The Restless Shore: The Wilds

by James P. Davis

  “We are, all of us, dreaming,” Tessaeril replied from the dark, her voice growing louder, echoing and rippling through the bone mosaic on the walls.

  “Wait!” Ghaelya cried, reaching out and advancing only to splash into the pool, far deeper than it had appeared. She sank swiftly as the light faded, kicking as she fought to keep her head high, to keep Tessaeril in sight.

  “Only, some of us are trapped,” Tessaeril continued, her eyes dripping streams of crimson nectar. “Some of us are not dreaming, but rather, are dreamed …”

  “I don’t understand!” Ghaelya replied, trying to swim forward, but held back by a swiftly growing current. The edges of the pool spread outward, and the walls faded to a hazy black. A sense of unfathomable depth overtook her, and the distant crests of sloshing waves flashed far beyond the meager perimeter of the chamber as she called out to her sister, “Don’t leave me!”

  “You will understand, when you come to me …” Tessaeril said, the last echoing from far away, buzzing and repeating on the air. “…Come to me … to the blood … and to the bloom …”

  A wave surged over Ghaelya’s head, blinding her for a moment and filling her mouth with a taste of seawater. She trod water, bewildered, flinching as thunder rumbled overhead and lightning tore through a cloudy sky, illuminating an expanse of choppy water that stretched in all directions.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered, once again able to feel fear as a line of brilliant blue flared on the horizon. Gulls wheeled in circles, complaining loudly as they fled a swift wall of sparkling blue fire that roared across the surface of the water. Ghaelya tried to swim away, diving beneath the surface, but even the darkest depths glowed as the blue flames neared. She surfaced again, gasping as the seagulls, unable to escape, were engulfed.

  Some simply disappeared, others were incinerated into little puffs of ash, but a handful were horribly changed, twisting into distorted masses of flesh that had little resemblance to the gulls they had been. Plummeting into the water, the lifeless lumps left behind a single bird flapping clumsily, little more than a collection of giant wings and squawking beaks, a monster that hung heavily on the air.

  “The Spellplague,” she muttered in horror, recognizing and somehow bearing witness to events she only knew of through century-old stories and legends. The Blue Breath of Change had been born in the death of a goddess and ravaged all that it touched as the fabric of magic fell apart at the seams.

  Stunned and helpless, Ghaelya froze as the blue fire washed over her, shaking her violently and drawing massive waves behind it. As it passed, she felt no different, and drifted momentarily in a void of utter silence, waiting. The silence was broken by a drowned scream, a melodious shriek that rose from the depths beneath her and touched her soul with pain and terrible sorrow even as it ripped through her body like a thousand spinning blades.

  She screamed as well, her vision fading to darkness; and her body lifted, floating in a weightless void for several breaths before everything suddenly stopped.

  Opening her eyes, she found herself lying on the floor of the chamber, bones and dead bugs pressed against her cheek. The light was gone, and in the dark she shuddered, inhaling deeply, relieved even by the scent of stagnant water and death. Her skin tingled uncomfortably as she sat up and brushed the filth from her face, a dim memory instinctively guiding her back to the present and the bottom of the pit, though the strange dream sat heavily in her thoughts.

  “Something … Something in the water,” she whispered.

  “Ghaelya?”

  Uthalion’s tired voice called down to her through the cloud of buzzing insects, and she hesitated, saying nothing and shivering in the dark. She gripped the sides of her head, assuring herself of the solid reality around her, trying to sort through the course of the dream.

  Through it all, she felt a grim certainty.

  Through finding her voice and calling back to the human, through climbing out of the pit and breathing fresh air, through each new moment that passed, she was certain that Tessaeril was alive and waiting for her. She dreaded the idea with a quiet shame, however, for she was as yet unsure if simply being alive was for the best.

  Uthalion stumbled free of the vine-trees, wiped the mud from his hands, and glanced back across the sea of waving plants before putting a safe distance between them and himself. He collapsed to his knees in the tall grass, wild eyed and breathing heavily. He pressed his hands hard into the ground, pushing dirt between his fingers purely for the sensation, to feel the solidity and find control over his own faculties.

