The Wandering Isles

by C. L. Schneider

  And there it was, rearing its ugly head: the lurking threat, the underlying fear I was meant to fixate on until the islanders took their fill. They were exploiting a fleeting hope I once allowed myself to entertain, of finding the courage to forgive my father, and of finding him worthy of that forgiveness. But his betrayal and his insanity ran too deep. I couldn’t accept him.

  The crown, though…

  Many times, I stood on the brink of fully embracing its power. More than once, Jarryd pulled me back. Only, the armor of his friendship didn’t exist here. This version of me never knew his soul. And I could feel the ramifications. This “me” was lost at sea without his compass. He had no help fighting the current. He didn’t even want help. He was drifting without care or consequence, every urge indulged, every need sated to excess.

  It was a selfish, lonely existence. And yet, simplistic. To care for no one, to live without worry and responsibility. To be truly satisfied. It was a pinnacle of contentment I knew little about, except for the briefest of moments when I was magic-blind—and when I channeled the Crown of Stones. I wish I didn’t remember it so well.

  But I did. And I understood why he said yes.

  He had no attachments, no one to disappoint or to love. No principles, either, if he were sleeping with Taren and throwing around drunken, reckless spells in Kaelish taverns. Whatever loyalty he once felt to Rella was gone. This “me” indulged his pain. It was all he had. Aside from the one thing I never would again.

  I sensed it nearby, whole and bleeding magic out into the world. The nine auras were calling me, as they always did. Their vibrations breathed of promises and possibilities, tensing the air and pulling the sweat up on my skin. The rhythm of the stones spoke a taunting lure, as if to say, I’m here… Accept me… Take me in...

  One last time.

  What harm could it do? I thought. This place doesn’t exist. Nothing is real. Not the city, not the consequences. There is no magic-price here; no repercussions.

  Doubt clawed at my reason. That I know of.

  Was it worth the risk of being wrong, to taste the crown’s magic again?

  The answer came faster than I wanted.

  Anger rushed in right behind; at the islanders for seducing me, at my own shameful weakness—at how the crown wasn’t already in my hands, its power wiping away the guilt of surrender. Fuck! So much for staying calm.

  Taren was eyeing me. Dents of concentration lined her forehead, likely in response to the ones on mine, as I sat on the bed, wrestling with temptation.

  “Ian?” Her use of my first name had meaning. I’d been quiet for some time, and she was worried. “What’s wrong? You have that look. The one that scares me.”

  I grunted. “So?”

  Taren went still, like prey trying to make herself small.

  It was working. She thinks I’m him.

  Continuing the ruse, I pushed, more surely this time. “You’re right about last night. It’s all fuzzy. The last thing I remember is steel heading for my throat,” I added, sliding into what I hoped was an easy lie. “Tell me I gave the bastards what they deserved?”

  “Slowly,” she grinned, slipping a trio of blades into a sheath on her thigh. “And after, you guaranteed no one else in this wretched city would dare come at you again.”

  I wanted to ask. I wanted her gone more. “Find me some wine.”

  “Are you sure? I think a few hours sober might—”

  “I said, find me some goddamn wine!” I ran a slow hand over my pained expression. “I feel like shit.”

  Relief graced Taren’s laugh. “If you’re going to be sick, lover, do it outside.”

  Seeing an opportunity, I rushed up and pushed her back into the wall. Getting in close, I snarled in her ear, “You think you can talk down to me because I let you in my bed? You think, you’re irreplaceable. Protected? Think again.” I released her with a parting shove. Backing up, teetering awkwardly, I plopped back on the mattress with my head in my hands. “Now go get me a fucking drink. If I have to ask a third time…”

  I didn’t need to finish. Without a word, Taren pulled on her boots and left.

  A twinge of guilt crept in. I stowed it, took a breath, and sat up.

  I located my boots under the bed. A crumpled pile of gray cloth turned out to be a tunic. As I slipped it on, I caught sight of a sword resting in the corner. The braces on the stool beside it were made of a dark, fine leather and embedded with a variety of stones. Intricate patterns of etched Shinree runes spoke of spells and ancient teachings.

  Sliding an arm in each brace, I tightened the buckles. Contact woke the stones. Their auras seeped out to caress my skin. It was nice, but I wanted more.

