There were more years of my life, hidden away by the strange beings who took us from the ship. I recalled them clearly now, but I couldn’t grasp why they would bury my own memories inside me. All I could do was let them come.
When the moment was done, I let out an excited, “This isn’t Kabri! Whatever spell those things in the fog cast on me, I think it just failed.”
Ian froze. He stared for a long moment. “It’s really you?” Searching my eyes, he let out a fractured breath of relief. “It’s about goddamn time.” I groaned as he pulled me in for a crushing embrace. “Where the hell have you been? I was afraid I’d never…” Ian’s words slowed to a crawl, “…see you again. Gods, they never stop.”
Remorse tightened my throat. “I almost killed you.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “I did kill you.”
“What? When? Why?”
“Later,” he said, letting me go with a vigorous pat on the back. When he stepped away, he looked different. He was no longer wrapped in heavy armor, but wearing the comfortable, looser garments we both favored on the ship. A sword I’d never seen before was belted at his hip. He seemed particularly happy when his eyes landed on the sheathed weapon.
If Ian found time to acquire a fancy, new sword, I wondered, “How long have you known what was going on? How long have we been here?”
His attention roaming over the dry, rugged landscape slowly replacing Kabri, Ian offered a vague shake of his head. “Hours? Days? There’s no way to tell.” He started walking. “When we reach the water, we’ll follow the shoreline until we spot the ship.”
“And if we don’t spot the ship? If it’s not there?”
“We swim to one of the other islands and try again. It’s there, Nef’taali,” he said, pausing, looking back. “It has to be.”
“You don’t think they’ll try and stop us?”
“I know they will. But I’m not going to stand here and wait for it. The faster we can get to the shore, the better chance we have. Are you okay to run?”
I nodded, and Ian took off. I followed a moment later, keeping a few paces behind. It quickly became obvious he’d picked a direction at random, but I couldn’t have done any better. There were no landmarks, only endless rocky outcroppings and a heavy layer of vines blanketing the waterless ground. Ian kept glancing at the woven, red stems.
“You called them rounds,” I said. “How many times have you destroyed Kabri?”
“Once, thankfully. The experience is different every time. Different people. Different places. Different fears. At least, it was for me. The islanders’ magic taps into what we’re most afraid of. It wakes up the things in the back of our minds we don’t want to face and manifests them into some kind of hallucination or dream state. Then they sit back and watch the show.”
“There has to be more to it than that. Why not kidnap a ship full of traveling bards if all they’re after is entertainment?”
“Maybe they would, if one was stupid enough to come out here.” He tossed me a grin. “I’d tell you their motive, Nef’taali, if I truly understood it. All I know is they had a city here once. They had bodies, like you and I, but they gave up their physical forms. First for magic, then to save the islands.”
“They don’t have bodies? How is that even possible?”
“It’s not, with Shinree magic. Their magic is…something else. But there are similarities, enough to keep me from being completely taken in by their spells. Most of the time.”
“Unlike me.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. The places they created, the people,” a noticeable longing slipped into Ian’s tone, “they’re convincing.”
“Still, I’d feel better if I knew where I’ve been and what they did to me. I can’t remember anything before watching Kabri fall.”
“Good. You have enough to keep you awake at night. You don’t need to add their concocted bullshit to the pile.”
Ian meant well. But he didn’t understand. I couldn’t recall the details or the moments, but something certainly stuck with me, strong enough to follow me out into the real world: a steadily, and rapidly, building apprehension.
I wanted it to believe it was a reasonable reaction after nearly killing my friend and discovering we’d been abducted and spelled, all in the span of minutes. But it was more than that. It was deeper. Recognizable. It lived inside me and had for a long time, entrenched and hidden, comfortably waiting for the right time to creep to the surface—which, apparently, was now, as we crossed the barren plain.
I couldn’t shake it. Time wasn’t helping. With each step, each crack of vines and stir of dust, its existence became more noticeable, writhing like a nest of worms in my stomach. I turned to conversation, as a distraction, but running in the high heat had us both breathless. Even if it didn’t, Ian was too intently focused on escaping to talk.
