Now that his father had mentioned it, Windrunner could feel the magic. It thrummed through the air like a coming storm. Was that why his anger was spiking again? He’d had a much harder time keeping his temper under control since they arrived than before, when he’d finally gotten accustomed to being without his magic.
“Do you want to know why we named you Tsenian?”
Windrunner started at the odd question. “I sure hope it wasn’t a joke.”
“It was your mother’s idea,” he said, ignoring Windrunner’s sarcasm. “She wanted you to have a reminder that your path is not set before you. Destruction magic is powerful and very dangerous. Yours especially. The Tsenian had magic even stronger and more dangerous, but they were the epitome of honor and nobility in the magic world.”
“Except for those who became tyrants.”
“Legends do say that, yes. But it was their choice, as you have a choice to be what you want. Just because your magic has the potential for evil does not mean you have to embrace it. Tsenian is a reminder of that.”
“You should have named me after you, then.”
His father smiled. He didn’t respond to the comment, but Windrunner knew he was pleased by it. “You have the freedom to choose your life. Live how you want to. Your magic cannot determine your steps any more than your emotions can determine your reactions. If,” he added, “you do not let them.”
With that he stood and walked back into the house, leaving Windrunner alone with his thoughts.
20
Windrunner woke the next morning in his old bed, and for a moment it was as if nothing had happened. His quilt was heavy and warm atop him, a permanent dent pressed into his pillow from years sleeping on it. He sat up and his feet found the fuzzy slippers waiting for him, right where they always were. The smell of bacon and coffee wafted up from downstairs.
Until his brain caught up with him, everything was normal. Quiet. Peaceful.
A flash of lightning shattered the illusion.
Windrunner’s heart raced as he clambered down the stairs two at a time. He passed the empty kitchen, half-cooked breakfast abandoned, and barreled out the door. His parents and Brinelle were there, staring up at the sky. Brinelle was hugging herself. His mother was crying silently.
He followed their gaze. The sky was grey, as if the sun had never existed to brighten it. Lightning flashed without clouds. He felt more than heard the low rumble, like thunder crawling its way toward them.
Windrunner took a single step off the porch and craned his neck upwards. He could just make out a swarm of small black dots.
Brinelle’s eyes were locked on the sky. “The Shahadán will be here soon, and if we don’t get the Remnant before then we may never be able to.”
“But why are they here?” Windrunner asked. “There are much bigger cities not far from here. Why pick on the Farmlands, of all places?”
Ice swept down Windrunner’s spine as his mind flashed back to an inky sketch in the Evantar monastery. A prediction of what would happen should the Shahadán be released. It showed a city razed to the ground, its few remaining structures aflame. The dead and dying were everywhere amongst the debris. He could almost smell the ash and blood in the black strokes of ink.
It looked eerily like his home back in the Farmlands.
Brinelle shrugged. “The Shahadán are non-sentient wanderers. Why do they end up anywhere?”
Windrunner snapped out of his shock. He raced back into the house, gathering his pack and anything he thought he might need. Brinelle and his parents were on his heels. The house echoed with footsteps and shouted questions. In no time Windrunner and Brinelle were outfitted with cloaks and packs. Windrunner’s mother was stuffing any food that could last into their pockets even as they walked out the door.
There was no time for long, drawn out goodbyes. They exchanged hugs and well-wishes, promises to let each other know they were safe.
“Don’t stick around,” Windrunner said. He glanced up at the grey sky. “I wouldn’t want anyone to be here when the Shahadán arrives.”
“We’ll head out right away,” his father said. “And we’ll make sure to spread the news. Most anyone with a decent head on their shoulders should know something’s coming they don’t want to wait around for, but we’ll make sure the whole Farmlands knows to hightail it out of here.”
Windrunner nodded. “Where will you go?”
His parents looked at each other. “East,” his mother said. “We considered settling in a place east of here, called Chalome. We’ll head there.” She looked to him and Brinelle in turn. “When all this is over, find us there.”
“We will.”
A few final hugs. Then, well before he was ready, Windrunner turned his back on his parents and stepped away from his home.
“I didn’t want to come here. But now that we’re here, I don’t want to leave.”
“Your parents are good people,” she said. “You had no idea they were mages?”
“None.” The thought still made his mind reel. “How could you tell Mom used to be Evantar?”
“I sensed her magic,” Brinelle said. “And the way she stands indicates strength and grace—the kind one gets from a lifetime of practice in chatana drosand.”
Windrunner nodded. Now that he knew, he could see it too. The similarities between her mannerisms and Brinelle’s were striking. How had he not made the connection before?
“It’s too bad I didn’t get Mom’s magic,” he said. Maybe he had a little—after all, he had seen that spark of Creation magic behind the Destruction—but he couldn’t use it. It was just a hint of what could have been. Taunting him.
Brinelle looked at him from the corner of her eye, but didn’t say anything.
“I had to get Dad’s magic instead.” Windrunner paused. “But he isn’t a Varyah.”
Brinelle didn’t say anything for a while. “No,” she said. “He’s not.”
