The Wandering Isles

by C. L. Schneider

  Klarin slammed me back into the wall. His fists were relentless. Dunn tried to pull him off, but he wouldn’t be deterred. Slamming me into the wall, he pushed an arm tight against my throat. Breathless, spittle flying, he screamed in my face, “Get it through your fucking head, Kane! There is no peace. No High King. No one fixed you. Rella is a smoldering pile. And Ian Troy is dead. He never came for you. No one came for you—because you’re an insignificant piece of Rellan shit who can barely hold a spoon to feed himself. You never left Darkhorne. And you never will.”

  With a growl, his hands dropped away. His words stayed with me, hammering into my brain as I slumped to the tunnel floor. I said nothing as he kicked me. The sensation was familiar. His mocking scorn, the blood in my mouth; I knew them well. Is this all there is for me again? Again? Or still?

  Are they right? Am I that deluded?

  Had I been a prisoner of war all this time? Did I imagine another life in order to avoid accepting this one? Fabricating an impossible rescue, inventing a mysterious woman to heal me. How far had my mind gone to cope with the pain?

  We stopped outside my cell. The grate was up. I didn’t fight when Klarin dragged me toward the opening. Fighting gave them an excuse. It was the first lesson I learned here. The second: no one escapes Darkhorne.

  Klarin left the ladder leaning against the wall and pushed me in. Landing on my side at the bottom of the cell, dust rose to coax tears from my eyes. They fell more freely at the ominous clang, as the grating slammed shut. The lock turned. The fall of heavy boots faded as Klarin and Dunn walked away. I lay where I was for a time, coughing up blood from the beating.

  When I was able to, I pushed to my feet and walked the cramped, rectangular space. It was no more than a few paces wide and ten long. My tattered blanket was in one corner, my bucket the other. I wasn’t always alone here. Someone else shared the cell with me once, another prisoner. Someone kind who cared for my wounds. Hope still existed when she was here.

  I couldn’t recall her face, but I remembered the night the soldiers took her away. She never came back, and the thing in the darkness crept in to take her place. It was cold and hollow. It nestled into the empty spot, beside the half a soul remaining inside me. And there it sat, twisting and corrupting, sloughing off pieces of my sanity like leaves from a dying tree.

  I remembered it happening. I remembered, one night, in a moment of clarity, overhearing the guards telling drunken tales of Ian’s execution. As they toasted the one year anniversary of his passing, I curled up at the bottom of my cell and cried. A whole year, and I didn’t even know. A year of denying their cruel taunts, of struggling to believe he’d defied the odds and was, somehow, some way, still alive. A year of waiting for a rescue that wasn’t coming.

  All that time, clinging to a foolish notion of freedom. And he was already dead.

  “But if I remember that, then…” Klarin is right. I was never rescued. I never sailed from Mirra’kelan. “I was never healed.”

  None of it happened. None of it is true.

  I’ve been here this whole time.

  Fear wrapped its cold arms around me. I couldn’t catch my breath.

  Dropping to the cell floor, the guard’s cruel taunt rang in my mind. “You never left Darkhorne. And you never will.”

  Chapter Four

  I decided some time ago: There are no gods here.

  Not in this place. They’ve long-since forgotten it existed.

  If this even is a place.

  “Hello!” I raised my voice and tried again. “Ian? Ian!”

  I lost track of how many times I’d called for him—for anyone. There was never a reply. Not even my own panicked voice bouncing back to me. The dark swallowed every echo.

  It’s rule here was absolute.

  Sometimes, it came in different shades; shadows that were duskier; pockets of black that were softer. Some held a faint, reddish hue, implying a glow within. Yet, each time I ran toward one of the oddities, positive I’d found a window or a door, the variation faded like a desert mirage. Each time, I was left surrounded by more of the same, endless nothing.

  It was a trick that was slowly and steadily eroding my last traces of hope. Maybe I never had any to begin with. I couldn’t remember ever daring to believe in something so strongly. Hope. Faith. Dreams. Time. Those things didn’t exist here, in this place with no beginning or end; colorless and void of all life.

