Chapter 28: The Island That Waited
Cool river air drifted through the open windows, smelling of wet reeds. Nessa stretched between Dorian and Toren with entirely too much satisfaction. “Time to leave.”
She kissed Toren first, soft and unhurried. Then Dorian, shorter but no less certain. River mint lingered on his mouth. “There. Something pleasant to remember me by.”
Dorian looked at Toren’s reddening face. “I had no intention of forgetting.”
Nessa laughed and slipped from beneath the blanket. Dorian rolled onto one elbow and kissed Toren’s forehead.
“Good morning, Forest boy.”
Toren smiled despite himself, breathing in the familiar scent of oil, smoke, and Dorian’s skin.
Something clattered below. Liana, reminding them that respectable people had been awake for hours. By the time they came down, she had braided her damp hair and arranged the packs beside the house. She sat checking each knife with methodical care.
Her eyes passed over all three of them.
Her expression did not change.
After breakfast, Toren handed one of his small pouches of sacred-bud to Nessa. “For the ferry.”
She weighed it in her palm. “Generous.”
While Dorian folded Lucky into the storage capsule, Sniffy ran circles around him, chirring and clicking impatiently. Then he settled firmly on Dorian’s boot.
Dorian looked down. “I believe I am being adopted.”
“He has excellent judgement,” Nessa said.
Then she noticed Liana’s belt. “Only knives?”
“Lost my bow.” Liana’s mouth tightened slightly.
Nessa disappeared into the workshop and returned carrying a long hunting spear. The dark wooden shaft had been worn smooth with use. “My father’s.”
Liana tested the weight once. Then again. The spear cut through the air with a soft hiss. “Good steel.”
“He knew what he was doing.” Nessa pushed it gently back towards her. “Keep it.”
Liana accepted it carefully. “Thank you.”
Then she drew her skinning knife and offered it in return. Nessa took it and checked the edge with her thumb. “A good one.”
Before they left, Nessa dipped two fingers into a bowl of water. She touched her own brow, then brushed Dorian’s and Liana’s in turn. Her fingers lingered on Toren’s cheek.
“Nal ven, sha’ri.”
Dorian inclined his head.
Liana settled the spear across her shoulder. “River hospitality seems rather... extended.”
“So far,” Dorian said, “I have no complaints.”
Toren found the ground unexpectedly fascinating.
Nessa laughed, then looked down at Sniffy. “You know what... Take him while you travel through the River Lands. He knows these rivers better than any of us.”
“You trust us with him?” Toren asked.
“I trust Sniffy.”
She unclipped the bronze bell bracelet and fastened it around Dorian’s wrist. Her fingers brushed his pulse. The bell gave one quiet note. Sniffy’s ears twitched.
“When you no longer need him, put this around his neck and tell him, ‘Vesh ta nor.’ It means ‘home is calling’. He’ll find me.”
Nessa scratched Sniffy behind the ears. He made a pleased, bubbling sound as she murmured something in the River dialect.
“And don’t take my otter beyond the River Lands.”
Dorian nodded. “I should hate to cause an international incident.”
Nessa stepped back and folded her arms.
“Safe travels, drifters.”
After several hours of walking, the river widened, and the opposite bank receded behind reeds and low willows. It looked calm.
They had learnt not to trust peaceful rivers.
The reflective trace no longer faded. It stayed beneath Dorian’s skin, steady now, drawing him along the bank. He walked first. Liana had stopped questioning the direction. She merely adjusted their route around mud, roots, and flooded ground.
Sniffy had appointed himself supervisor. He vanished down the bank, reappeared somewhere entirely different, chattered at them for falling behind, then disappeared again.
Toren watched him go. “He is judging us.”
Dorian looked ahead. “He is not entirely wrong.”
The air thickened as the day wore on. Mosquitoes gathered in determined little clouds. Toren crushed sharp-smelling leaves between his palms, whispered over them, then rubbed the mixture across their wrists and necks. It cooled Dorian’s skin and stung every small scratch.
By late afternoon, Dorian stopped.
“There.”
A wooded island stood in the middle of the river. Old willows bent over its banks, their branches trailing through the water. Nothing about it appeared dangerous.
Dorian distrusted that immediately.
“The trace?” Liana asked.
“The strongest yet.”
She studied the current, then looked at Toren. “Can you tell what is there?”
Toren stepped to the water’s edge and held both hands above the surface. For a long moment, he stood still. The current curled around the exposed roots. Something answered him, reluctant and distant.
“Nothing dangerous. At least, nothing I can feel.”
“That sounds reassuring,” Dorian said, already reaching for Lucky’s capsule.
Toren gave him an apologetic look. “River magic is not my strongest. It changes too quickly. Forest and steppe stay where they are.”
A splash settled the matter. Sniffy disappeared beneath the surface, emerged several body lengths away, and immediately began chasing fish.
Liana watched him. “I believe he approves.”
Dorian unpacked Lucky. “I trust the local expert.”
Lucky carried them across in two trips. Sniffy preferred swimming. By the time Dorian returned with Toren, the otter was already waiting on the bank. He shook cold river water over Dorian’s trousers, chirped once, and disappeared into the undergrowth.
