Island of Masks
Incomplete chapter...
His hand stretched lazily over the great hump of Farron’s back, cold moisture gathering on his palm and on the beast’s downy coat. They had landed some time ago on the wooden deck, in a flurry of panting breaths and beating wings. Now he leant his head on Farron’s side, rising and falling with the sleeping beast’s long, slumbering sighs. Furling and unfurling wisps of cloud curled around dark fingers and golden tufts of fur. Tiny streams wove past the gaps in the railing into a great ocean of clouds: as pale and ghostly white as the moon.
Beyond its lunar shadow, hidden beneath a veil of stars and light, in some in-between realm of incorporeal existence, there stood that broken, black tower, jagged like a scar. A silent herald of prophecy. The Spectre, which haunts all mage-dreams.
“You’re back.”
The young mage jumped, startled by her voice. The wisps he held in his hand shrank back, retreating over the railing. Cool, crisp night air flooded the bow – thin, in absence of magic. Farron, the beast, gave a great sleepy huff. “You shocked me, Tara,” he breathed, “what are you doing up here?”
Wordlessly, she flicked her head towards the small wooden door that led down to the crew’s cabin, sighing and rolling her eyes. “Sami wouldn’t stop snoring in his sleep,” she lied, “I’ll kill him when he wakes up, I swear.”
“Sure,” he snorted, “if he ever wakes up.”
She sighed. “It’s unbearable,” she decided to continue, “the walls are so thin and yet his snores are so loud… Sami’s always late for mage fire lessons, even though we start at noon.”
“It’s not so bad, Tara,” he replied, “Sami’s woken up early before, maybe you’ll get him to wake up early again.”
She drew a blank stare, her brow furrowed. He grinned.
“That time we were camping by the Jundi waterfalls, remember?” he continued, “when we put twigs and sticks in his sleeping bag.”
“And then when he woke up, you told him those were snakes?” she asked.
He laughed softly. “That was hilarious,” he said, “I’ve never seen Sami jump that high before – or heard him scream that loud.”
“And I have never seen him throw a boulder that big,” she replied. “He could’ve killed you all!”
“It wasn’t that big”, he chuckled weakly, “and he missed.”
“It was bigger than our tent,” she retorted, “and probably bigger than Farron.”
“Well!” he admitted, “maybe it was… but it was your idea anyway, after he kept bothering you about the mushrooms. Not our fault he cast a boulder at us.”
The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips, betraying her worn, tired eyes. “Hey, now,” she chided him, poking his arm, “it was a silly suggestion. You shouldn’t have taken it seriously. You know I don’t mean the things I say when I’m tired.”
“How about the time you told us to knock him off a cliff after he stole your berries? You sounded pretty serious to me.”
She laughed softly, “I may have been.”
“Tara, please,” he moaned, stretching languidly. The joints in his long arms creaked in protest for a good night’s sleep, “we can’t have you asking us to kill Sami every time he annoys you. We should try and tolerate each other – accept our faults so we can work together. Alone, even the strongest rock can drown in the sea.”
He ambled slowly to the railing, and rested against it, his lean formed hunched, chin tucked under his elbows – gaze peering into the sprawling cloud-sea.
“Something Master Roke would say,” Tara said, slightly exasperated. “You’re starting to sound a lot like him these days, Hans.”
“I can’t help it, Tara,” Hands replied quietly, a note of sadness in his voice, “he was our greatest hope. He could see in dreams what all the other mages could not.”
“I know,” she agreed, struggling to find something meaningful to say. There was a moment of silence, as she joined him at the railing. His hands were clenched on the cold, damp wood and a sickly green light emanated from between the gaps of his fingers. He tucked them in his pocket, away from her prying eyes.
They stared out into the open, misty ocean of clouds, each lost in whatever deep well of thoughts had roused them from their sleep – had brought them up here, naked and vulnerable – aching for answers in the dead of a still night, where no voice cared to heed their silent cries. On this old, worn ship – tired engines riddled with vines of rust, and wooden panels coated in thin moss in its ancient belly – their worries lay spread out and open, as naked and raw as the light of the moon. Far, far away from the darkness of the messy world below.
“Aren’t you cold, Tara?” Hans asked, breaking the silence, “it’s chilly up here. I didn’t expect it to be so cold even without any wind.”
“Speak for yourself,” she replied, gritting her teeth as a shiver ran down her body, “you’re the one who’s been up here all night.” The night air was thin and biting through her light tunic.
“And to think I would finally have a moment alone,” she added softly, sighing.
He ignored her, whispering a short charm. From nothingness a heavy coat of thick, black fur emerged, unfurling itself before it settled lightly over her shoulders. She looked away from him. Her hands reached up to tuck the coat more securely around herself.
“You’re on this deck every single night,” she continued, “don’t you ever sleep?”
She turned to look at him, gaze narrowed. Beneath her tiredness brimmed a slight hint of irritation, seeping into her eyes. “There’s nothing to do here. Everybody has gone to bed and even Farron is taking a nap. It’s long past midnight, Hans, in a few hours the sun will have risen, and you’ll just be tired.”
“Why did you come up here then,” he retorted, “waking up in the dead of night just to lecture me on sleep? Was it really Sami’s snoring that woke you up? You slept just fine when he was snoring his way with us through the Jundi waterfalls.”
“It’s none of your business,” she said sharply, her cheeks flaring pink with anger, “I needed some fresh air.”
“I don’t believe you,” he replied, looking at her flatly, “I never see you up here.”
Her eyes met his.
“Is it so hard to believe? You’re doing the same thing.”