  There was no ground or sky, no sun or moon, no way to track the passing of days. The constant dark played with my mind, making it hard to remember where I was before or how long I’d been here. Hours? Days? Years? I had no measure.

  My legs were too weak to keep up the pace. I couldn’t recall how long they’d been trembling, only that I was eventually forced to slow down. I stayed the course, though, determined to go in one direction for as long as possible. To find something. Blind to what might be out there, I was afraid to do otherwise—until the fear that I’d chosen poorly grew too strong to ignore. Did I make a mistake?

  Have I been heading the wrong way all this time?

  What if the ‘nothing’ goes on forever?

  Consumed with needing to know, I branched out in haphazard directions. I defied my trembling muscles and ran, frantic to find a wall, a door, anything solid.

  There was only the dark. Encompassing. Infinite.

  Its weight sheathed my limbs, drawing them inside. Swallowing me.

  There was no end, no escape.

  I blinked. Gods—is it my eyes? Am I blind?

  If I was, I’d lost all other senses, as well. There was no breeze, no odor, no hot or cold. The air had no taste. The smooth floor was the perfect temperature on my bare feet. Or maybe it’s not there at all? Is anything here solid? Am I?

  I reached up to touch my face. I swung my arms. I raked nails on my skin.

  Nothing.

  I tried again with the same results. My mind willed my limbs into action, but were they responding? Did I still have a body to carry out the commands it was given?

  I couldn’t hear my steps, my own breath, or the pulse in my ears.

  Not so much as an outline of myself was visible.

  Did I die? Is this death?

  It was a logical leap. I was no longer weighed down by the physical world. Only one perception, one sensation was left to me: an internal, sinking emptiness. It swept through me like a wave, drowning the past, dragging my memories into the deep until I couldn’t find them anymore.

  I am dead. I must be. Why else would there be only the dark?

  It was everlasting. Unchanging. Crawling on me—heavier than it was a moment before. It squeezed, reminding me there was nowhere to go. No escape. No end.

  No rescue.

  Ian wasn’t coming.

  No one was coming.

  I dropped where I stood. Expecting there to be no floor to catch me, I clung to the small bit of relief when there was. Drawing up my knees to my chest, I sat and waited for the rest of me to fade from existence. Please, I begged. I’m ready. Take me now.

  End this.

  A noise struck in the distance.

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  It was an odd, recurring echo, like the repeated slam of a cell door.

  Clang. Clang. Clang.

  It was eager, merciless. Solid and finite.

  Like the strike of a hammer on bone.

  Chapter Five

  I hated the sound of my every step. The endless crunch grated on my nerves, leaving no room for stealth, as I made my way across the rocky, arid plain. I kept between the rows of remains, but the heavy presence of Death was inescapable. The exposed boneyard stretched to the horizon, in every direction.

  The prolific system of vines appeared to be all that grew on the entire island. I’d never seen a more aggressive species of plant. It was remarkable how the sturdy, red stems intertwined in a delicate, complex weave to cover the ground. The dead, brittle shoots lay scattered about, disconnected from the pattern. They snapped underfoot,
adding to the persistent layer of dust around my boots.

  Hours and miles passed with no change, no break in the landscape, no clouds or breeze, or place to sit. The monotony made it hard to gauge distance. The repetition was maddening.

  Before setting off, I scooped up the blowing surcoat and threw it on over my armor. It would have been easy to dwell on how it was tangible, but Jem wasn’t. Instead, I took the garment as a gift, buckled my swords on the outside, and pulled up the cowl. The roomy folds of the hood shielded my eyes from the blinding, white glare of the sun and protected my head from the heat. My brain wouldn’t be “boiling” today, as my father was so kind to mention.

  I had no such remedy for soothing my parched lips and throat; nothing to stop the sweat from sliding like a steady rain beneath my armor. It gathered in pools inside my boots, making every step sting. Badly, my body needed food, water, and rest. I gave it magic. I had nothing else and no choice but to go on—pulled forward by sheer will, across an island that felt larger than reason said it should. But was it endless, or was magic making it appear that way? Had I made any progress at all?

