The Wandering Isles

by C. L. Schneider

  “Attempted?” I echoed her. “Draken is dead.”

  “Draken is on his throne. Who do you think raised your son?”

  My stomach trembled; fear pushing the bile up. “What you say is impossible. I watched Draken die. And Malaq wasn’t the one with the weapon. He—”

  “Lied to protect the real culprit? We know,” she sniffed. “But no one would listen to your confession. Malaq died for your crimes.”

  “No, that is not how it happened. Malaq is alive.”

  “I’m sick to death of your babbling,” the wagon driver blurted. “You should have been lost at sea with that ship of yours. Better yet, you should have had the decency to go down with it like Troy. Him, we could have used. You? No one cared if you survived.”

  “Wait… You know about the ship? How could you? It’s not…” Real.

  Ignoring me, he snarled, “This isn’t your home, Kane. Not anymore. Crawling back here, years later, all muddled-headed and crazy, looking for an audience with your son,” shaking his head, the driver paused. Disdain darkened his grin. “Only smart thing our ‘great’ regent ever did was to cast you out on the streets. If you were my father, I’d do the same.”

  I blinked at the sweat in my eyes, and the unwanted flashes of memory: a young, brown-haired man, hooting and pointing, as his guards threw me down the castle steps. Liel.

  “Wake up!” The beggar woman spat in my face. “Coward. Hiding inside yourself, while the rest of us have to live in this filth every day. Well I’ve had enough!” she shouted, riling up the crowd. Turning, she scanned their rapt faces. “What should we do with him?”

  The suggestions poured in.

  “Kill him!”

  “String him up.”

  “Give him what he deserves!”

  Their cheers sapped the last of my strength, and I sat where I was. Are they right? Did I turn my back and let Kabri fall apart? Did I leave my son to be molded by the man I despised more than any other?

  A chilling, throaty whisper drifted over me. The sound tugged at the hairs on my skin. I looked for its origin but there was too much fog swirling through the crowd. Wisps drifted over their angry faces. There was an odd tinge to the cloud, a reddish hue, adding depth and form as the mist swelled and rolled.

  The crowd charged. Fists struck. Boots stomped. I didn’t bother trying to protect myself. Death would be a welcome change—if it were real.

  But it’s not. I know that now.

  I closed my eyes, and the blows stopped. The rain disappeared. I let slip a helpless sob, as the walls of the cage locked around me. Breathing in the dusty heat, I abandoned the memories. I had to. They were fake, make believe. I never left Darkhorne.

  And I never will.

  Chapter Nine

  Lirih was gone. The weight of her left my arms some time ago, fading with the rest of my surroundings, into the growing dark. The smells and sounds of The Shallows vanished with the attacking hunters. I never saw the men whose sturdy arrows massacred the pack. They disappeared with everything else.

  I wanted to go with them.

  If I knew how. And if I possessed the energy to move. The things Lirih said, the events she claimed happened after I left, had sucked out every ounce of my strength. Except it wasn’t merely the images she left me with that unsettled me. It was the fear that they might be true.

  Did the islanders have the power to show me the future, like a Shinree oracle spell would? Was Jem Reth actually alive somewhere, licking his wounds and plotting revenge? Even if he wasn’t, there was nothing to stop some other, unknown enemy from rising to power. Someone worse. Someone who would hunt the eldring mercilessly.

  Don’t, I thought. They want me unbalanced, second-guessing myself.

  Digging into my mind, twisting memories and anxieties until I broke; my captors wanted me to despair, to let my fears confuse, conquer, and overwhelm me. But to what end? And could Jarryd and I both last long enough to reach it? Isuara insisted we would eventually be let go. Yet, with how little I knew about her kind, I wasn’t optimistic. Surviving, fulfilling the bargain, might not bring the solution I hoped for.

