The Wandering Isles

by C. L. Schneider

  “What of our females? You have been on this lonely voyage for many moons. If companionship is what you desire, we could accommodate…for the right trade.”

  The feminine shape beside him stepped forward. Cloud swelled to highlight her curves as she whispered, “We haven’t seen a Shinree in some time. And the Rellan is so wounded. What an interesting specimen he is.”

  “A what?” Jarryd cried.

  The rain disrupting her face slowed a moment. Shadows streaked, creating features. Sunken eye sockets, outlined by smudges of red, they burrowed far back into her head. Slushy rain seeped in to fill the hollows, and her gaze met mine. It was deep and dark. Reflective. Calming. I wanted to trust her; to go with her. I wanted to drown in the purity of her rippling gaze and feel her soft mist in my hands. I wanted—

  Jarryd smacked me in the back of the head. “Don’t even think about it.”

  I threw him a look, but I couldn’t be angry. For a moment, I’d seen nothing but those two concave eyes, pulling me in like high tide. Only the gods knew what he’d saved me from.

  “No women,” I said with force. “Just answers. So why don’t you drop whatever the hell kind of spell has you dripping on my fucking deck and show yourselves?”

  “Magic is your defect, Shinree,” the male said, “not ours.”

  “My defect? Magic is what’s going to kick your ass if you don’t—”

  “The matter is settled,” he broke in, dismissing my threat. “You will both do nicely. Trade has been accepted.”

  “We didn’t offer any trade.”

  “What you have come for will be provided.”

  Anger slid my lips into a slow, tight smile. “Now you’re just pissing me off.”

  “You want the spirits, do you not? The famed drink of the Isles? It is why you wandered into our domain. Why you thoughtlessly turned your back on all those you love to follow in the footsteps of your ancestors. Do you wish to become lost as they did?”

  “How the hell do you know so much about us—about my people?”

  “They must have been to Mirra’kelan,” Jarryd said.

  “If that’s true, and they showed up like this,” I eyed their runny, misty shapes, “someone would have made a note in the history books.”

  “Then…this isn’t their true form?” Jarryd said, noticeably relieved.

  “It’s a scare tactic, like I said.” I flashed him a reassuring glance over my shoulder. “Don’t let it work.”

  “We do know much about the Shinree,” the male said. “We know how they rose and how they fell, and how they may yet rise again. We know you, Troy, the one whom Fate entrusted with near infinite power. The heir who despised his inheritance. The witch who dreaded what he might become. The weakling who felt himself not worthy and gave it all away. Do you wonder who you might be, now, if you’d not been so afraid? It could have all been yours: a home, a lover, a family…a crown.”

  Icy fingers of anxiety crept across my shoulder blades. I tried to stop the emotion from spreading through the link. I just told Jarryd to stay calm. But with their mention of the ancient Shinree artifact I used to end Mirra’kelan’s cycle of war, their eerie knowledge of me became impossible to ignore. “What do you know about the Crown of Stones?”

  “We know, rather than embrace the power fused within, you shattered it,” the female replied. “In return you were forced to bear the burden of addiction for your entire race. You sickened yourself to heal others.”

  Grudgingly, the male admitted, “A noble act.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Few would take the same path. Yet, it was not a true sacrifice.” Color streaked the fog, changing her face again, narrowing it to something pinched and menacing. Her burbling voice turned dark. “It was a decision born of fear.”

  I pointed at her. “You get the fuck out of my head—and off my ship!”

  “Offending us is unwise, Shinree. Our wares are unmatched. Our service is unrivalled. Only here can you find true solace. A means to liberate your present from the chains of the past.”

  “You’ve got one hell of a pitch. I’ll give you that. But I can get what you’re selling at the bottom of any bottle, and with a lot less bullshit.” Steeling my eyes, I finished with a strong, “We don’t want what you’re selling. If you can’t understand my words, I’d be happy to reject you with something far more lasting.”

  “We provide what you seek. The better the trade, the better the product.”

  Jarryd stepped up beside me. “They listen as well as you do. Any ideas?”