  Progress to where? I wondered, scanning the barren land bathed in sun.

  There has to be something more.

  Whatever the islanders were up to, it didn’t involve letting me die out here. Exposure was too mundane, too anticlimactic. If they were marching me across a desert laden with bone, it was for a reason. Unfortunately, I had few clues to tell me what that reason was. Were they trying to show me something, or simply wanting to learn how much I could take? Was this my punishment for daring to see through their magical façade?

  Something sharp poked into the bottom of my right boot. The discomfort begged me to sit, but I was afraid I wouldn’t get back up. I lifted my leg to inspect the sole, and a shadow sped by overhead. Startled, by the time I looked up to find the source, the entire sky was darkening. The sun, dropping like a stone, came to rest low on the horizon. It hung there, only a quarter visible, as the air cooled and stars twinkled in the growing purple of dusk.

  I shook my head at the impossibility and studied the constellations.

  Scouting in remote territories during the war, I learned how to navigate without maps or landmarks. Living on the open sea greatly improved my skill. Yet, even without clouds to muddle the view, I didn’t recognize a single configuration. It was like someone moved the stars. Or did they move me? Is that what happened? Did the islanders open a portal, like a Shinree door? Did they transport me somewhere across the ocean?

  Staring up into the unfamiliar sky, the shores of Mirra’kelan never felt farther away.

  The dark wasn’t progressing. The setting sun wasn’t setting. I was grateful for a break from the heat and monotony, but the perpetual twilight still had me on edge. Watching, waiting for what came next, was like clinging to a frayed rope, knowing it would snap at any moment.

  As I resumed walking, an image floated into my mind. A strong, but delicate, feminine face. Crystalline white hair and soft skin. Sienn.

  An involuntary wistful twinge swept in to tighten my chest.

  I wasn’t sure why I was thinking of her now, but I clung to the notion gratefully; dreading the day when I would struggle to recall her face. And it was coming. At times, already, the details were fuzzy. Eventually, they would blur altogether, and one of the few good things in my life would be gone for good. She already is.

  But she didn’t have to be. Things might have been different if we weren’t at odds for so long. If I surrendered to our mutual attraction, instead of pushing her away. If I didn’t allow war, prejudice, politics, and guilt to keep us apart.

  In the end, we had little time together. But my leaving was best for everyone. The Shinree were entering into a time of growth and new beginnings, and I was a reminder of the past. I was the savior they no longer required. Sienn Nam’arelle was the teacher they needed.

  None of that stopped me from grieving the loss of her.

  Our first few weeks at sea were the hardest. I’d wake in the night, drowning in doubt, hating myself for abandoning her…afraid I’d put too much on her…afraid she would forget me. It took Jarryd yelling, “Either turn the ship around or stop your goddamn moping. This isn't a funeral dirge!” to recognize what I was doing. I threw my full focus into our voyage, after that. I turned my thoughts with purpose to the present. I put effort into moving on. And now I’m here, and all I can think about is the past.

  I rubbed at a nagging ache in my chest. I wanted it to be a bruise from my fall down the slope, but there was a distinct possibility it was the start of something much worse. The severance of the binding spell I shared with Jarryd opened a door to one place: madness. I’d seen it on him after being forced to ingest Kayn’l in prison. The drug interfered with the magic that sustained our connection. It tricked the spell into believing I died—and took half of Jarryd’s soul with me. After two years, what I rescued from Darkhorne was a shell of the man I once knew.

  If it truly was Jarryd’s body I left lying on the open plain, I was headed down the same road. Only my deterioration wouldn’t be drug induced. It would be permanent.

  The way ahead blurred. I started to cast another strength spell, then realized it wasn’t exhaustion distorting my sight. A thickening haze shrouded the horizon. It was expanding at an alarming pace. I watched it a moment, swelling like a massive dust storm, advancing, fast as an ocean wave. “Shit.” There was no shelter in sight.

