Remnant Read online

  They crashed through the vortex and landed on the ground. Windrunner was finally able to get a good look at them. Squat creatures, not even reaching to his waist, with leathery brown skin. Their slightly conical bodies came to a blunt point on top and were supported by four wide, short legs. Their footprints—are they still “footprints” if they have no feet?—left a perfect square in the sand. Windrunner could see no eyes, ears, or other recognizable features anywhere on their bodies.

  Windrunner stared at them. He’d never seen or even imagined anything like these creatures. He watched, fascinated, as they scurried in every direction, like a colony of ants after their anthill had been smashed.

  A single creature came toward him. Windrunner scrambled to his feet, fighting a wave of dizziness. The creature stopped, though Windrunner got the impression it was more curious than intimidated.

  After a moment it squatted, ballooned its legs outward, and sprang into the air—well over fifty feet straight up. Windrunner stared, awed, as the creature opened its legs and revealed its brilliant blue underside. It blended so well with the sky Windrunner had a hard time keeping track of it.

  Then gravity took over, and the creature began to fall.

  Terror raced through Windrunner’s body—it wasn’t the creature’s belly that had been revealed by its opened legs. It was its mouth. Staring up at the monster, he saw nothing but teeth. Row upon row of dagger-like fangs, plummeting straight toward his head.

  A strong hand grasped his shoulder from behind and yanked him out of the way. The thing impacted the dirt where he’d been standing, spraying grains of sand into Windrunner’s face. The sheer force of its fall left the creature half-buried in the desert floor.

  Another pull spun him around, and Windrunner was face-to-face with his savior. Clear eyes grey like silver, black hair, skin tinted bronze from heritage or years in the sun or both. She stood inches away, staring at him. They were exactly the same height.

  Windrunner’s mouth went dry. This is what poets mean when they say “terrible beauty.”

  “What have you done?”

  He’d expected the question to be shouted, filled with anger or fear or both, but she’d asked it like a mother demanding who’d gotten into the cookie jar.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  She glanced over his shoulder, eyes flitting from the creatures to the glowing light in the stone bowl, then met his eyes again. A moment’s hesitation. “Come with me.”

  She released Windrunner’s shoulder and grabbed his arm with one hand. In the other, she flourished a five-foot-tall staff so pale it was almost pure white. She struck out at something Windrunner couldn’t see—probably another of those strange, squat creatures—and started away, dragging Windrunner behind her.

  Her grip was rough with callouses and so strong he couldn’t have pulled away if he’d tried. She ran through the desert as if it was completely normal to have ankle-deep sand shifting and burying your feet. Windrunner stumbled and tripped every few steps. He was already tired and aching and they’d only gone a few dozen yards.

  He looked back. The creatures were following them, several already shooting into the air to attack.

  How had he gotten himself into this mess? Moments ago he’d been trying to navigate a dark, alien forest. Now he was running for his life across a sunny desert, following a woman he didn’t know away from strange, square-footed beasts set on killing him.

  This is not the kind of adventure I was hoping for.

  “Where are we going?” He had to shout to be heard over their pounding feet.

  “There.” She pointed to a long, low building hidden amidst the dunes. It blended into the surrounding desert so well Windrunner would have never noticed it on his own.

  “What is that place?” He heard a loud thump behind him and felt grains of sand pelting the back of his legs. If he kept stumbling like this, he’d never make it before the monsters caught up to him.

  “That is the Evantar Monastery.” She effortlessly dodged the attack of another pointy-toothed monster. Windrunner tripped over the creature’s half-buried body behind her.

  He didn’t know who or what Evantar was, but right now he didn’t care. The place looked like a sanctuary. Massive ironclad doors barred the entrance, and even from this distance he could tell the walls were thick and solid. Tiny windows dotted the edifice, too small for any but a child to pass through. There was no way these creatures could follow them into that building. She could have told him it was a slaughterhouse and he’d still have plunged right in.

  Sand flew from his heels and his cloak streamed out behind him as he sped beside the woman. He refused to think about his burning calves or his twisting ankles. Just run.

  They were more than halfway to the gates when Windrunner was choked from behind. The clasp of his cloak dug into his neck, cutting off his supply of air. His feet flew out from beneath him, and he hit the ground so hard his entire back spasmed with pain.

  The woman’s grip didn’t release on his arm, and she was pulled down atop him. The breath was blasted from his lungs as she landed on his chest.

  Then the sun was blocked by shadow. It didn’t take much guesswork to figure out what that was.

  They had to get out of the way before the monster landed. The woman leapt off him with surprising agility. Windrunner tried to follow, coughing and gasping for air, but he couldn’t sit up. His cloak was stuck fast. One of the beasts had caught it, and the thick wool was pinned between the hot sand and the thing’s powerful jaws.

  Windrunner could hear the air whistling across the plummeting monster’s body. A drop of gooey, sticky saliva fell upon his cheek, but he had no time to wipe it off.

  He felt something coalesce around him, a kind of humming energy hugging his body. He had no time to wonder what it was. He rolled to one side as the creature hit.