  All I could truly rely on were the same things as always: magic and steel. Though, it was going to prove difficult stuck here, in the dark, in what must be some kind of transition place or holding cell. Having far less casting ability than my enemies was an issue, as well. I couldn’t even be sure the swords they gave me were tangible. The way my armor and weapons appeared on me at the beach, then became something else in the forest. No wonder my attack didn’t kill Taalman. Steel might not be effective against them in the least.

  Did my strikes even hurt him, or was it merely my expectation, my perception, that they would—and so they did? Just enough to keep playing along, enough to hope I had a chance against them. But that hope, like the sword, was no more than a perception, fading away when the illusion was done.

  Except, why did I feel the weight of one resting at my hip?

  They left me armed? What was the point, in the dark? To engender some false sense of relief or control? Could they have made a mistake? If they had, and I’m wrong, and I can hurt them… I reached for the weapon.

  “Nothing,” I sighed. And yet, I could feel the belt encircling my waist, the drag of the sheath, the comforting presence against my leg. A leftover sensation, I decided; a lingering impression of their magic; wishful thinking. That’s what magic is. Wishful thinking.

  “That’s exactly what magic is. Son of a bitch,” I breathed, gathering my drifting thoughts as they sparked an idea. To call the fledgling notion a longshot was being kind. Yet, it took root, deep enough to become a possibility, then an option, then a plan—as palpable as the illusory weapon hanging at my side.

  I stood with purpose in the nothingness. Seizing the obsidian, my grip was confident and eager. The aura sensed my urgency and barreled in. Power prickled and burned, icy cold and more vigorous than I’d felt in a long time. Pleasure zipped along my nerves, banishing exhaustion, erasing the anger and grief of losing Lirih. I had one clear, focused desire for my spell. One intention. One wish. I embraced it, letting the concept fill every thought, every corner, every wisp of magic coursing through me.

  To bring the spell to life required me to push the boundaries of my bloodline farther than I had in a long time. But it’ll work, I thought. If for no other reason than because I needed it to. I believed it would. “Because every soldier needs a sword.”

  And intention is everything in magic.

  I wrapped my wish around the aura, bound it to my will, and let go. As I did, an odd weightiness developed in my head. The straining sensation broke with an abrupt burst of pain, and the magic left me. Satisfaction overrode the discomfort and brushed the strange twinge from my thoughts. But I was too anxious for the results to fully focus on the reward—or the consequences. In bringing Lirih into it, Isuara crossed a line. One that made the possibility of accidentally using some of her kind to feed my spell much less of a concern.

  I planted my feet as I lost my sight, and the usual bout of weakness swept in. It wasn’t insignificant. I might have hit the dirt, if not for the distraction of a sudden lightening of my surroundings. It was obvious the dark void was gone, even before the aura fully lifted and my vision returned. As it cleared, the hot sun and familiar dry, rocky soil didn’t surprise me. What did: the miles of ancient marble and stone structures surrounding me.

  I finally found one of their cities, but it was long-abandoned.

  The buildings were no more than shells, toppled and weather-beaten, dulled with grime and covered in vines. The damn plant was everywhere: climbing walls and fallen stone, clogging window holes and blocking doorways. Much of it on the ground was as dead as the city itself. The piles of severed, black husks appeared almost petrified. Dust spun over them in little clouds, stirred by the hot wind as it howled through the empty streets.

  This was reality. I was dressed in my clothes from the ship. My boots, hair; all was as it was then—
with one important difference. My spell worked. The phantom weight was real now. The sword I wished to life was resting in a sheath fastened to a belt around my waist. I gripped the hilt and pulled the weapon free with a laugh.

  The sound evolved into an awe-struck, “Damn…”

  Crafted by magic, forged with obsidian—wrapped around a core of whatever ore was buried in the island—the weapon swung like a feather in my hand. The sleek, black blade shone in the merciless sun. It was beautiful. It was also the first of its kind.