  The song had taken him, drowned him in the darkness of the pit, and he had been unable to turn away, longing to stay forever in its embrace. He spat, repulsed by the idea, violated by a will that was not his own and yet one that could not be ignored. He could still imagine the surging tune digging into his mind before abruptly ending, leaving an empty space that seemed to shatter his ability to reason the difference between reality and dream.

  He closed his eyes as a spinning vertigo threatened to make him sick, but he held on, willing his heart to slow its rapid beating. Only when he had regained some manner of control, a better awareness of his surroundings, did he look to Ghaelya.

  She sat just beyond the wide grove, shivering as she whispered to herself, shaking her head and gesturing as though she argued with someone.

  “Madness,” he muttered and looked away, leaving the genasi to herself until he could compose his own thoughts into a coherent order. Night still ruled the Akana, and he suspected little time had passed since he had fallen by the edge of the pit though it had seemed an eternity. He dug his fingernails deep into the palm of his hand as he stood and tested his balance, reassured by the dull pain.

  “Tess was down there,” Ghaelya said suddenly, looking at him wide-eyed and wringing her hands. The energy lines flowed over her skin, flaring with a soft light, rolling from one pattern to another like a restless tide.

  Uthalion felt an urge to take her by the shoulders and shake her, to slap the faint glint of mania from her eyes. He wanted to say she was lying and that she would find nothing of her sister save bones like those they had just crawled through. But he stepped back, his hands at his side to keep them from betraying his better sense.

  “She showed me things,” the genasi continued as she rose to her feet. “Horrible things.”

  Uthalion backed away again, as if her touch might infect him, flood his mind with insanity and nonsense, though he suspected it was already too late. He found he could not keep his eyes on her for too long, drawn as they were again and again to the dark southern horizon. The song had left him, but the summons remained, a powerful force that took some effort to delay, much less ignore.

  “We should keep moving,” he said and turned back to the camp and the others.

  “I—I don’t know,” she replied, her gaze locked on the south as well. “I’m not sure we should. Not anymore.”

  “You do know,” Uthalion said, pausing and ignoring the unnatural instinct to look again, the irrational hope that a shining light and unimaginable music might flood across the Akana and set him free of all worry. “Things like these … nightmares, doubt, fear … They do not just go away because you are afraid to face them.” Absently he made a fist, feeling the cool surface of the silver ring on his finger with a twinge of shame. “In the end it all just depends on what you’re willing to live with … or without.”

  He cursed the truth that spilled past his lips, sighing quietly and unable to avoid his own hypocrisy. A solemn clarity had settled back into his thoughts, and though it gave him enough to contemplate and wonder what was occurring, it was not enough to cure him of the song’s memory and the familiar tune of his wedding hidden within its strains.

  Ghaelya stood still, intently studying the shadowed distances between them and Tohrepur. Uthalion felt as though they stood upon a mystical border, an invisible point of no return. Once they crossed into the land beyond, an elemental plain of storm and fro
st known as the Lash, there could be no second-guessing, no turning back.

  “Tell me,” Ghaelya said. “Have you lived with or without Tohrepur?”

  Uthalion stiffened at the unexpected question, a shock of alarm running down his spine as if even the mention of his dealings in Tohrepur might awaken the beasts of his past. When nothing came but a soft breeze hissing through the grass, he lowered his eyes to the ground and considered his answer honestly.

  “With, I suppose,” he said and started back to the camp, hearing her fall into step behind him. He dreaded her next question almost as much as he willed her to speak it while the brief calm in his spirit lasted.

  “What happened there?”

  A breath caught in his throat before he could think of how to answer. He imagined how he might answer the question if it were posed by his wife. He could almost hear Maryna’s voice asking it and wondered if, at some point during the time he tried to be her husband again, she actually had. He pictured the narrow, cobble-stoned streets of Tohrepur, the scent of salt-stained stones from a time when water lapped at a small fishing harbor on the north end of town, and the seemingly kind guards that had met them at the gate.