  He missed the teeth by a hair’s breadth, but the creature’s outstretched leg slammed into his left cheekbone. Pain and heat exploded in his head as hidden barbs ripped through the skin and muscle, leaving his cheek a torn, bloody mass. Windrunner screamed. That made it hurt even worse.

  More creatures were joining the attack—he could feel the ground shake as monsters fell all around them. He tried to yank his cloak free, but the creature was stronger than Windrunner. That was not encouraging.

  The woman leaned over him, hand extended. “Give me your sword!”

  Right. The sword. He reached for it, but the scabbard was tangled under him. He thrashed about, trying to reach the hilt, but with his neck stuck fast he couldn’t get any leverage.

  The woman dropped back onto him, pushing his hip off the sword and unsheathing it herself. She sliced off the bottom of his cloak with easy precision and helped him stand.

  Windrunner grimaced through the pain and dizziness of his shredded cheek and aching back, but he managed to stay on his feet and keep what little he’d eaten in his stomach. He’d consider that a win.

  Windrunner and the woman raced toward the monastery’s gate, dodging airborne attacks and the half-buried bodies of monsters who’d missed—or who waited to trip them up for their fellows. Windrunner stumbled more than ran, watching his feet to keep his balance. The woman jogged through the hot sand, as if this were nothing more than a casual morning walk. She wasn’t even wearing shoes.

  Finally they reached the gates. The woman pushed them open and Windrunner raced inside. She followed and slammed the doors shut behind them.

  The thick wood and iron gates shook a few times as the monsters tried to pursue, but it was clear the doors would hold against an entire horde. A few heartbeats later all went silent.

  Windrunner leaned against the wall and panted. He tasted blood with every inhalation, could feel it oozing down his cheek and crusting along his jaw. Somewhere along the way his left eye had swollen shut. “What are those things?”

  “Mazahnen,” the woman replied. Her breath wasn’t even the slightest bit accelerated. “You’re fortunate that mazahn di
d not disembowel you. The rest would have been eager to feast upon your carcass.”

  He cringed at the thought. “You saved my life out there,” he said. “Thanks.”

  She nodded in reply, but then her eyes narrowed. Not in a menacing way—more like she was trying to understand him. She took in his clothes, his light skin, cataloguing everything. He stood still and tried to project confidence and trustworthiness. He hoped she’d come to a good conclusion.

  Then again, he was lost, standing before her covered in sand and blood, and he couldn’t get her first words out of his mind. What have you done?

  He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer to that question.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I … I’m Windrunner.”

  “And what errand has brought you this far into the deep desert, alone?”

  “I didn’t mean to come here. I was in the forest, and I sat in this stone bowl and there was a rush of light and wind, and then I was here. I don’t understand any of it. I didn’t mean to—” He stopped himself. He could tell he wasn’t making a good first impression. This woman had saved him—not once, but twice—and now he was rambling like a child trying to convince his parents the broken vase wasn’t because he’d been playing ball in the house. Way to prove to the world you’re a man, Windrunner.

  The woman looked him over. If nothing else, his appearance should vouch for his words. Who in their right mind would go for a stroll through the desert in wool clothes and a heavy cloak? He didn’t even look like he belonged among this woman’s people—her skin was much darker than his, like toasted wheat, and her eyes were tilted slightly at the corners. Windrunner’s light brown eyes and sandy hair must look as foreign to her as she did to him.

  She stared long enough for him to get nervous. Did she think he was lying? Maybe some kind of spy, or even a monster himself? She seemed uneasy about his arrival, though she hid it well. Windrunner had seen that same kind of mask on his mother, when she’d had to endure the company of people she didn’t like. She’d smile and make small talk, though the expression was fragile as glass. As soon as the person would leave she would sag and her true feelings would pour out, like it had taken the strength of a dam to hold them inside.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t have a clue what happened. I don’t even know where I am, or who you are, or what I’m doing here.”

  She watched him for another moment before speaking. “You are in the deep desert known as Nevantia. This, as I said before, is the Evantar Monastery.”

  “The deep desert? What does that mean?”

  “That there is nothing but sand for over fifty miles in any direction.”

  “Oh.” He paused. For his entire life he’d dreamed of seeing wonders. But this was so far beyond anything he’d ever dreamed. He’d been transported to the middle of a desert. How far from home was he? Would he ever be able to get back? “Can you at least tell me how I got here?” He hated how small and scared he sounded.

  She peered at him for a moment, as if trying to read his soul, then gave a tiny shrug. “No hill without treasure,” she said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “‘There is no hill without treasure beneath.’ It’s an ancient Evantar saying. It means there is something special to be found wherever you look. We may not know what that ‘something special’ is, but it is always there to be found.”

  He paused. “That didn’t answer my question.”

  “You are the hill.” The woman met his gaze. “The portal activated and brought you here on its own volition. Never before has that happened. It suggests there is a reason for you to be here at this time. Your treasure, so to speak.”

  “So this reason is my treasure. But how will I know what that is?”

  “It will be revealed, in time.” She sounded unconcerned, as if things like this happened every day. “Come with me. We must tend to your injury.” She turned and strode down the hall, as if never doubting Windrunner would follow her.