  I grabbed the sword and moved to the window on the far wall. Hoping to see a clue outside as to where this scenario was headed, I tugged the curtain open. I could have sworn we were on the second floor of an inn, but the street was right outside. A glare of hazy sunlight and a thick fog compromised my view.

  Leery, I studied the mist. Was it the islanders, watching me? There was movement within. It was erratic, full of shouts and cries, but the silhouettes were tangible. They ran like people, with hurried strides and lifted skirts. “That’s not fog,” I decided. “It’s smoke.”

  More shapes became apparent. Comprehension rushed in.

  I dropped the curtain and staggered back.

  Fastening on the sword belt with trembling hands, I fled the room. My quick pace slowed as I stepped outside. I knew this area. This was the forgotten part of the city, the old, weathered, run-down section of Kael. If you dared venture here, you had a reason, or nowhere else to go.

  The Wounded Owl was two streets over. Maybe it was still there. I couldn’t tell how far the smoldering rubble extended. There were too many collapsed buildings, mounds of tumbled bricks and stacks of fallen, smoking timbers in the way. Because of me. I did this.

  I wiped the burn from my eyes, telling myself it was caused by smoke. The layer was heavy, as if the fire were only recently extinguished. Yet, I’d caught not a whiff of it in the room. There were no sounds of commotion or buckling structures, no screams—until I came outside to hear them. The devastation was for my benefit. There was no cause for it to exist until it came into view. Now, the air was foul with the stink of ash and charred skin. Sobs, moans, and the crash of weakened timbers escaped the haze. Kaelish curses flew as weary men dug through the debris, pulling out bodies and tossing them into wagons. I flinched as each corpse landed, weighing down a cart already burdened with too many blistered remains.

  Taren appeared at my elbow. Already? I thought, grinding my teeth on a curse. It would be hard enough to stay on task without being forced to engage with her.

  She held out a flask. “Here.”

  I looked at her. “What is it?”

  “All I could find.”

  I took it, frowning at the dribble of blood streaking the side. Opening the flask, I drained the water-downed contents in one swallow. It was sour and weak but, staring at the destruction my magic and ego had wrought, it was better than nothing.

  I handed back the flask. “Next time steal from someone with better taste.”

  Her stare wandered over the ravaged street. “You don’t remember this either, do you? Should I fill you in?”

  “No.”

  Hooves struck the cobblestones behind us. Grateful for any diversion, I turned to watch the brown mare trotting toward us. Reigns dragging, a testy gleam peeked out between her tangled mane as Kya slowed to a halt. She nudged my hand. Warm air blew through her nose with a familiar, expressive snort. I rested my head on hers. “It’s good to see you, intae’a.”

  I rescued the reins and looped them over the saddle. A sturdy, leather bag was fastened to the back. The last time it was there, Taren’s head was inside. Now, it held something infinitely more attractive.

  Agitated by my nearness, the Crown of Stones exuded a pulsing wave through the side of the bag. More than a greeting, the vibration was a not-
so-gentle reminder; a shake of the lure that was entirely unnecessary.

  I glanced at Taren. “Where’s my father?”

  “He left last night. King Sarin’s refusal to pledge fealty was disappointing. But you did warn him, he was up against the only man in all of Kael with principles.”

  “Is Sarin dead?”

  “Of course. The Emperor demands total obeisance. You know that. What doesn’t bend must be broken. Which brings me to his orders…” Taren reached past me. “It’s time to bring the realm to heel.” She opened the flap, revealing an arch of rough-cut, colored stones. It was strange to see them fused again.

  The crown’s vibrations spiked, forcing out a grunt as they slammed into me. Shining through the leather like it was no thicker than a veil; the auras were done with gentle persuasion. They were screaming now, urgently vowing to grant my deepest desire. All I had to do was surrender. Let the power in. Use it. As an erudite.

  Here, in this fake existence, we were both whole.

  “Any final words?” I said. “Kael is your home.”

  “My home?” Taren laughed. “My home never cared for me—any more than yours did you, Shinree. Kabri exiled you. Kael spit me out on the street like a piece of rotten gristle. Why should either of us care for their demise?” Abruptly, brushing off the anger, Taren switched her focus. “Jem is expecting us. If you need a dozen cups to get you going first, fine. Let’s get to it. The Owl isn’t the only tavern in town.”