  “I … We—Brindani and I—were soldiers once, sell-swords marching to the ruins under the gold-promising banner of a greater cause,” he started in a rush, forcing the words out before he could change his mind. “We were to help them battle an aboleth, ancient and far older than those nightmares freed by the Spellplague.” A phantom smell of smoke burned in his nose as he recalled the trailing plumes across the city, the screams, and the chaos, “Even in death its unsuspecting thralls … just people, twisted and corrupted … The entire city came for us. I called a retreat and never looked back … until Caidris. We met them in Caidris.”

  The last he spoke in a hoarse whisper. The memory of that last day was vivid but lifeless, like the mechanical working of a windmill grinding grain. He had done his job and little else—his heart had not fought with him, but remained injured nonetheless.

  “You killed them,” Ghaelya said flatly.

  Uthalion did not respond, focusing instead on placing one foot in front of the other, as mechanical as once he’d been. He rarely missed the heartless mind-set of the sell-sword, his wife having cured him of his ways for a time, but it had served him well when work needed to be done. He stopped when the faint glow of dying embers came into view.

  “It was a mercy,” he said by way of answer. The truth of the statement was only superficial, only the long considered idea of a clear-minded hindsight searching for an answer to ease his mind. He wanted it to have been mercy, but there had been none of that in his actions—only fear. He glanced at Ghaelya, unsure if he expected judgment or understanding, but she merely nodded and continued on to the camp, her step a little stronger, and her chin a little higher.

  “We’ll go on,” she said in passing, and Uthalion felt a weight lifted from his shoulders only to be replaced by yet another. Despite telling her the truth, he sensed the slow crawl of guilt sliding over his soul like mold. Even his truth had served the echoing will of the song.

  Wearily he joined the others and climbed back to the rocky perch he’d held before. At first he was intent on resuming his careful watch until sunrise, but his attention turned to the silver ring, the magic that held sleep and nightmare at bay. It was the one treasure he’d rescued from Tohrepur, and had meant to sell it at Airspur, to make up for the gold he had never received from the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign.

  Ghaelya sat wide awake and scanning the grassland, her watery eyes catching the light of a reborn campfire as if flames could not escape her gaze, no matter the direction she turned.

  Resigned, Uthalion laid back and secured his sword, stared up at the crimson streaked darkness, and whispered a prayer to whatever benevolent power might be listening. With a slow, torturous pull, the silver ring slipped free of his finger, and many days of lost sleep descended upon him, hungrily dragging him down into a quiet slumber.

  11 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

  (1479 DR)

  South of Caidris, Akanûl

  Weak morning light filtered through a gray sky, heralding the edge of the Lash.

  Rocky storm-motes floated lazily back to the south, still trailing long ribbons of steam like misty roads across the sky. Bright flowers edged their way through the tall grass, their wide petals straining to glean what sunlight they might find peeking through the clouds. Brindani found himself eerily captivated by the brilliant blues and deep reds, as the wind blowing through the grass rasped dryly, murmuring in his ears like a nest of snakes.

  He eyed the flat expanse of bleak sky ahead with a contented stare as he strode toward the chill plains of the Lash with a strength and fluid grace he hadn’t felt in days, even years. The pain of silkroot withdrawal remained in his gut, though it was quite overshadowed by a growing army of other sensations. Thin strips of skin had begun to peel away from the raw patch on his neck, his hands were dry and colder than normal, and his teeth had begun to ache with a bittersweet throb that seemed to heighten his other senses all the more.

  Uthalion and Ghaelya, though they had spoken little since that morning, were closer and more comfortable in each other’s company than Brindani would have liked. He studied the narrow distance between them, their confident step, and the way they scanned the path ahead for danger as if in sync with one another. He forced himself to look away, attempting to banish the unbidden jealousy that clenched his fists and pounded in his heart.