  A glow grew within the spreading billows. Red swept in, painting broad strokes across the gray, and my concern shifted. Whatever was barreling toward me definitely wasn’t natural.

  Continuing its rapid advance, a portion of the dense bank shot high into the sky. Wisps extended ahead of the main cloud, branching, reaching across the distance to shroud my location in a thin layer of vapor. Moisture sprinkled red on my skin.

  I turned to flee and stopped short. While I was watching the evolving spectacle in front of me, a matching one had been forming behind. The two wrapped around, converging, and the circle I was standing in grew uncomfortably small. Misty claws reached, batting at my legs.

  I kicked them away.

  They floated right back.

  I ripped a sword from its sheath as something moved within the fog. Long and slender, the tube-like shapes darted low over the shrouded ground. They slithered closer. Snakes? Whatever it was, they certainly moved with the speed and ease of serpents.

  One dipped outside the rim of mist, giving me a glimpse. Okay, not snakes. The vines I’d been walking on all day were twitching and gliding, moving of their own accord.

  A cluster rose straight up off the ground. Dancing at the edge of the fog, the swirling vines began encasing the mist, weaving around and confining portions into a particular pattern—legs. A torso came next. Then arms and a head. The vines were forming an outline of a man, as the rain had on the ship. But the plaited, solid shoots were a more durable framework for the ‘person’ of mist inside. Bending and turning, able to tuck and tighten in strategic places, angles and curves, muscles and contours formed, defining sex and strengthening features.

  There was an obvious connection between the being’s creation and the condition of the vines. The more discernible the figure, the healthier the stalks became. The tubes enlarged, taking on a bright sheen. They pulsed, as if some life-giving fluid pumped within.

  I leaned closer, studying him. Something was definitely moving inside the vines, as they squirmed over and around in a continuous pattern. With every pass, the red casings looked less like a spread of harmless vegetation and more like—veins. What the hell…?

  External blood vessels? Is that even possible?

  Whether it was blood, or some other nourishment, the islanders were clearly, physically, connected to the land in a way beyond my understanding.

  Another section of roots wiggled up from the ground. The weave ensnared more of the fogbank and went to work fashioning a second body. Pleating, gathering, and directing th
e mist, the vines created rounder curves and a softer jawline than the first. I wasn’t surprised when facial features formed, and they resembled the female from the ship.

  Her gender was more definable this time, with the interlacing vein-structure stretching tight over breasts and hips. Tendrils lengthened to trail off her head, flowing like hair. Colors swirled across the mist. The hues darkened and slid into place, painting on brows, nostrils, eyes, fingernails, nipples, and full lips.

  It was mesmerizing, watching her come to life. There was an undeniable, frightening sense of beauty and authority in her form. I had no doubt she was their leader. The level of detail in her creation far outweighed the male’s.

  More figures grew within the wall of cloud. They were the least distinctive of all, boasting limbs and upright forms, draped in misty wrappings, but no real features. They hovered in rows, resembling a troop of foot soldiers, positioned behind their queen.

  Side by side, the male and female moved closer. Fog swept off their steps. The webbing of attached vines slithered behind them, stretching to keep up. Neither carried a weapon, but their lengthy fingers were fashioned into an eerie, daunting shape, reminding me too much of deadly talons.

  With nowhere to flee, and little ground to hold, I raised my sword. It was more menacing than the oar, but I wasn’t confident steel would prove any more effective.

  Their voices sounded in chorus. “We know—”

  “That you fucked up? Good.” I swung. The male shot out in front to take the blow. The blade slid through his vines with a clean cut. Red fragments broke off and fell to the ground. Puffs of mist escaped the gaps.

  A moment later, the severed ends grew back together.

  I swung again with the same results. A third, fourth, and fifth time, I hacked at him; cutting into limbs, neck, and stomach. The gashes took longer to heal after the series of swift, repetitive strikes. But they did heal. Thinking speed was the issue, I cast to quicken my blows. Yet, aside from a succession of satisfying cracks, the outcome was no different.