And as the silence dragged on, the heavy mass on my chest pressed harder.
A persistent shadow emerged in the corner of my eye. I watched it grow larger, distorting my vision. Not larger, I thought, my pulse rising to drum in my ears. Closer. It was crawling, scuttling impossibly fast, to inch its unseen hand up my shoulder. Frigid fingers slid around, enfolding my throat. They squeezed, pulling me to a stop, as I struggled to pull air in past the shadow’s grip.
Failing to notice my absence, Ian kept going. I couldn’t push so much as a whisper from my constricted throat to call him back. Quickly, he became too far away to hear me. But I needed to tell him: If the islanders drew out our fears, they forgot to put mine back.
My lungs fought to work. My limbs were unresponsive. I couldn’t turn to see the shadow slowly crushing the life out of me, but I knew it was there. And it wasn’t alone. More had moved in to watch me, to wait for me to succumb.
It was easier to drag me back to my cell when I was too weak to fight.
Wordless whispers brushed past me. I closed my eyes, forcing them away.
I’d suffered hallucinations for months after I left Darkhorne. Sometimes, the circumstances were different, but the key elements were always the same. A dark presence, a lack of air and mobility, pain, panic, whispers. With time, the episodes grew more fleeting and manageable. I couldn’t recall when the last one struck. Why is it happening again?
What did they do to me?
I opened my eyes to see Ian had stopped to wait for me. He wiped his brow, catching his breath; assuming I was taking a break. My own breathing was coming easier now. The non-existent pressure was gone. The debilitating dread had eased. Afraid both would return, I jogged to catch up.
I never made it.
Ten feet away, a thick streak of white claimed the space between us.
No longer trusting my own vision, I slowed and took a moment to study the heavy fogbank advancing on our position. Its approach was unnaturally fast. Fog doesn’t move like that, I thought, watching its rounded edges swell as the cloud spread. Shapes darkened the interior. The phenomenon was similar to when the islanders boarded the ship, but without the rain. They found us.
Something red slithered at my feet. Startled, I jumped back. But there was nowhere to go, as the sprawling network of vines we’d been walking on came alive. More were rushing in from the distance. Thrusting swiftly toward us, the single, plump tubes split and forked, dividing like a slender mountain stream breaking its banks. One became two, then four, eight, sixteen. They wove together in a latticework, covering the ground like roots in some ancient, overgrown forest.
The impossibility, coupled with my hallucinations, pushed me to call out, “Ian, please tell me you see that?”
“I see it,” he grumbled. “I’m surprised it took them this long.”
His confirmation, and oddly calm acceptance of the situation, did nothing to soothe my ragged nerves. The fog was nearly upon us, spreading out and circling our position. With each inch of ground we lost, the tremble inside me magnified. It reached my voice as I urged him, “Now might be a good time to share the plan.”
<
br /> “I would if I had one.” Ian drew the sword at his hip. It was a beautiful weapon. The sleek, black material was unlike any blade I’d seen before. What it was made of, or what he planned to do with it, I couldn’t guess. There were no targets in view, nothing but a flimsy suggestion of limbs and torsos floating in the cloud.
Hoping he had more of a strategy than he was letting on, I moved to close the gap between us, and the vines took issue. Darting fast, a cluster slid over the top of my boots and rooted me to the ground. I was trapped, restrained. Again. This time, my lack of mobility wasn’t the construct of an impaired mind. My confinement, and the mounting sense of helplessness my captivity spawned, was acutely real—and I couldn’t take it.
A rush of panic turned my skin hot. Lungs pumped, drying my throat and mouth. I tried lifting my feet, but the ends were secured underground. I bent to rip the vines away, and thorns as long as eldring claws pushed out to pierce my fingers. “Son of a bitch!”