  As a boy, I learned to magically reinforce weapons, increase their speed, accuracy, and strength. Generally, I left it at that. I preferred “pure” combat, steel versus steel. Though, I could sharpen blades with a thought. Enhance them with poison. Change their composition, length, weight, and style. The spells were more complex and taxing, requiring specific stones, but I had cast them before. Never had I created one from sheer will and belief. I never tried, I thought. Because I’m a soldier, not a conjurer.

  As much as I wanted to believe my desire alone was enough to forge a sword, it made more sense that I had help. I tapped into whatever strange, mystical force was at work here and channeled the islanders’ magic alongside my own. It was an explanation that both troubled and excited me. Could I do it again? Were there unforeseen effects? Would the sword work against the beings if it were formed by their own magic? There’s only one way to find out.

  “You are persistent, Shinree.”

  I pivoted at the masculine voice. The vine-wrapped form who identified himself as Taalman stood among the ruins. The squirming roots hanging off him stretched out into the distance, overlapping their black counterparts. “Erratic and most creative,” he added, his bound head tilting to eye the homemade sword in my grip. “I’m unsure how it was done, but the weapon was unnecessary. No matter what you cast, you still lack the strength to destroy us.”

  I glanced at one of the buildings. “Looks like someone already did.”

  Taalman’s misty forehead darkened, furrowing his brow.

  “Relax,” I said. “I’m not going to destroy all of you. I don’t even know what you are. And genocide seems a little harsh, don’t you think? I mean, your entire race isn’t standing in my way. At the moment, it’s just you.”

  “Your threats are pointless. A bargain was struck. It must be seen through.”

  “Struck?” I grimaced at his choice of words. “More like coerced. Which I’m guessing is standard procedure around here. You do know not everything in reach is yours for the taking?”

  “Your magic may allow you to be aware in ways others are not, but it should not afford you special treatment. We have offered explanations. Broken customs. Pandered to your questions. We have accommodated your wary nature, well beyond what is required. Yet, still, you do not cooperate. You do not take us at our word.”

  “Don’t take it personally, Taalman. I take very few people at their word.” Giving him no time to respond, I steered the conversation in a more important direction. “Where’s Jarryd? What are you doing to him?”

  “What we must.”

  “Wrong answer.” I brandished the sword. “Try again.”

  Vines rustled as he bristled. “Kane’s mind is more malleable than yours. He has been changed by the magic connecting you, which does make him difficult at times. Yet, he is not Shinree. It takes only a push to correct his course and re-immerse him.”

  “In the process?” His pleased nod of confirmation steeled my jaw. “Gods, you people are infuriating.”

  “Our ways are not yours. It does not make them wrong.”

  “Doesn’t make them right, either.”

  A surprising level of emotion hardened his words. “I grow weary of you, Shinree. If you wanted to sit in judgement, you should have claimed power when you had the chance.”

  “You can drop all the veiled references to my past you want. I already know you’ve been in my head. Which means, you should know exactly what I want to do to you.”

  “We are not your enemy. Violence and war fuel many an existence outside these waters, but not ours. We inflict no physical damage. The process does not hurt.”

  “Try being on this side of it.”

  “You cannot blame us for your fears—or your reactions to them.”

  “So you poke me, and it’s my fault if it hurts? You know what, Taalman,” I brought the sword to bear, “you’re not the only one who’s weary.”

  Isuara’s voice filtered in from a distance. “Attack him if you must, Troy, but he will not provide the answers you seek. He does not have permission.”

  Tendrils of fog came into view a moment later, drifting out from behind the buildings. Healthy, red shoots followed the cloud. More grew from the ground and slithered in from all directions. They merged and went to work, wangling the mist and binding it into a feminine form.

  When Isuara’s body was complete, she spoke again. “Your worry is understandable, Troy. But it would prove traumatic to break Jarryd Kane prematurely from his path.”

  “Then how am I out? How am I here with you?”

  “As was explained, your mind is more cognizant than most. Your blood resists our influence.”

  “Because you allow it,” Taalman broke in. “Cooperation could be forced.”

  Her caged body twisted to face him. “Those measures are unnecessary. The Shinree is simply curious. He seeks to know before he can accept. It is an admirable trait.”