“I wasn’t just getting fresh air. I was practicing my mistweaving, Tara,” he said defensively, “we only have one year before our audience with Emperor Rhodean. I need to be ready. I need time to hone my magic.”
“Mistweaving? You’re more than good enough at that, Hans,” she replied caustically, “there’s no point in practicing at all.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, a hard look in his eyes, “I still have to.”
“Fine,” she said, stepping away from the railing. “If you’d like to practice mistweaving, then we can do it right now. I want to see if all that ‘practice’ has been worth it.”
“Now?” he asked.
“Yes, now!” she told him, louder this time. She let the coat fall off her shoulders as she walked backwards into the remaining open space on the deck. She rubbed her hands together for warmth. “Come on, show me something!”
“I can’t, Tara,” he called out weakly, from the railing.
“Why not?” she laughed harshly, any lightness gone from her voice, “I’ve seen you weave dragons from smoke to scare off those soldiers in Toba. You’re the only one I know who can turn mist into fire!”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t do it now,” he repeated.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said, stepping backwards until she reached the railing on the other side of the deck. She reached up above her – waves of mist rushed past the railing behind her, tendrils wrapping around her outstretched arms. The rushing mists began to coalesce, giving way to budding, shapeless forms.
“Please, Tara,” he said, “just stop it.”
His words fell on deaf ears as the mists around her thickened. They darkened and shifted, transforming into a group of tall, dark apparitions. Some held the outlines of spears and shields – others wielding blurry wisps of swords. She pointed at him, and they began to march at her direction.
“I won’t stop, not until you show me why coming up here every night is worth being so tired and angry at everybody all day. You’re always going on about how we should work together, tolerate each other, help each other. And yet you’re always doing the opposite. Half the time you’re gone, flying away with Farron to who knows where, and whenever you come back you’re so exhausted that you can’t do anything on this ship. Tell me if it’s worth it!”
The conjured soldiers had walked halfway across the deck when suddenly they had sprung into spirited action – spears pointed at him as they broke out into a run.
“Stop it!” he yelled. “Enough!”
He brought his hands together with a deafening clap. There was a blinding green flash and the soldiers dissipated into wisps, their silhouettes fading into nothingness. The mists which shrouded the deck cleared in an instant. Moonlight fell on the wooden planks.
Tara stood on the other side, panting harshly, hair wild and arms limp on her sides. She stared at him as he walked across the deck towards her: at his gaze, inscrutable, his gait, the slouch of many sleepless nights, the faint glow in his palms, his jittering, shaking hands. Dark circles sat deep underneath his eyes – the very same eyes she would see in her mirror, half-blurred in the early hours of the morning.
He stopped in front of her, hands once again hidden in his pockets.
“I’m sorry if I made you all feel that way,” he said, looking away uncomfortably, “I didn’t mean to do it. If that’s what’s been on your mind, Tara, then I’m sorry.”
She looked up at him.
“No,” she said simply, “I didn’t come up here because of you.”
A look of confusion swept his face.
“Just because we worry about you doesn’t mean that’s the only thing on our minds, Hans. Not everything is about you,” she continued harshly, “even though you might think they are – with all the things hanging over your head. We have our own lives. You’re not the only one who has to live with mage-dreams.”
“Is that why you couldn’t sleep?” He asked suddenly, his voice questioning. “Did you have another dream?”
She paused, looking at a spot over his shoulder.
“Yes,” she breathed, “but it’s nothing. You shouldn’t worry about it.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I understand, Tara. I understand, more than you could ever know,” he sighed, trailing off. She fell momentarily silent as a passing cloud obscured the moon, and shadows fell over their faces.
“The mage-dreams – they haunt you, they come like ghosts in the night. I know what it’s like to sink in their depths. The dread and terror in those moments when you’ve jolted half-awake but a part of you still sleeps, drowning and kicking your feet and never quite breaking the surface… they’re the reason I’ve been up here all night,” he admitted.
“Are your dreams getting worse?” she asked. Concern lit her pale, penetrating eyes, but in the semi-darkness they were hidden – only a black, muddied vestige of worry which stared back at him, blurred as in a dream.
He tried to answer, but words struggled to escape a mouth clamped shut, and the only response he could give was a slight, shameful nod. Hands slid deeper into his pockets.
Her eyes followed the movement and her lips thinned.
“Don’t hide them from me,” she said sternly, “I saw the light when you dispelled my mist. No mage-light is green.”
He looked at the floor. A knot of fear twisted horribly in his stomach, wound, and coiled itself tight.
“Show me your hands, Hans.”
“No,” he pleaded, “I won’t. You’ve done enough, you can’t keep trying to heal me every time this happens. You drain yourself and then it comes back – over and over again. Your ruh will burn out, Tara, it’s not worth it!”
“And it’s worth it spending countless nights away with Farron to scour the realms each time the Spectre pays a visit to your dreams?” she retorted angrily, “For us to have to deal with this pale, angry shadow of you when you finally come back? Tell me, Hans! I don’t care what happens, we’ll help you no matter what.”
Moonlight shone through the clouds, illuminating the sharp defiance in her face: it cut sharp planes into her features, swelled in her eyes. Not a shadow remained which did not stand tall. “Please,” she whispered, her voice softening as she stepped closer, “you know we’ll keep trying until you’re strong enough. We’ve all been through so much – it must mean something.”
He looked in her eyes and hoped she did not see the fear he felt in his heart, that ached and burned with the scars in his outstretched hands. She took them gently and splayed his palms open. They were black, vicious and dark against the tan of his skin, spiderwebs….
Work in progress - to be continued...
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