I stared at the blood dripping from the tears in my skin, and sounds floated out of the fog: soft, satisfied laughter; a man’s pleading screams, overlapping the distinctive snap of bones.
He begged and wept, but no one listened. No one came.
I knew his cries well. They were my own.
Something happened to me on this island. Something terrible.
It woke things in me, stirred up the past more than my mind could handle.
Whatever the islanders did, I was fully aware of the edge I was teetering on, but I had no way to pull myself back. Lucidity was crumbling beneath me. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t keep the darkness from gaining ground, or the walls from closing in—or my cell from slamming shut. Terror was crushing the strength from my heart. It was beating so fast.
I couldn’t fight anymore.
Not alone.
I forced his name past the obstruction in my throat. “Ian. Open the link.”
“It’s not a good time,” he said. “The things they showed me—”
“Just do it!”
Trusting the urgency in my plea, Ian dropped his internal wall. Our connection sprang to life, and imagery tumbled in from our time apart. I shoved it away for later. Borrowing what I needed, I drank in his steady nerves and command of the moment; seeking to find balance in Ian’s confidence and cold, simmering anger.
“You good?” he said.
I wasn’t sure, but I nodded, distracted as another set of vines sped vertically through the fog. Climbing on the air, the weave of shoots twisted around the mist. Binding portions of the cloud in place, the vines forced the mist to take on eerie man-like shapes
Two distinct figures formed and broke free to stand in front of Ian. The vines continued shuffling over and around, as if making sure the mist stayed inside the frame. Liquid flowed within the tubes. Was it the sticky rain from the ship? I couldn’t tell.
“Is this a spell,” I said, “another one of their fantasies? I mean, these things can’t be alive. Can they?” I said, giving into a nervous chuckle. “This can’t be what they are.”
I glanced at Ian, needing an answer.
He was too busy glaring at the figures.
I didn’t like his silence, or theirs. Both were heavy with implications that could spin rapidly out of control—and not in our favor. “Care to introduce me to your new friends,” I said, trying again for Ian’s attention, “before you stare each other to death?”
“The female is Isuara. The male…” Ian ran his gaze over the other’s misty features. “That’s not Taalman.” His satisfaction flew across the link.
“You’re happy about that. Why?”
“Because it means the bastards aren’t as tough as they look. They can’t repair every wound. It means, I put one of them down with a sword I shouldn’t have. I broke us out of that conjured nightmare and stopped the fucking process she said couldn’t be interrupted.”
“You pissed them off,” I nodded. “So, the plan is underway.”
“Let us go, Isuara,” Ian demanded, turning his attention on the female. He raised the sword and slid into a fighting stance. “Or Taalman won’t be the only casualty I leave behind.”
“Ian,” I cautioned, watching the vines constrict her misty face. Feminine features pinched into something gaunt and fierce. “Maybe you shouldn’t…”
Thick bands of vines sprang from the ground to lock about our boots. Sinewy, red nets branched out and draped around, scampering up our legs. They climbed higher, molding to our forms, ensnaring torsos and latching onto arms.
The living nets were binding us in place too fast to yank away.
Ian gave up trying and swung for Isuara’s head. He was in range, but the prison growing on him whipped out to interfere. Moving down shoulder and arm, overlaying hand and sword, blindingly fast; the red web tightened as it wrapped, suspending Ian’s strike in mid-air and freezing the black blade inches from its target.
Chapter Thirteen
“Stop.”
The grunts and sounds of straining continued, despite my request.
We weren’t that far apart. Jarryd had to hear me.
The warm slithering movement, as the net of shoots ran over us in the same continuous manner as the islanders, was unnerving. The friction of their movements stung. Struggling rubbed exposed skin raw. Edges worked deeper, cutting into flesh, while the vines never weakened or loosened. In continuing to fight his confinement, Jarryd was only hurting himself.
But he wouldn’t stop.
I cast strength on us both. It did nothing. For their flexible nature, the wrapping of vines was rigid and strong as steel. I attempted two other spells with no better outcome. So far, the only weapon proven to be effective was in my hand, trussed and unusable. Without it, we weren’t going anywhere.