He glanced at her. The admission was more than he’d expected. If she could accept his father had beaten his Destruction magic, maybe all hope was not lost for them.
“I like them,” she said.
“They like you, too.”
A tiny smile, tainted with pain and sadness, spread across her face. Windrunner thought he knew what she was thinking. “You never knew your parents, did you?” he asked.
“No.” It was almost a whisper. “They were already a knight and a priestess of Evantar when I was born. It’s rare to have children born in the monastery, and I was the only one of that generation. From what I understand, few people knew what to do with me. But my parents loved me, of that much I’m certain.”
“What happened?”
Her voice faltered as she started the story. “The Godspeaker had gotten word of a clan of Varyah nearby. My parents fought to attack before they could invade.”
A chill ran down Windrunner’s spine. He hoped that wasn’t the same hunt his father had escaped from. The timing would be off, though. This must have been a few years after his parents left the monastery.
“The Godspeaker refused. No Varyah had ever been brave enough to invade the monastery, and he believed they would not be a danger to Evantar.” Brinelle paused, swallowed hard, and kept her eyes fixed on the ground before her. “These Varyah were brave enough.”
Windrunner didn’t dare speak. He just listened, his heart beating fast.
“They came in the night and ransacked the monastery, killing anyone they ran across. My parents hid me in a closet when they knew the Varyah were close.” Her voice caught, and she had to take several deep breaths in order to continue. “It’s the first thing I remember: darkness, with walls surrounding me, listening to screams and smelling blood. Then hours alone. And when someone found me and pulled me out …” She choked a bit. “There they were.”
Windrunner’s mouth went dry. Her only memory of her parents was listening to them being murdered and seeing their bodies when she was rescued from a closet. What could he say to that? He co
uldn’t even begin to fathom the trauma it must have caused.
She looked back, but the house was little more than a spot among the fields. In the grey darkness, there was little to see from this distance. “I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a family. To grow up as a normal child. But I’ve never wished for it quite so much as I do now.”
“You could be part of my family, if you wanted. I’m sure my parents would love to have you.”
Brinelle blushed, avoiding his eyes. Windrunner felt heat creep into his cheeks. “I didn’t mean … uh … That didn’t come out right. I meant you could be like my sister.” He smacked his forehead. “That didn’t come out right, either.”
Damn it, Windrunner, shut up before you make it worse.
“I’d like that,” she whispered.
Windrunner felt his heart leap. “Really? Uh … which part?”
She smiled, but didn’t answer.
He was still trying to figure out if he’d failed miserably or somehow done something right when the first of the mazahnen started falling. Then there was no time to talk or feel awkward—they just sprinted for the tree line and hoped the canopy of the McKettrick Woods would shield them from the mazahnen.
They had some close calls, but they made it to the woods in one piece. They took a minute to catch their breath, but Windrunner knew they didn’t have time for more. The thunder-like rumbling of the Shahadán was getting louder. “Come on. We have to get to the portal and find Fi’ar!”
After so long in the open vastness of the Nevantian desert, this place felt cramped and closed. It was no longer frightening though. Windrunner had seen much more frightening things since then.
They found the portal as if it had been drawing them to it. Windrunner didn’t stop to think too much about it. The portal had already called him away once. Why shouldn’t it do so again? It looked as ancient as ever, with no evidence he had been here a few months ago.
Was it really only months? Windrunner felt like it was a lifetime ago.
“Fi’ar,” he called, turning in a circle in the broken portico.
He kept an eye open for the urn warrior while Brinelle stepped up to the portal. She ran her fingers along the rim, feeling for the same engraving that had pointed them to the last piece of the Remnant. She smiled and leaned in closer.
“Find something?” he asked.
“Yes.” She took a moment to read. “‘West to the hills and the hidden falls, follow the water to the source of it all.’”
“Great. One step closer.” Windrunner turned back to the woods. “Fi’ar!”
“No need to shout,” the urn warrior said. Windrunner jumped. How had he not seen the gigantic man approach? “Are you finished with your childish desires? The Shahadán are on their way.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Windrunner snapped.
“Which way, Windrunner?” Brinelle asked. “Where could we find these hidden falls?”
Windrunner thought for a moment. “I remember hearing something about a place like that to the west,” he said. He turned and started in that direction, angling a little north to reach the edge of the woods.
It was hard to judge how long they walked—without the sun above, time seemed meaningless. They kept to the very edge of the tree line, avoiding the roaming mazahnen when they could and killing them when they couldn’t. Windrunner kept his eyes ahead. Once he could see the rocky hills at the western border of the Farmlands, they would have to leave the woods and hope the mazahnen didn’t decide to follow.
He’d started munching on some biscuits from his mom when he spotted the hills. Massive granite boulders were stacked against each other like a giant had left its building blocks out. It was the farthest reach of the Farmlands, and Windrunner had only seen them from a distance. He had no idea what lay beyond them.
He took a few tentative steps out of the trees and looked up. No sign of mazahnen.
“Where to now, funny man?” Fi’ar asked. He sounded particularly grumpy about something—more than the usual urn warrior surliness.