  “A lot, actually. Though, I’m not sure any of them will work.”

  “You will be pleased with what you acquire,” the female said, her features flowing, turning sweet again. “As your ancestors were. I remember their trade well.”

  “How could you?” Jarryd frowned. “That Shinree ship came through here over a thousand years ago.”

  Her reply was thoughtful. “Did it?”

  “They came burdened,” the male said, “and left free. As will you.”

  “I had your drink once,” I told him, “at a tavern in the realm of Kael. It had an impressive bite, but it sure as hell didn’t taste like freedom.”

  They laughed in unison. Mist pushed from their mouths, tickling my face.

  “It was not made for you,” the female said, her amusement waning. “Each bottle is unique, tailored to the requestor. None is like the one before. Consuming too much of what is made for another could lead to unpleasant effects.”

  Jarryd’s growing unease flooded our link. “You can’t make each one unique. It’s not possible. Not without—”

  “Magic,” I cut in. “Where does your power come from? Is it something on the islands?”

  She ignored my questions and answered Jarryd’s. “Each who comes seeking a drink participates in its making. They alone decide the outcome of the final product. No other can be blamed if it fails to meet expectations.” She glided to stand before him. “Come ashore. We will show you. We will help you see the truth. What you need will be provided.”

  I stepped between them. “He’s not going anywhere with you.”

  Her responding laugh was a piercing, cold cackle that sent us both backing up to the rail—and me lunging for a weapon. There was only one contender in range. Snatching up an oar from the rowboat fastened to the side of the ship, I swung. The wood met her watery frame and slid through with a splash of red. Mist escaped through the gap I created, but the rain only fell faster to mend the damage.

  I tried again. Once more, my makeshift weapon disturbed her frame, freeing tendrils of mist. I threw the oar in disgust, as the rain made her whole again. I learned one thing, at least: they weren’t here for me to hurt. I had nothing solid to hit or cast on, nothing to fight—and no idea how to defend against a projection powered by magic unlike any I’d seen before.

  “We only wish to trade,” the female said, a quivering, dribbling smile lifting her intangible lips. “What you seek will be provided.”

  Snarling, I lunged, and Jarryd stopped me with a firm hand on my shoulder. “I don’t like this any more than you do, Ian, but who knows how many of them are out there; or what they’re capable of. They’ve made no hostile moves. If we attack first, in their territory, it would be seen as an unprovoked act of aggression. This could get a lot worse than a messy deck.”

  He was right. I couldn’t guess what their justice system might be like.

  “I don’t think we have a choice but to cooperate,” Jarryd went on, his voice low. “If this stuff is half as good as they claim, maybe it’ll be worth it. And they might be willing to part with other supplies. Besides, don’t you want to know who they are and what they look like? You must have a dozen questions about their magic.”

  I did. I just wasn’t eager to learn the answers the hard way.

  “Okay. We’ll buy your damn drink,” I said. “But let’s make this quick. I want to be back on our way by morning.”

  The vapor around us stirred with whisp
ers and a flurry of moving shapes.

  “What do you want in return?” Jarryd said, “We don’t have much to trade.”

  “Oh, on the contrary,” the female replied. “You have exactly what we need.”

  Misshapen forms sprung from the mist. I lunged, pushing Jarryd out of the way, as their heavy, clawed hands latched on—and yanked me into the fog.

  Chapter Two

  A muffled roar filled my ears. Unfettered sun blazed in my eyes. I squinted at the glare, orienting myself to the steady sensation of land and unfamiliar surroundings, as I lay on my back on the craggy shore. Waves bashed, throwing spray up over the rocks to wet the beach. Droplets dotted my face, bringing momentary relief from the heat.

  Rolling onto my side with a crunch of pebbly sand, I gripped the weatherworn boulders wedged in the silt beside me. Using their natural handholds, I climbed to my feet. A gust of hot wind blew tangled hair in my face. I raked it back and checked the position of the sun. It was early morning. The sky was clear, without a trace of rain or fog. There was no sign of our unwelcome visitors. No rowboat either, though I wasn’t sure one could maneuver through the rocky approach. Then how did I get here?