  I thought about it. Alcohol was a trustworthy, albeit temporary, solution—one this version of me readily employed. A few drinks would dull my harried nerves. Anxiety, doubt, and dread were closer to the surface than I wanted. Except my apprehension, and the fearful knowledge of the death I might bring, were my fiercest deterrents. If I was going to deliberately toss them aside and reject my conscience for the sake of strategy, I was doing it sober.

  I reached for the crown. The responding tingle scarcely registered, before I drew the magic in. Penetrating rapidly, caressing, winding inside me; the crown’s auras swirled like a mad tempest, barely contained within flesh and bone. Breath worked fast through my lungs.

  “Gods, I…”

  Never thought I’d feel like this again.

  Pulse quick with excitement, swollen veins pumping more magic than blood; it hit me. For the first time in my life I was utterly free to channel what Fate dangled in front of me. There were no limits or repercussions, no reason for guilt or restraint. Not here, in the islanders’ make-believe world. Here, I could embrace my heritage. Be the magic user I was always afraid to be, the one who wasn’t haunted by his choices or steeped in loss. I could gorge myself without cost, savor what I never would again. One last time.

  Tightening my grip on the artifact, I brushed past Taren and took up position in the center of the ruined street. Citizens cried out and shied away. Kaelish soldiers barreled around the corner, moving through the crowd on an intercept course.

  Steel flew by my ear as Taren threw. Her blades caught one man in the chest, another in the thigh. She trotted past me, stripping my sword from its sheath. “You know how this works, Shinree. I won’t let them interrupt.” She glanced back with a grin. “You try not to kill me.”

  I’d only seen Taren fight once. I remembered her being fierce. Watching her now, without the bog pulling on her steps, as she ducked, spun, and threw herself on her opponent to bring him down, I was impressed. Not bad for a dead woman.

  I closed my eyes. All around me were terrible sights and sounds. I shut them out in a heartbeat. It was pathetically easy. Nothing could compare to the fierce tide of magic coursing through me. The surging auras turned my agitated breaths ragged. Traveling through me, arousing, grazing, and stimulating nerves—

  So much, I thought. So much power and potential.

  I could level the city with far less.

  But why would I want to? Using it all would ensure I delivered the results Jem expected. Because that was what terrified me, becoming what he intended: a relentless, unbridled storm; a man who’d forgotten what mattered. That was who Isuara wanted me to hate. She wanted me to balk, to break, to fear what we both knew was inside me.

  Instead, I gave into it.

  I built reckless spells in my head, with far too much magic. I buried my emotions and gave ambition the reins. I surrendered and became him. The ‘me’ I might have been.

  Isuara wasn’t winning this one. I wasn’t here to bow to her desires. Not this time. Not for a second. I was here to indulge my own. I was taking control.

  Wrapping my will around what pulsed inside me—celestine, sapphire, magnetite, ruby, spinel, diamond, amber, topaz, and my old friend, obsidian—I relished in the build. I let the power coalesce, enjoying the sharp, rising tingle of energy. I was in no rush. Outside this contrived place, the crown was no more, and I was a mere soldier. Never would I channel magic even close to this again. I was going to cherish every second. One last time.

  But I couldn’t stall forever.

  I set the auras free in a single, excruciating burst. Energy rippled out in great waves to fulfill my commands. Color lifted from my skin, burning an icy cold trail. I felt the cry leave my throat, but I was too far gone to hear it. There was nothing but the pleasure moving through me, nothing but this beautiful moment.

  Solely fixated on every sensation, every tremble and caress, every agonizing sting, as the last tendrils slid out, their color filled my eyes. Strength evaporated, like dew in the hot sun. Satisfaction, on a scale unknown to me for so long, swooped in to take its place. Vibrations plucked at every fiber. Sensual overlapping strokes held me teetering on the edge of pain.

  I slid to my knees.

  It was happening too fast.

  I wanted to seize the moment and cling to it forever. But, like rain on the wind, there was nothing to grasp. It was gone. And I was an empty husk, breathless, trembling, and blind, slumped on the ground full of something I didn’t expect. Regret.