  As sure as I die … Our Lady’s will and song … shall walk at your side …

  Sefir’s words to Ghaelya echoed in his mind unceasingly, almost like a prophecy he was bound to fulfill. He placed a hand on his forehead and squeezed tightly, as though he might extract whatever influence the dead singer had infected him with. From the corner of his eye he caught Vaasurri watching him carefully. Cursing, Brindani lowered his hand and folded his arms lest the killoren notice the arcing blue veins that had begun to worm their way through his wrists.

  Much as he sought to hide and to resist the thing he felt himself becoming, he could not pull his gaze from Ghaelya for long. He was constantly making sure she stayed the path and did not waver. He told himself that all would be fine, that he could make it to Tohrepur, see his obligations through before losing any more of himself to Sefir’s flowery curse. He reasoned that the source of the song, the singer full of wordless promise, might have pity on him, cure his imbalanced mind, and set him free of the ruins once and for all—but only should he bring the genasi, the twin.

  He did not know why, and he loathed the irrational logic that consoled his nobler instincts, realizing the lies even as he constructed them, but clinging fiercely to them all the same. Ghaelya would be fine, and all would be well and forgiven.

  As they crossed over into the long, sloping plains of the Lash, Brindani felt the slightest measure of relief, as if redemption had brushed his cheek to let him know he had done well. The dry grass crunched beneath their boots, and a spiraling mass of clouds rolled high overhead. The wind picked up, the cold biting deep through his cloak and leather armor. He sensed eyes watching him, though none could be seen save those of the tenacious killoren.

  In the wind, beyond the creaking of sparse, bare trees or the grating scrape of grass bending upon grass, he could hear a whisper of the song. Not in his mind, no longer a ghostly melody barely louder than a thought, but true sound, hidden in the strengthening gale. Repulsed by his own sickening joy at the sound, his stride slowed slightly, and he felt nauseous, torn between what he wished and the thing clawing at his flesh and identity.

  Uthalion squinted through the palette of grays that dominated the Lash. Even the grass was a sickly green bordering on white. The highland had dipped low by mid-morning, descending on a long slope to the lowland Wash and the wide basin of the Lash. Long, flowing fields of jade gave way to a short, stubbly carpet of muted green that crunched beneath his boots, though the soun
d was felt rather than heard. The winds of the Lash howled, ripping across the landscape in an ever-strong gale of impending rainstorms that never came. Cloaks were pulled tight, and hoods set low against the wind and the fine particles of dust that accompanied it.

  Stark white trees were scattered across the landscape like statues, their bare limbs creaking in the wind. Each bore the same oaklike shape, but their sizes varied. Short, thin saplings shared the ground with massive-limbed behemoths that towered over the skeleton forests. The bone-trees shivered in the wind, their branches clicking and scraping as Uthalion led the way, ever faster, through the land of storms.

  Uthalion kept his boots moving, his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword, the cold breath in his aching lungs, and maintained a steady southern course. But he could not escape the chilling horror of one night of sleep.

  There had been no dream, no nightmare to which he’d become accustomed. He had been almost ready to welcome the unforgiving dark of the recurring dream, to search the storm for Khault the farmer, ready to confront the memory after having confronted the man, or what had been left of the man. The nightmare would have changed, he felt it in his bones, had he chosen to act differently, to accept that old night for what it was and somehow change the nature of his secret fear that it all could happen again. But the dream that had come to him had not been of Caidris.

  In the dark where once had sat the town of Caidris he’d found only a single, familiar cottage. Inside, the cottage—his old home—had been abandoned. The table was set for dinner, a lantern was lit in the common room, and the small bed of his daughter, Cienna, was empty. He’d called for them over and over, as strange red flowers had begun to grow out of the walls. The only answer he’d received, through an open front door which faced a hazy southern horizon, was singing.

  “Slow down,” Ghaelya said at his side, struggling to keep up with his long stride and freeing him, briefly, of the terrifying dream.