Talking our way out was a possibility if our captors ever moved on from the staring portion of our encounter. Their protracted mute observation of us had continued long enough to make me uneasy. Though, dying wasn’t my main concern. If Isaura wanted us dead, we would be already. I was more nervous she’d try to detain us indefinitely—and what her people might do to us with all that time on their hands. Still, I made every effort to hide my anxiety. I wasn’t giving them the satisfaction of an emotional display. Jarryd was doing enough of that for both of us.
His response to our captivity was troubling and extreme.
Eyes wild, sweating, and breathless; Jarryd’s body was humming with adrenaline. I couldn’t get him to maintain eye contact—or stop squirming. His need to escape was compulsive and irrational, leaving no question as to what fears the islanders subjected him to. Confusion and panic were dominating our connection on a level I hadn’t felt from him in years.
Not since the war. Not since Darkhorne.
Instinct said to block him. Jarryd was deteriorating at a rapid pace. His panic would eventually overcome me, and one of us needed a clear head. But shutting him out meant leaving him alone, swimming in his own fear. And I couldn’t do it. Jarryd’s recovery from incarceration was long and difficult. If he was suffering those same debilitating symptoms now, as I suspected, isolation might only make him worse. What Jarryd needed from me was reassurance and composure. Peace, I thought. As usual, I had little to spare.
Softening my voice, I tried again. “Jarryd. Stop.”
He wriggled harder. Skin tore. Blood dribbled out onto the vines.
A burst of his hysteria slapped against me.
I took a breath and shook it off. “You have to calm down.”
No reaction.
“Calm the fuck down!”
“I can’t,” he said, finally answering. “It…it’s getting tighter.”
“Because you keep moving.”
“It’s crawling…”
“Yes, but—”
“I can’t move, Ian. Goddammit—I need to move!”
“No, Nef’taali, you need to relax. They haven’t hurt us. They haven’t done anything.” But stare, I thought, stifling my growing agitation. “If you
stop fight—”
“You don’t understand!”
I did, but I hesitated to voice his fears aloud. He was listening, though. I had to take the chance. “It’s not the cage,” I said. “You’re not back there. You’re not in Darkhorne. I’d die before I ever let you end up there again. Hold onto that promise and breathe.” I pushed another wave of calm in his direction. “Do you hear me? I need you with me right now, strong and alert. I need you here.”
“I’m…trying.” My donation sank in, and some of the tremble smoothed from his voice. “What are you waiting for? Why haven’t you busted us free?”
“I can’t. Yet. But I’ll figure it out. As long as we’re alive—”
“Alive isn’t a measure. Can’t you do something?” Writhing again, Jarryd hissed. “Gods, how can you ignore it crawling on you?”
“Try going a few days without magic. This is nothing.”
“It’s not nothing!”
Vines stretching to accommodate their movements, Isuara and the male crept closer to Jarryd. “His reaction is severe,” she said, examining him.
“Yes, quite severe,” the male agreed. “May I?” At her nod, he raised an appendage. The tips of his vines shot out and clung to Jarryd’s neck. Splitting and extending, the red branches sped up and over his jaw. Jarryd cried out as the ends latched on, prying open his mouth. The tendrils pushed inside, sliding down his throat and muffling his screams.
Watching Jarryd choke and struggle to breathe, the frayed thread holding my patience in check snapped with a growl. “You son of a bitch—leave him alone!”
There was no response. The male seemed too absorbed, almost entranced, with whatever he was doing to Jarryd. Inside the casings, holding his form together, the liquid pumped and pulsed faster. Masculine features became more apparent, almost tangible, as his mist gained depth and texture. Lips darkened, curling in a smile.
His gaze, now unnervingly bright and penetrating, shifted to me. “You disturbed the process. Disruption creates waste. Waste is forbidden.”
The Wandering Isles Page 15
