Remnant

by Brenda J. Pierson

  What Varyah would do that?

  It still took all her courage to slip back into the icy water. Following Windrunner’s instructions, she breathed deeply, as chatana drosand had taught her. When her count reached thirty she squeezed her eyes shut, ignored the screaming in her mind, and allowed herself to sink.

  The water enveloped her, dragging her down like a weight of sorrows. Already her lungs burned for breath. Being denied the luxury made them demand it all the more.

  She didn’t sink as quickly without her pack and cloak to pull her down. It seemed like ages before she felt the warmer water lick against her face.

  Brinelle could feel the stone walls on all sides. She crawled forward, pulling herself along the rough rock below her. How long had she been underwater? She hadn’t been counting. Fi’ar had taken the whole trip in about a hundred. Fifty each way. She couldn’t have been down for more than twenty.

  The water grew warmer the farther she went, but no less oppressive. It was perfectly dark down here, and her limbs were beginning to tingle from lack of oxygen. She could feel her movements growing more sluggish. Each push forward was taking more and more energy. Her lungs burned.

  The tunnel started curving upward. Brinelle’s air was out, and she clawed at the stone to pull herself up faster. She needed to take a breath. Small, urgent whimpers escaped her throat as she fought the urge. To give in now was to drown. To allow this place to become the watery grave she’d feared.

  Was that a light above her? Or was her oxygen-deprived mind conjuring things?

  She broke the surface of the water, gasping sweet air. Windrunner knelt inches away, his hand extended toward her. “Good job, Brinelle. I knew you could do it.”

  She took Windrunner’s hand and pulled herself out of the tunnel. Water poured from her in sheets. She started squeezing out her hair, but paused when she caught sight of the chamber they’d emerged into.

  “Oh,” she said, her hands poised mid-wring. “This is not good.”

  22

  Windrunner wiped water from his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, pushing sheets of water out of it. He didn’t need to ask Brinelle what wasn’t good. The entire chamber wasn’t good.

  They were no longer in the dark granite caves. They’d emerged into a sandstone room, reds and pinks and oranges swirling through the rock. Torches burned along the walls, smokeless and odorless and undoubtedly magical. The air was stale and dry, smelling of dust and general disuse. Columns of sandstone rose to a ceiling that was too far above to be seen.

  There was no ice. After the chill of the last cave the heat felt oppressive, as if that tunnel of water had been a portal that transported them back to Nevantia. He wouldn’t have been too surprised. There was no sandstone in this region. No dry heat. None of this belonged beneath the Farmlands. It couldn’t have gotten here by itself. Which meant someone had brought it here, and he doubted it would turn out to be a good thing.

  Windrunner tried to shake the water out of his clothes. Over his dripping, he heard a soft sound echo through the room, like rain on a rooftop or a breeze through leaves. It was constant, never wavering, never stopping. It might have been soothing, if something about it didn’t make Windrunner wary. He couldn’t say what, or why, but in this still cavern, the sound was ominous. Like his time was running out.

  Fi’ar stood a few paces away, water dripping from his bone knives. He looked on edge, too, as if the sound was making him nervous as well.

  Anything that made the urn warrior nervous petrified Windrunner.

  He stepped out of his puddle and paced forward. “The light gets brighter down there,” he said, peering off into the distance.

  Fi’ar nodded.

  They moved through the chamber together, all three on alert for danger. Their footsteps were the only thing to be heard. Other than that damnable sound. It was getting louder as they approached the middle of the room.

  Windrunner could feel the magic growing as they drew nearer the bright light, even without his dark Destruction magic. Was this piece of the Remnant more powerful? He didn’t even understand why he could feel it in the first place. It was so different from his power, so opposite, he would have thought it couldn’t touch him. But he could feel it pulsing through the room, warm and soothing. Full of nature.

  The back wall, with the tunnel they’d traversed, was lost behind them when they spotted a dais in the middle of the room. It was sandstone, like the rest of the chamber, four large steps leading to a platform about five feet off the ground. Something like an altar rested on it.