  I scanned the shore, then the water for debris. “Wait a minute…”

  Where’s my ship?

  Where’s Jarryd?

  “Son of a bitch.” Cupping my hands, I shouted for him. “Jarryd! Jarryd!”

  Getting no reply, I took stock of myself. My muscles were weak. My mind was foggy. A dull ache sat on the back of my head, but it wasn’t severe. As I moved to check for injuries, I caught a glimpse of myself and staggered backward, nearly losing my footing on the uneven ground. “What the hell…?” My clothes were different.

  Were they when I woke, a moment ago? They had to be, I thought, trying to rationalize the brown, leather armor I was wearing. Last I saw, the set was folded in a trunk in the hold. The armor was provisional only. I’d never worn it, until now. It was a beautiful design, well-fitting and sturdy. Yet, I didn’t remember changing into it, or strapping on swords before I left the ship.

  I didn’t remember leaving.

  I tried to sense anything resembling the magic I knew, but whatever supplied the islanders’ power, I was incapable of detecting it. Yet, if their magic brought me here, why? Was it all a ruse to steal my ship? Did they strand me here, armed, so I had a fair chance of surviving? If that was their intention, water and food might have been nice.

  Unless some other race entirely was to blame. Maybe they’re pirates. Mystical pirates. I grunted at the thought, strangely amused.

  Shielding my eyes, I turned to study the other rocky land masses in view. Their positions formed a near-perfect circle. All were relatively the same size, all within swimming distance. There was no indication of docks, structures, or a society of any kind. No trees, either, unless all the greenery was on the far side of the islands.

  The outlook was no better here. No tracks or footprints disturbed the beach. No grass grew on the dunes. I didn’t see or hear a single sign of wildlife. Vegetation, so far, consisted of a single, invasive spread of vines. Their red stems were everywhere, climbing over the rocks and sand. Some were vibrant, others were dehydrated, black husks. None looked edible.

  Unless I was dumped on an empty island by pirates, the islanders lived somewhere. Somewhere, there must be buildings and people—not whatever magical imitations came on the ship. And when I found their solid forms, at least one of the bastards was getting my boot in their face.

  Past the rocks and strip of beach, the sandy dune sloped up high to a dirt ridge. I was too low to see what lay beyond. Over the hill could be food, fresh water, and shelter. All would become a priority soon, and there was none here. Neither were there answers.

  Still, I hesitated. Leaving would make it harder for Jarryd to find me.

  Staying would make it harder to survive.

  I needed to go up and move inland.

  My reluctance would have been less if I could sense him, but our link was empty. Not closed or faraway, just empty. Clearly, the islanders were interfering in an effort to keep us apart.

  On the chance Jarryd might still be receiving me, I let my worry and irritation flow freely. Words didn’t transfer between us, but he was experienced at interpreting my emotions and intent. Jarryd would know exactly what the sentiments meant: Where the hell are you?

  Not expecting a response, I didn’t wait for one.

  I picked my way over the rocks and headed for the slope. I didn’t get far before the crunching of my steps became too loud for shells. The lumps beneath my boots grew large and too oddly shaped to be stones. I didn’t need to look down, though, to see the cause. In front, behind, and all around me, were strewn fragments of skeletal remains.

  Ribs and jaw bones poked up through the sand, dotted with barnacles and snails. Seaweed layered and entwined petrified ligaments. Teeth were scattered among the shells. A number were of animal origin. Some weren’t. All were bleached by the sun and lacking any sharp edges; worn by time and water. How much time?

  Even now, the current was rough. High tide would easily drive the swells to reach where I was standing, if not further up the sloping dunes. How long had the surf carried the same remnants in and out, and back again?

  With a burst of hot wind, threads of fog rolled down over the rise. Stretching to reach me, their tongues curled gently about my boots, brushing my legs with icy breath.

