I shoved off the rail. Walking to the small wooden crate, sitting in the shadow of the mast, I lifted the lid. Inside was a squat bottle, similar to Jarryd’s, embraced in a nest of hay. Seizing it, I popped the cork and put my nose to the rim. The strong, spicy odor identified it as well-made liquor; nothing more. The contents gave off a faint, silver glow. I swirled the bottle. The liquid sloshed and slapped against the glass. Within the sound was the echo of a thousand screams waiting to be washed away in a single swallow.
“My ancestors took the deal,” I said. “They abandoned their fears and sailed on.”
Jarryd came to stand beside me. “You did say you wanted to follow in their footsteps.” Leaning closer, he peered, for a moment, at the bottle in my hands. “Can you imagine it? A Shinree magic-user with no fear?” Backing up, he let out a whistle. “The whole damn world better run for cover.”
A chill crossed my spine at his words. Still, I wondered, what would I give up? What memories would I be willing to strip of emotion? Every magic-price, every consequence of wielding the Crown of Stones? Or would I go deeper?
War. Prison. All the lives lost by my choices: Aylagar, Neela. The floppy-haired Kaelish boy who died simply for knowing me. My father’s betrayal—what he did to me, and what he made me do. All the dread and anxiety, the worry over who I might let down and who I might lose. The loathing for my terrible past deeds, and the panic of knowing I would do them again.
I could shed every single fear.
Except the one that matters most. The one I can never be free of.
My greatest fear.
Me.
Isuara’s words rushed back in opposition. “What does it hurt to try?”
“After Aylagar died, I would have finished this in a heartbeat. And asked for more,” I said, taking another sniff. “I would have given anything to erase the guilt, to stop fearing the blood in my veins and not give a damn how much of it was on my hands.”
“And now?”
I grunted. “I’ve been held together by guilt and regret for so long, I think it’s all I’m made of. But the fear of what I’ve done and will do again—and the terror of how goddamn unavoidable that feels—it’s what keeps me in check.” My gaze dropping, I ran a finger down the metal strands decorating the bottle. “Isuara saw it differently. She said I’m using fear to limit my potential, that I want to be ‘less dangerous’ so badly, I’m repressing my own magic.”
“I hate to say it, but that sounds like Sienn.”
“I thought so, too.”
“She’s probably not wrong, either.”
“No. She wasn’t. If Isuara was anything, it was perceptive.”
“Was? Is she dead? Did you…?”
“Yes.” I left it at that. He’d find out the rest from my memories.
“I’m not surprised, or saying it was wrong. But they weren’t evil, Ian. They weren’t killers. Some might argue they were healers.”
“Mending the very wounds they rip open? Now that’s a stretch.”
Stiffening, Jarryd’s stare dropped.
“If I drink this,” I eyed the bottle again, “and it works, it will change everything. There will be nothing to curb my will. No fear to limit my spells. No concern for the price. What would I be then?”
His reply came quick. “Unstoppable.”
“Are you ready for that?” I glanced at him.
“I…”
“Because I’m not.” Shoving the cork in, I pivoted to the rail and tossed the bottle overboard. I had a breath of conflict; a whisper of doubt, tempting me to jump in and retrieve my salvation before it floated out of reach. I’d thrown away a chance that would never come again.
Yet, as the bottle drifted gradually away, so did my uncertainty.
Maybe Isuara was right; I’d never know true freedom. But if it existed, it wasn’t at the bottom of a bottle. I’d emptied enough of them to know.
I faced him. There was still a lot I wanted to say. Jarryd’s decision was hasty and reckless. The repercussions would affect us both, and it could be a long time before we understood them all. It was his decision, though. I had to respect it. Trying, I rid the worry from my voice. “Tell me about this city. Which direction and how far?”
Jarryd’s gaze brightened. “Northwest. Four weeks. Maybe five. Six tops,” he winced. “Give or take. Maybe we should stop and do some hunting,” he admitted. “But once we’re there, we should have no problem stocking up for the rest of the trip. Krillos described the place as being larger than Kabri and Kael put together.”
“Sounds…big.” I put an arm around him as we crossed the deck. “And it’s overrun with pirates?”
“I doubt it,” Jarryd’s mouth drooped in disappointment. “It’s been over twenty years since Krillos was there. It’s probably nothing but farmland and sheep by now.”
“As long as there’s no goddamn vines. And you handle securing whatever supplies they have. I’d be happy not to hear the word ‘trade’ ever again.”