  They paused at the base of the dais, though Windrunner couldn’t say why. It felt like the right thing to do.

  He moved to lean against a nearby pillar and almost lost his balance. His shoulder went right through it. “What the …?”

  Brinelle stepped up next to him and they peered at the pillar. It wasn’t solid sandstone, like he’d expected. It was sand, millions of grains rushing upward like a waterfall in reverse. The soft sound they heard was the sand hitting the ceiling above.

  “Holy Evantar,” Brinelle whispered. She glanced back, toward the dais. “The Remnant is doing all this?”

  Windrunner couldn’t pull his eyes from the rushing sand. It was amazing, he couldn’t deny that, but he couldn’t appreciate it. All he could think of was what came next. He would take the Remnant, and the magic would stop flowing. The sand would cease rising. The ceiling, this entire vast cavern, would collapse.

  This cavern that was right beneath the Farmlands.

  There was no way it could survive that. Everything would come crashing down into this chamber. All the soil, the crops, the homes … it would all end up mashed in here.

  Windrunner cursed to himself. Why did the Remnants keep forcing him to make these kinds of decisions? He was trying to save the world, not destroy it one region at a time. At this rate he might as well give up and let the Shahadán take over. At least then, the destruction wouldn’t be his fault.

  But yes, it would be. He’d released the Shahadán in the first place. No matter what he did, every collapse of society, every ruined life, every death was on his head.

  Knowing the coral wall would wear down and Syrenia would eventually be overtaken by the sea was one thing. But allowing this entire cavern to crumble and watching as the Farmlands, his homeland, was demolished in a heartbeat? Windrunner didn’t think he could do it.

  Of course, this job would be easy for a Varyah. Destruction of this magnitude would be like an orgy for them. Who knows? If Windrunner took back his magic now, he might even enjoy it.

  Windrunner looked down at his hands. He could see the blood on them, from every life this quest had claimed. There would soon be more—oceans more. His heart beat sluggishly, as if it was too heavy to continue its work.

  Windrunner shook his head. None of that mattered. He had to stop the Shahadán. He had to retrieve the Remnant, no matter the cost. His own desires, or fears, had nothing to do with it. This was about the world.

  He took the steps to the top of the dais. The altar was a single, seamless piece of sandstone. But there was no doubt the Remnant was inside. Windrunner could feel it pulsing, like a heartbeat.

  “Fi’ar, could you break this open?”

  “Possibly,” the urn warrior replied. “But it is not my place to do so.”

  “You’re as much a part of this as I am,” Windrunner said.

  “No. I am here to ensure you survive as best as possible. That is my role. Yours is to fix this problem. No urn warrior would fight another’s battles.” He scowled at Windrunner. “No man of honor would allow them to.”

  Windrunner glared at him. There was more to the story, of that he was sure. Fi’ar was watching him like a hawk watched a mouse. He’d done so for weeks now. But why? So when Windrunner did something dishonorable, he could pounce? Leave the quest, his own honor intact?

  “Besides,” the urn warrior said, his tone overly casual, “I don’t have the proper tools for breaking so
lid stone.”

  “Even if we could break it, we would risk shattering the Remnant as well,” Brinelle said.

  “So what are you saying? We have to retrieve it with Destruction magic?”

  She didn’t lower her eyes, but Windrunner could tell she was uncomfortable meeting his gaze.

  He turned away first, trying to control his anger. “Why would they do that?” he asked. “Why require Destruction magic to retrieve a piece of Creation magic?”

  “Perhaps they wanted to ensure no one group could reclaim the entire power. Or perhaps they were holding out hope for another Tsenian to come along and repair it.”

  “The magic was already splintered. There weren’t going to be any more Tsenian,” Windrunner said. “And I don’t count.”

  Fi’ar shot him a glance, but he ignored it. That’s what happens when you’re a grumpy, reclusive bastard. You miss out on interesting conversations.