  The misty tufts expanded, veiling the entire dune. From within their depths, the breeze whispered, “Troy… We know…”

  I recognized the voice. It was the chatty female from the ship.

  “We know...” the male who was with her repeated.

  “What you fear…” they taunted in unison.

  “I’ll give you something to fear,” I muttered.

  “We know your guilt,” they said. “What you’ve done. And what you could yet do.”

  “Is that why you won’t stand and face me?”

  “Patience, Shinree,” he scolded. “Your journey will be rewarded.”

  The dense fog blew faster down the dune. It swept over me to the shore. I spun, tracking it, but the cloud quickly dissipated over the water.

  Hungry for answers, I ignored the vestiges of death under my boots and scampered up the side of the dune. Parched soil shifted under my steps. Dust stirred. I clamped my mouth shut on the rising cloud and raced faster. Reaching the top, I broke over the hill at full speed—and the edge started crumbling. I teetered on the rapidly narrowing peak. Muscles fought to keep me upright.

  Momentum was stronger.

  Propelled forward over the collapsing slope, I lost my balance and tumbled down. I struggled to protect my head, as I bumped over jagged rocks and random bones. My landing at the bottom wasn’t pretty. Bruises were a certainty, especially beneath the sword on my back. Welts were already forming. Blood welled from a multitude of cuts on my hands.

  Groaning, coated in dust, I lifted to all fours and expelled the ground from my throat. Aside from my violent coughs, it was quiet. I sat back, wiped my stinging eyes, and peered through the thinning haze. The landscape, a flat, empty expanse, wasn’t what I hoped.

  There was nothing on the horizon, no change in elevation to mark its end, and no structures in view. Nothing living, but the same cluster of vines overlying the gravelly soil—as dry as the ancient bones scattered across it. Here, the remains were intact. The skeletons, whole and undisturbed, were lined up and set apart. Their placement and positions gave the impression they died where they stood. No one came for them. No one buried them. Yet, this was clearly a graveyard. One that stretched well beyond my range of sight.

  I walked out among the evenly spaced rows. Eyes on the ground, I looked for evidence of rusted weapons or any cracks and breaks in the bones that might suggest battle. There was none. No identifying scraps of cloth or tools were present. Were their deaths so long ago that all traces of race or origin had disintegrated? Or was it purposefully re
moved?

  “Is this a tribute?” I wondered aloud, “or a warning?”

  There was an unnatural preserved quality about the bones, as if they were meant to withstand time. Despite the dust, they were fairly clean. Did they have a caretaker?

  Wary, feeling exceedingly exposed, I scanned the desolate graveyard.

  A splash of color darted across my view.

  Hand on the sword at my hip, I waited. When the vibrant streak came again, disrupting the drab, open space, I moved to investigate. As I drew near the spot, a breeze lifted the hair off my face. It was more of a steady draft than the rough ocean gusts from before. It brought no smell, but a repeating series of vibrations traveled on the current, tightening the air with a familiar, unexpected surge of Shinree magic.

  I knew the pulse well, and the stones used to produce it. Channeled together, they had a singular purpose. I watched it form, twenty feet away, as auras drew themselves across the empty air. Lines merged, creating a rectangular band of pulsing hues. Sparks punctuated the dark abyss in the center. “Son of a bitch…”

  Somewhere, someone was opening a door, a passage capable of condensing faraway travel to the blink of an eye. It was a complex spell. To successfully join the two destinations, the caster needed a connection to the other side. And unless I was missing something, there was only one thing on the island for a Shinree to connect to. Me.

  I didn’t like the timing. If someone back on Mirra’kelan was trying to reach me, why now? Why here? Intuition said I was about to find out, but I wouldn’t like the answers.

  The breeze intensified around the door’s edges. Vibrant colors flickered and popped in the rippling, black void. Its center swelled, and a lone figure pushed through. Male, about my height but slightly bulkier, the man was dressed in a long, rusty-brown surcoat. The cowl was pulled low, his head bent. I couldn’t see his face. Hands clasped behind his back, the hem billowed around his boots, tossed by the artificial wind.