  It’s not like he had much choice. Without her, he’d be lost. Or dead. Or lost and dead.

  The entry hall of the monastery was vast, the floor sloping downward from the massive gates. The ceiling was well over thirty feet tall. Pure white marble tiled the floor, and the walls were paneled with the same pale wood the woman’s staff was made of. He’d never seen anything like it before. Every so often a tiny metal knob protruded from the walls—those must be doors, but Windrunner couldn’t see where the wall ended and the door began.

  “You said this is a monastery, right?”

  “Correct.”

  His eyes returned to the woman. “So … are you a nun?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I am a knight-priestess of Evantar.”

  He paused. “Knight-priestess?” That sounded impressive.

  She nodded. “Some here serve the magic of Creation. Some fight in the order for Evantar. I do both.”

  “Oh.” He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he got the feeling it was more than enough explanation in her mind.

  Still … knight-priestess. He knew enough to understand that neither was a title given to just anyone. Back home, the priestesses were all old and wrinkled because it had taken them so long to earn the title. And the only knights he’d heard of were in stories, but they were regal and majestic and not people you wanted to cross. This woman couldn’t be any older than he was, but she held herself like both. Even though she was the same height as him—somewhat tall for a woman, at least back home—her posture and conduct made her seem larger and more imposing. “If you’re a priestess, is that …” he gestured to the white staff in her hands. “Magic?”

  She glanced at it. “In a sense. But its main function is a simple quarterstaff.”

  “More of a knight weapon than a priestess one?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Right. Knight-priestess with a big stick that was “in a sense” magical. Windrunner tried not to be intimidated.

  The white marble and pale wood made him feel dirty and out of place. The woman, however, seemed to have sprung from the walls themselves. Dressed in white linen, she floated through the halls as if they were made for her alone. Her straight onyx hair fell to the middle of her waist, the only spot of darkness Windrunner could see.

  Was he allowed to find a priestess attractive? He hoped it wasn’t some kind of sin.

  They passed several turns and innumerable doors before Windrunner was ushered into a small room lined with shelves of tiny bottles. A single chair waited in the center, and he plopped into it with a sigh of relief. Or maybe it was more of a moan.

  The woman washed the blood and dirt from his cheek, then retrieved a jar. She leaned in and smoothed a cool, thick salve onto the cuts. Windrunner tried not to stare at her, but it was hard not to. She was so close he could see flecks of blue in her grey eyes.

  Warmth flowed from her fingers into his cheek, and the pain was soothed. He looked back to her eyes. “Whoa.”

  “Feel better?” she asked.

  “Yeah. How did you do that?”

  “The salve has several healing properties in it. A bit of magic to Create new muscle and skin aids the process.”

  She’d used magic to heal him? He wasn’t sure what to say about that.

  “It’s good I got a shield around you in time. Had I not, that mazahn would have crushed your skull.”

  “Shield? You mean that energy I felt?”

  She nodded. “A Created shield to repel attacks. It’s not infallible, but it can help absorb impacts and mitigate damage.”

  His head was spinning from more than just the injury now. “Oh. Thanks again.” He watched her as she put the jar back on its shelf and wiped her hands on a rag beside the chair. “What’s your name?”

  “Brinelle.” He saw a flash of amusement in her eyes. “Your cheek will be sensitive for a while, but it should be stable enough for you to see the Godspeaker now.”

  “What’s the Godspeaker?”

/>   Brinelle stopped. She stared at Windrunner as if he’d grown another head. “The Godspeaker is our high priest and leader of the knights of Evantar. He speaks for the magic of Creation, determines our path of service, protection, and preservation.” She said those last words as if they were sour. “How do you not know who the Godspeaker is?”

  “The only things I know about this place are what you’ve told me,” he said. “I didn’t even know it existed a few minutes ago.”

  She seemed hesitant, like she wanted to keep this ignorant boy as far from her Godspeaker as possible. He wanted to be offended, but in all honesty he couldn’t blame her. He would probably end up saying something stupid or doing something he wasn’t supposed to and making enemies of them all.

  If he hadn’t done that already.

  2

  T he meeting hall was huge, the table in the center able to seat a hundred or more. The entire wall opposite the door was one giant window, the glass tinted to muffle the blinding sunshine. True to Brinelle’s description of the deep desert, Windrunner saw nothing but sand. A few black spots circled in the sky. He tore his eyes from them, guilt churning in his stomach. Mazahnen.

  He turned away, but he did no better containing his amazement. A large section of one wall held weapons of every kind imaginable, some Windrunner couldn’t even figure out how to use. Many looked ancient, while others glowed. Every other inch of wall space was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, holding more books than Windrunner had ever seen in his lifetime. Spaced along the shelves were strange objects—chunks of stone and bone and metal contraptions whose purpose he couldn’t even begin to fathom.

  His fingers itched to go exploring those shelves. Books like these had taught him what little he knew of the world. What could he learn from these, written and kept by people he’d never known existed before today? And those other things. What were they? He could be happy fiddling around with them for the next year, no problem.

  He firmly, but reluctantly, kept his hands in his pockets.