nonsense about not needing any help. But the anger didn’t come. Instead, he felt sadness, and a bit of relief.

  He knew he needed the help. There was no denying that. Knowing Brinelle would be here to offer that help was as cool and soothing as her healing salve. “But what can we do?” he asked. His head pounded once, as if in sympathy.

  He watched the worry cloud her eyes as she dropped her gaze. She didn’t know any more than he did. Of course she didn’t. She had no more experience with Destruction magic than he did. It was a miracle she was even agreeing to help him, a Varyah.

  It wasn’t fair for him to continually look to her for answers. This was his problem, and he had to be the one to figure it out.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “We’ll think of something.”

  He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

  19

  I t was hard to breathe. Windrunner stood at the top of a hill overlooking a heart-wrenchingly familiar valley. It looked like a good year for crops. The Farmlands glowed with vibrant green, the color so alive and intense it hurt his eyes. Tiny spots marked people moving about. If he squinted at a particular place, he could almost imagine he could see his family’s home.

  Brinelle stood beside him, near enough to be supportive as he took in his homeland. Fi’ar was a few paces behind them, scuffing his feet in the grass and mumbling something about “ridiculous human sentimentality.” Windrunner ignored him. He’d made it home after months away. He was ready to run off this hilltop any moment—he just wasn’t sure which way he wanted to go.

  Part of him longed to be back home, safe, enjoying the days of satisfying labor and peace. He missed his parents. He missed soft beds and hot food and the sense of belonging somewhere. But another part of him couldn’t bear the thought of going back. Returning to the boredom, the static nature of life in the Farmlands … returning a failure. A boy who had put the entire world in jeopardy because of his ridiculous wanderlust.

  A boy who was a mockery of his namesake.

  It was getting easier to control his anger without his magic. Weeks without the simmering rage had calmed him somewhat, though the pain was increasing more and more each day. He knew Brinelle was worried about him. He could see it in her eyes, the way she watched him whenever he slipped and showed how much pain he was in. She thought he was dying. Windrunner couldn’t bring himself to disagree.

  But he was starting to feel like himself again. No more threat of becoming a Varyah. Wasn’t that worth the price?

  As long as it didn’t cost him his war with the Shahadán.

  Windrunner’s hand tightened on his crimson staff. The wood was cold now, the last dregs of magic pulled from it long ago. It didn’t have the sense of being powerful, or intimidating, or a glimmer of hope in a hopeless battle. It was just a creepy piece of wood, polished with his blood.

  Even so, he couldn’t bear to part with it.

  “Are you ready, Windrunner?” Brinelle asked. Her voice was quiet, gentle. So considerate he thought she was afraid of his reaction.

  This reminder of what his magic had cost him—knowing Brinelle was still cautious around him, in case his rage exploded—hurt more than the pain in his head and joints.

  “I guess,” he said. “No time like the present.”

  It took him several heartbeats to take that first step into the Farmlands.

  FI’AR CHOSE to disappear into the McKettrick Woods rather than come to Windrunner’s house with them. He promised to stay within earshot of the portal—giving Windrunner a nasty look wh
en he’d asked if Fi’ar would be able to find it—and be ready when they decided to get back to business and look for the Remnant. Windrunner was glad to see him go. Something told him his parents wouldn’t like the grumpy urn warrior very much.

  The sun was still high when Windrunner stepped onto his parents’ porch. The old wood creaked under his feet, and the smell of bread and meat and something sweet wafted from the windows. Just like it always had. If Windrunner closed his eyes, he could pretend he’d never left.

  His heart was hammering and his palms sweaty as he reached for the door. He took a breath, collected his nerves, and pushed it open.

  “Mom? Dad?” He hated that his voice was shaking.

  “Tsenian?”

  There was a series of small thumps, hurried footsteps, and Windrunner’s mother barreled out from the kitchen. Windrunner couldn’t help but smile. She looked the same as the day he’d left—still young enough to see how beautiful she had been, dark hair, wide smile. Her hands were covered in flour, of course. They almost always were, if she had her way.

  She stood frozen for a few heartbeats, staring at him as if afraid he’d disappear if she blinked. Then she charged forward and wrapped Windrunner in a sugar-scented hug. His father walked around the corner as he held her, standing back and smiling as he watched them.

  His mother pulled back, keeping her hands on his shoulders as she looked into his eyes. “How dare you abandon your family like that,” she said, smacking him none too gently upside the head. She watched him cringe, then folded him into another rib-crushing embrace. “You had us scared to death.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Windrunner said, and found he meant it.

  Windrunner’s father stepped up, taking his wife by the shoulders and gently pulling her away from her son. “All right, Livia. Let’s at least let the boy back in the house.”