  Even here, in this bubble of this non-existent world, I couldn’t escape it.

  Expecting to pass out, after such a violent release of power, I was surprised when my senses began to settle. Hearing returned first, startling me with a cacophony of noise: a rumble of the ground, anguished wails, the fall of stone, the roar of flame. Smoke, heavy and acrid, burned my nose. Dust irritated my throat. Heat tingled exposed skin. It wafted in surges of sweltering intensity, chilling my insides.

  I strained to see what I’d done, but my vision wasn’t clear yet.

  I rubbed my useless eyes. Why is it taking so long?

  Trapped in a state of blindness, listening to the pain of the fallen, belief in my plan began slipping away. Confidence wavered. With each breath it grew harder to separate fantasy from reality. In seconds, I could scarcely stem the rising tide of foreboding. A heavy wave of remorse constricted my chest; I hadn’t counted on that. I also hadn’t considered shame moving in on the backside of casting. But there it was—fierce and unyielding, forcibly resurrecting the dread and fear I vowed not to show.

  I tried a series of steady, deep breaths to shove it away. On exhale, I struggled to dismiss the anguished cries. With each slow inhale, I reminded myself I wasn’t actually in Kael. I wasn’t the cause of its annihilation. There was no city, no people. No one paid the price for my spells because the price wasn’t real. It didn’t exist here. Nothing did.

  I might have calmed myself enough to pull it off, but the color began lifting from my eyes. My sight cleared and crisped. Vision returned and, right away, I knew something was off. The materials and architecture of the debris were different. The terrain was wrong.

  My surroundings had changed.

  This isn’t Kael.

  Glancing side to side, as I peered through the smoke and chaos, recognition stole the warmth from my skin. Comprehension swept in next, evaporating the breath from my lungs. Understanding where I was, and what I’d done, I glared at the circlet in my trembling, white-knuckled grip. The stones were dull now. Th
e crown was powerless, weak. Empty—like me.

  I did exactly as I meant to. I destroyed a city. Just not the one I thought.

  I tried to believe it didn’t matter. The location was insignificant. Whether it was Kabri in ruins, or Kael, it wasn’t real. It didn’t happen. Yet, as the painful irony of obliterating the city I fought to save hit me, all I could think was: It could have.

  If I’d made different choices, taken different paths. If I’d lost hope and purpose.

  I could have done this.

  And with that realization, the battle was lost. The dam holding back my emotions crumbled. They burst out with a weary admission. It’s over. She won. Isuara changed the board, the playing pieces—all of it—smack in the middle of the fucking game.

  I would carry this image and this guilt with me forever, and she still won.

  My grip on reality, my perspective, were gone. So were Taren and Kya, and the ‘me’ who interacted with them. I was dressed for battle now. The runes were on my palm, linking me to Jarryd. Wherever he was, our connection was open and burning with his grief. His bewilderment and rage rushed in behind it. Overlapping it all: his hatred. Of me, I thought.

  I couldn’t fault him. Jarryd had a right to each and every terrible sentiment he was directing my way. Afterall, I callously and wantonly turned his home into a wasteland. But he didn’t get to own all the anguish. Kabri was where I was born, too. It was where the bodies of two women I once cared deeply for were buried—three, including my mother. I fought for Kabri, for all of Rella, for many years. I would have died for it. Several times, I nearly did.

  Yet, even with all that, I couldn’t pretend my loss was as deep as his. Malaq once said this city was in Jarryd’s blood, and he was right. Saving Kabri was Jarryd Kane’s purpose. His determination, his fervent need, to protect his home, pushed the man to struggle tirelessly for its freedom. Now, Jarryd’s single driving force was a flattened, smoldering pile—because of me.

  Blinding pillars of fire raged on all sides, consuming miles of collapsed structures. Withered remains, bloody stumps and scattered limbs protruded from fallen timber and stone. Dust belched from fractured, ripped-open streets. The countless gaping fissures were clogged with chunks of cobblestone, busted wagons, charred wood, and bodies. It was on a smaller scale, but the entire scene was a near perfect, eerie recreation of the massive quake that swallowed the Shinree Empire a thousand years ago.