“You all right, Fi’ar?” Brinelle asked. She’d noticed, too.
“I’m fine,” he snapped, not even looking at Brinelle. “Lead the way.”
Windrunner watched him for an extra moment before turning back and pointing toward the rocks. “There’s supposed to be a waterfall at the start of the biggest river in the Farmlands. I can’t think of anything else around here that matches the portal’s directions.”
“Sounds good,” Brinelle agreed.
Fi’ar snorted. “Let’s go.”
Windrunner checked once more for mazahnen, then they dashed from the trees. It wasn’t a long distance, but running it taxed Windrunner’s energy. His head pounded with each step and his joints groaned. He rasped with each breath like an old man. Damn it. This really is killing me.
He managed to reach the rocks, but he couldn’t hide how hard the run had been. He collapsed against a boulder, his heart about to beat out of his chest, his lungs burning as they struggled to get enough air. Had the Shahadán tainted the air here, or was it just him?
He glanced up. Brinelle was in as bad a state as he was. Even Fi’ar, who had never shown a single sign of weariness, was breathing heavily. Windrunner wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or not. It isn’t just me … but that means the Shahadán’s magic is taking hold.
Windrunner could feel the low, inaudible rumble of the Shahadán’s approach in the soles of his feet. Soon it wouldn’t be inaudible anymore. And then the monster would be upon them.
“We have to find the Remnant,” Windrunner said between breaths. He stood, his legs shaky and weak as pudding. He wasn’t sure if two pieces of the Remnant could do anything against the Shahadán, but it was their best shot to save the Farmlands.
They climbed over and around boulders, heading north. It couldn’t be far.
A few minutes later, Windrunner heard water.
He couldn’t explain the intense dread he felt when they reached the brook. They could follow it upstream to the waterfall and be one step closer to the Remnant. Why did it feel like such a herald of doom?
Because he was terrified.
The Remnant in Syrenia had been encased in coral, sustaining the entire colony and keeping it safe from the ocean. He’d had to destroy the town to get it. What would be required of him this time? If it was a price he could force himself to pay—and it had better be—could he be sure he’d be able without his magic?
That’s what it all came down to. He didn’t want to be responsible for any more destruction, whether done by his magic or not. Something told him this Remnant would be even more costly to retrieve. It might even require him to use his magic somehow. If he was forced to return to his magic …
His father had done it. He’d learned how to live with the magic of a Varyah, had raised a family and led a good, peaceful life. Windrunner had never had reason to fear his father the way Brinelle now feared him. If he could do it, why couldn’t Windrunner?
Because I want it too much.
It was the secret he’d feared to admit, even to himself. His magic was terrifying, sickening when used by the Shahadán, but he missed it. He’d felt the exhilaration of watching the world bend to his design. It was intoxicating. If the temptation to return to his magic arose, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to fight it. And what kind of man would that make him?
One who was all too close to becoming a Varyah, body and heart. One Brinelle would sooner kill than … whatever they were headed toward.
Lightning flashed so close it seared his eyes.
Running out of time. Every moment counts now.
Whether he was ready or not, he had to get moving.
He turned left and followed the stream, threading between boulders, heading deeper into the hills. Even if the mazahnen had tracked them this far, there wasn’t enough open sky above for them to launch an attack. It was a small relief compared to the ever-darkening sky and growing rumbles of the Shahadán.
But this particular rumble wasn’t the Shahadán. It was more defined and gave a sense of power rather than destruction. It was roaring water. A waterfall.
21
Brinelle wasn’t prepared for the sight. She’d seen plenty of beauty recently, had seen things she’d never dreamt of before. But this was beyond any of it.
They’d followed the stream toward its source, a deep rumbling growing louder with each step. It was deafening by the time they turned a corner and came into this secluded area. Brinelle stopped and gaped, tears forming in her eyes though she had no idea why.
The rocks rose more than forty feet before them, a solid wall of grey stone dotted with patches of green moss and intrepid plants. Water crashed down in a silver curtain, collecting in a deep pool surrounded by trees and grass. Mushrooms grew in abundance; clusters of tiny button-sized caps, giant dinner-plate-sized fungi, and everything in between. The air smelled cool and sweet, heavy with moisture.
For a girl from the depth of the Nevantian desert, this place was a treasure.
She pulled her gaze from the waterfall to see Windrunner watching her, a huge grin on his face. “It lives up to its reputation,” he said. “I’d hoped you would like it.”
Brinelle looked from Windrunner to the waterfall. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
Fi’ar pushed past her and looked around. He paused for a second, then harrumphed and moved to scout the area. “Don’t you even care about the waterfall?” Windrunner asked, a hint of teasing in his voice.
“I care about stopping the Shahadán,” the urn warrior replied. “Your geography has little to do with that.”
“Come on, Fi’ar. It’s pretty. It wouldn’t kill you to take a minute and appreciate things.”
He glared at Windrunner and turned away.
“Fine,” Windrunner said. He looked at the waterfall, then back to Brinelle. “I wish we had enough time to sit and enjoy this.”
Remnant Page 21