  “Regardless of their intentions, I see no other way to retrieve the Remnant,” Brinelle said. She sounded apologetic.

  Great. There goes my streak of surviving without my magic.

  Was that what it came down to? Trade his sanity for the world? Take back the life he’d been willing to sacrifice so hundreds, thousands of others could survive? Live with the darkness of the Varyah in his soul for the rest of his days, so his parents could have a few more together?

  His hands were shaking now. Was that fear, or excitement? He couldn’t deny that part of him was anxious to take back the power. He was tired of having headaches, of feeling worn out, of fighting for every step each and every day. He wanted to feel strong, powerful. Like he could continue living for decades. If the price for that was the rage of his Destruction magic, wasn’t it worth it?

  He turned back to the altar, staring at it for several moments. Neither Brinelle nor Fi’ar interrupted.

  “When we remove the Remnant, this entire cave is going to collapse,” he said. He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying not to think of what would happen to the land above when that happened. Images popped into his mind anyway, of fires spreading through the crops and people being lost as the ground swallowed them whole.

  Brinelle stepped up beside him. “Most of the people will have already fled before the Shahadán,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.

  “I wish we could make sure.”

  “We don’t have time to allow everyone to evacuate,” Brinelle said. “The Shahadán are close, Windrunner. They will be here soon. If we don’t have the second piece of the Remnant by then, there’s no way we can defend this place.”

  “What’s the point of defending it if there’s no one alive to protect?” He shook his head. “I know you’re right. I just hate this.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “I want you to get out of here, though,” he said. He hesitated before looking at her. “I don’t know how I’ll make it out of here alive. If things should go wrong … I don’t want you stuck in here with me.”

  Brinelle’s eyes were determined. “If you don’t make it out, there’s no reason for me to leave. The Shahadán will destroy everything. Our only weapon will be buried here with you. I would rather stay and help you.”

  He knew there was no denying her. As much as he wanted to protect her, he couldn’t keep her away because it was dangerous. Brinelle was more capable than he was. She’d chosen to come along, knowing the risks. It was part of what he loved about her.

  And he knew now, without a doubt. His father had been right. He loved Brinelle.

  “Can you use your magic to hold some of this together?” he asked, gesturing toward the ceiling. “Just long enough to make sure everything doesn’t come crashing down on our heads?”

  Brinelle glanced up. “Perhaps.” She didn’t sound very confident.

  “Maybe the Remnant in there can help.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Fi’ar,” Windrunner said, “we’ll need you to make sure we have a clear path out of here. Watch for mazahnen once we get out of the caves. We’ll have to make a mad dash for solid ground, and we won’t have time for extended battles.”

  The urn warrior nodded and began making his way back to the watery tunnel.

  Windrunner took a moment to breathe. He wasn’t sure how to prepare himself, or if he even could. The best he could do was get it over with.

  He closed his eyes and reached into his mind, to the empty place his magic used to dwell. All right, magic, it’s you and me again. But it’s on my terms this time.

  He felt a slight stirring, as if his magic had cocked its head. Like a cat who’d heard its owner’s voice but refused to acknowledge it.

  You’re a tool. You don’t control me. I am in charge, and if I’m taking you back you’re going to accept that. Part of him worried he’d lost his sanity, making demands of himself and expecting an answer. But his magic appeared before him, clad in its sishamen and red eyes glowing at him. It was clearly unhappy, but seemed compliant.

  Windrunner met those hellish eyes, staring at him from his own face. I will use you. You do not use me. Are we agreed?

  The figure paused, nodded, and vanished. Magic flooded him. Fatigue washed from his body like dirt in a rain shower. His head stopped throbbing. For the first time in weeks, he had energy. He felt strong, powerful. Good.

  No, not good. Amazing.

  Invincible.

  He eyed the sandstone altar. His magic was eager, gleeful even. It wanted to Destroy it. Windrunner could feel the desire pulse through him.