Jarryd laughed.
“You’ll go back, Nef’taali,” I said, as I let him go. “Someday. I promise. One of the Shinree we find might be a doormaker.”
Maybe I’ll be one again, I thought. If I managed to unlock the spells inside me, I could go back to Mirra’kelan and have a look. No one even needed to know I was there. If all is well, I’ll leave them to it, I thought. But if it isn’t…
“The journey before you will not end as you expect, but it will end as it must.”
Isuara had a memorable way of speaking, but out of everything she said, I had a feeling that one was going to haunt me the most.
“Go on, then,” I said, heading to my cabin. “Raise the anchor. I don’t care where we go, as long it’s away from these goddamn islands.”
“You don’t want to check the map?”
“I think you’ve got it covered. I’m going to enjoy a bottle of something a little less life-altering and get some goddamn sleep before I fall over.” I opened the door. “The wheel is yours, Nef’taali. Try not to steer us into any fog. But if you do,” I glanced back and caught Jarryd’s stare, “for the love of all the gods, tell them we’re not interested.”
Epilogue
I pulled the net up onto the ship, pausing for a quick glance over my shoulder at the closed cabin door. Water dripped, soaking the front of my clothes, as I clutched the web of rope to my chest. Afraid of dropping the fragile object caught inside, I freed it gently from the net and examined it. For the bottle to drift into the path of my fishing net and remain intact, was a clear sign. My instincts to retrieve it were right, I thought, glancing back again.
The door was still closed. There was still no sign of Ian. Good.
Moving the net away from the rail, to a less suspicious spot, I went to the hatch and climbed down below deck. My cabin was similar to Ian’s, but smaller and cozier, with furnishings of Rellan design. Their origin wouldn’t have mattered to me, but it mattered to Malaq that I feel at home, and for that I was grateful.
I opened one of the storage drawers under the bed. Retrieving the key inside, I unlocked the long, flat trunk taking up space in the corner. Inside were spare bedding and the few items of memorabilia I had left from Kabri: my father’s sunstone clasp, a ribbon from the games, my mother’s sewing kit. My eyes lingered on the bow and quiver. Quickly, before emotion could attach itself to the memory, I opened one of the blankets, placed Ian’s bottle inside, closed the lid and locked it. Was I quick enough? I wondered.
Rescuing the drink the islanders made for him, and squirreling it away, would be for nothing if Ian discovered too soon what I’d done. He needed time to understand, time to regret his decision. He will. He has to. Throwing it away was foolish and shortsighted.
If only he knew what it felt like…
I composed my thoughts and put the key back. A calm mind was crucial to keeping the memory of the moment to myself. I wasn’t positive it would work, but I had no reason not to trust the islanders’ word. Their knowledge
of the bond Ian and I shared was a thousand years old, but it came straight from a generation of Shinree who used the ritual. Their understanding of the spell was far beyond Ian’s. If the islanders claimed the memories our connection chose to exchange were those tied to strong feelings, I believed them.
Keeping my emotions in check kept the memory as my own.
I’d been tempted to tell Ian the moment I saw him on deck. Then I saw his face, and I knew he wasn’t in the right frame of mind. He wasn’t ready to hear everything that happened when the islanders returned me to the ship. Still, I didn’t intend to use the information they gave me this way, attempting to hide something from him mere minutes after he arrived. But it’s for his own good. And mine. I’d be dead ten times over if not for Ian. But things were different now. I was different.
Ian didn’t approve of my choice to drink—a choice that would influence many more to come. If I could learn to hold back, to keep the memory of some actions to myself, all the better. I needed his friendship as it was: genuine and absolute; not tempered by disappointment and stubborn misconceptions.
He’ll thank me for it, I thought, my gaze drifting to the trunk. A time will come when Ian will realize his mistake. When he’ll need to cast without fear. It wasn’t a day I was looking forward to, but it would come, nonetheless.
The End
Thank You
Thank you for reading The Wandering Isles, the first in a series of novellas detailing Ian Troy’s travels beyond the land of Mirra’kelan. I hope you enjoyed the story and will consider leaving a review. For news on upcoming releases, sales, giveaways, and sneak peeks, please subscribe to my newsletter. You can find the form on my website http://www.clschneiderauthor.com along with information on all my published titles. Stay tuned for the second novella in the series, to be released in 2021.
The Wandering Isles Page 19