  “And a dangerous one,” Taalman murmured.

  “That is not for you to decide alone,” she said.

  “Nor you,” he countered.

  Seeing a divide between them I might use later, I sheathed the sword and turned to Isuara. “Tell me about this place. Did your people live here? Was this your home?”

  “Home,” she repeated, as if it were a foreign sound. “That word has not been uttered among us for generations.”

  “Why not? As you said,” I softened my voice. “I am curious.”

  Whether or not Isuara identified the tactical reasons behind my inquiry, she didn’t hesitate. “We were once not so different from the Shinree. Although stone energy is not our source, we draw our magic as you do, from the land. An infinite source. Or so we believed.” Isuara moved away at a slow stroll. She glanced back. “Shall we walk? I do not often get the chance.”

  Mindful of her straggling vines, I stepped up beside Isuara. We walked in silence for a while, moving deeper into the city. I glanced back, from time to time, keeping an eye on Taalman as he shuffled behind us.

  “We are an old race,” Isuara said, at last, “far older than the Shinree. But we have never been stagnant. Each generation was born more enlightened and powerful than the last. Even isolated on the Isles, we knew our evolution was at a rapid pace. Yet, it wasn’t enough. We always reached higher; always wanted more—more magic, more resources. Ultimately, we stopped relying on ourselves for anything. Magic fed, clothed, and sheltered us. It fulfilled every need to excess. Yet, we were not content.”

  “That’s something I can understand.”

  “Your addiction was forced upon you. We suffered no fate other than greed and vanity. We desired well beyond what our society could ever use or contain. But we gave no thought to the waste. Want had grown to eclipse reason.”

  “If you’re aware of all this, clearly something changed.”

  “It did. Though, not before we grew powerful enough to shed our physical forms. Even they were not enough for us. We saw our bodies as a hindrance, a source of weakness and irrelevance. An obstacle in our path. Caring for our vessels became mundane. The emotions and experiences they provided were tiresome. Limiting. Repetitive. So we cast them off.”

  “Shoving emotion aside to craft a spell is one thing. What you’re talking about… I can’t imagine it—or even conceive how it would be done.”

  “It was terribly simple for us, I’m afraid. That in itself should have been a warning. But our new state was liberating—at first. Without a physical barrier, we
absorbed and wielded the power of the Isles more effortlessly than ever before. But, as time passed, the repercussions became clear. By taking for so long, we were not only on the cusp of destroying ourselves, but the very land that sustained us. There was much death.” Veins stretching to accommodate the move, Isuara stared up the side of a building as we crossed its shadow.

  “That’s regret in your voice,” I said. “And I saw anger in Taalman, before. You do still feel.”

  “Fleeting sentiments, nothing more,” she replied, brushing off my observation. “Do you wish to know the rest?”

  “Please,” I gestured at her, “Continue.”

  “What little magic remained retreated into the hardiest of plants. Lacking the concept of ego, it would have kept giving until it, too, was gone. Yet, still, we did not stop. Magic was all we had; all we knew. How could we continue without it? And leaving was impossible. We no longer possessed the bodies with which to travel. The uncertain future we faced became a source of profound fear. It was a shared emotion on a level beyond any we had experienced in some time. It was debilitating, and yet…evocative. Exhilarating. It gave us a purpose, something we had lost and forgotten was important.”

  “Fear can be a powerful motivator. But what about love? Hope? Faith? Did you forget those were important, too?”

  “Love became an antiquated notion long ago. Hope was resurrected, briefly, when one among us saw a new path. A way to reciprocate, to share resources and nourishment. A way that allowed us, and the islands, to continue on. It was a joining not unlike what the Shinree undertake, though far more than souls were exchanged.”

  “You connected yourself to the land.”

  “We choose to give back to what we’d once forsaken and heal the islands. It has been slow. Little can survive here. But it was the only way, the only path before us.”

  “Yet, the regret is still there.”