  No. Windrunner pulled away. He would not do it like that. If he was to use his magic, he would use it his way. No more bending to his magic’s will.

  I must Destroy this altar so I can stop the Shahadán. To save lives. It must be done, and my magic is the only way. I must do it, not because I want to, but because it’s necessary.

  He could feel his magic grumbling, but Windrunner didn’t care. He didn’t move toward the altar until the longing for Destruction passed.

  He paused to glance at Brinelle. She gave him a firm nod, her expression set with determination. He could see the glimmer of fear she was hiding.

  Nothing left but to go for it.

  Windrunner took a deep breath, focused on the altar, and willed it away.

  Power rushed through him, exhilarating. The rage and lust for Destruction was still there, but Windrunner didn’t let himself be carried away by it. He focused on the necessity, the reasons he was doing this. Not for the thrill. For the world.

  The altar started crumbling before their eyes. The pulsing of the Remnant trapped within grew stronger. Windrunner poured out more magic, purposefully ignoring the Remnant so he didn’t Destroy it, too.

  The altar fought back.

  Sweat broke out on Windrunner’s forehead. His body was trembling from the effort, but he continued exerting his will on the altar. It was reforming almost as quickly as he could Destroy it. Like the coral had back in Syrenia.

  He pushed against the altar, willing it away with all the strength he could muster. His head pounded as his magic strained to its breaking point. Compared to this, Destroying the winds had been child’s play.

  I need that Remnant. I have to have it. In order to get it, you must be Destroyed.

  Grains of sand fell from the altar as his magic hit it. They climbed back up and rearranged themselves into solid stone before his eyes.

  I can’t let the Shahadán win. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His entire body ached with energy and exertion. His magic howled in his mind, raging against the Creation magic thwarting it. Windrunner took in that rage and used it as fuel, gathering as much power as he could bear to hold. I will fix my mistakes. I will prove to the world I’m not a fumbling child. I will reclaim this Remnant and destroy the Shahadán!

  He released his magic in a single, violent thrust. The altar shattered, blew apart, and what remained of the stone disappeared before it hit the ground.

  Windrunner sagged to his knees. Hi
s energy was spent, his head throbbing again, but his mind was alive with power. Using his magic again was like a drug. He felt intoxicated, already craving more. The power raged within him, haughty and smug through its simmering anger.

  I am in control.

  Windrunner squashed the magic’s emotions. Yes, he’d done it. He’d Destroyed the altar.

  He’d freed the Remnant. They could fight the Shahadán.

  The cavern began to collapse.

  BRINELLE FELT the force of Windrunner’s magic fighting the Creation power of the Remnant like a storm against her soul. It was a fight between titans. She’d known Windrunner’s Destruction magic was strong, but feeling it this close … it was nearly as strong as the Remnant’s. And she’d never felt anything as powerful as the Remnant.

  Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart raced as she felt the struggle go on and on. It was an epic battle, good versus evil. Only she was praying the evil would come out the victor.

  Not evil, she chided herself. Windrunner isn’t evil. He’s too good a man.

  A sudden burst of darkness and energy hit her. She stumbled, but held her balance.

  Windrunner was on his knees, panting. The altar was gone. Sitting where the rubble should have been—it was eerie to have such a clean site of destruction—was the Remnant. Blue-green stone as clear as a gem, streaked with red and gold. It was mesmerizing. And that was without feeling the pure Creation magic pulsing from it.

  Even though they’d had the one piece for weeks, Brinelle was still taken aback by the power radiating from it. She’d lived among Evantar her entire life. Creation magic was as much a part of her daily functions as breathing or sleeping. But the power of the Remnant still astonished her. It was stronger than any dozen mages in Evantar, the Godspeaker included.

  A deep, ominous rumble pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up. They didn’t have much time.

  She reached in and swiped the Remnant, the stone chill against her fingers. She could feel the intense, powerful magic swirling through it and into her. It was intoxicating.