Dorian barely noticed.
The trace was almost tangible now. He walked towards the centre of the island, and it strengthened beneath his skin. When he turned back towards the shore, it weakened. Another path gave the same answer.
“It is here.”
Damp roots twisted through the soil. Fallen trunks and tangled undergrowth divided the island into narrow paths and hidden clearings.
Liana looked around slowly. “You are certain?”
“The epicentre.”
They made camp before dusk. While Toren cooked, Dorian searched the island again. Every path bent away. Every detour returned him to the same clearing.
The trace insisted.
The island offered nothing.
Morning brought no answers.
Dorian searched properly this time. Every tree. Every stone. Every hollow beneath the roots. Every surface smooth enough to hold a reflection.
Nothing.
Liana searched differently, checking for footprints, broken branches, hidden boats, or signs of an old camp. Anything suggesting another traveller had reached the island before them.
Nothing.
Near midday, Dorian stopped in a clearing.
Recognition came at once. “The raven.”
Toren and Liana looked up.
“He circled here.” Dorian turned slowly, but he saw only damp grass, twisted roots, and blue sky between the branches. There was no mirror.
“This is the place.”
The trace insisted.
Reality refused.
The search continued. Eventually, Dorian brought out a device he had built years ago to measure mirror pull. It produced three contradictory readings before giving up entirely.
“No device in Mireth can measure it properly,” he muttered. “We continue relying on the highly scientific method of educated guessing.”
By late afternoon, Liana had circled the shoreline twice. Toren had gathered wood, fetched water, and prepared the meal, quietly keeping the camp in order.
Dorian finally put the useless device away and uncorked a vial of oil. He began polishing his brass cuff with unnecessary force. It already reflected the lowering sun well enough to blind passing birds.
Liana watched for a moment, wisely said nothing, and went to practise with her new spear. Toren poured tea into a wooden cup and sat beside Dorian. The heat reached Dorian’s hands first. Then came the smell of herbs.
“Dorian?”
“Yes?”
“Could you teach me to fly Lucky?”
Dorian looked at him over the rim. “Planning to steal my machine?”
“I thought I should learn before the next emergency.”
“Reasonable.”
For the next two hours, Lucky circled the island. Toren learnt quickly. He laughed whenever they climbed above the trees, leaning into each turn with entirely too much enthusiasm. Dorian sat close behind him, correcting his grip now and then, one hand steady over Toren’s on the controls. Every movement pressed them together. Toren was warm against his chest, the familiar scent of herbs clinging to him.
For one regrettable moment, Dorian’s self-control slipped. His lips brushed Toren’s neck.
Highly inappropriate.
Fortunately, he managed not to develop a more obvious problem.
When they landed and packed Lucky, dusk had spread across the river. Liana had returned to the fire, and the smell of baked sweet water potatoes drifted through the camp.
They ate in comfortable silence until Dorian set his bowl aside. “There is only one explanation.”
Toren looked up.
“It is beneath us. Tomorrow we dig.”
Liana glanced towards the western sky. Dark clouds had gathered over the river.
“The wind changed,” she said. “Rain tonight.”
Dorian followed her gaze. “Then we dig in mud.”
They withdrew into the tent before the island went fully dark. Rain already hung in the damp air, waiting to fall. Liana lay down first. Toren settled beside her, leaving Dorian the remaining place. Sniffy circled three times, ignored every patch of blanket, and curled around Dorian’s head instead.
Dorian sighed. “You are becoming increasingly unreasonable.” The otter answered with a contented chirr and promptly fell asleep. Dorian accepted defeat.
Outside, the wind shifted through the branches. Thunder rolled somewhere across the river, still distant enough to ignore. The first drops arrived shortly before dawn. Soft at first, then steady. Rain drummed across the canvas.
Liana slept through it. Toren shifted closer until one arm rested across Dorian’s chest. Dorian remained awake, replaying the search. What had you missed, Corvell?
Then the Mirror Call struck.
His breath caught.
Not stronger.
Closer. Outside.
Carefully, he lifted Toren’s arm and eased himself free. Toren murmured something unintelligible but did not wake. Sniffy did not stir at all.
Dorian stepped barefoot into the rain. Cold mud pressed between his toes, and water soaked through his shirt within seconds. In the first dull light, the island no longer looked the same. Water shone faintly across roots and stones, while shallow streams crossed yesterday’s paths.
The raven-shaped brand on Dorian’s wrist shimmered. Then the words returned with perfect clarity.
Follow the rain.
He did.
The Mirror Call strengthened with every step, drawing him through the dripping woodland towards the clearing. Rainwater filled a shallow hollow between the willow roots. At its centre, a broad puddle held the grey morning sky in an unnaturally still reflection.
Dorian stared at it. Then he laughed quietly. “Of course.”
Not glass or polished metal. Only reflection.
He had spent two days searching for a mirror.
The island had simply been waiting for rain.
When Dorian returned to camp, the rain had already passed. Dawn spread pale light through the wet trees, and the island smelt of mud, water, and crushed leaves.
Dorian was soaked. His shirt clung to his skin, silver hair hung across his face and neck, and mud covered his bare feet. Liana opened one eye. For a brief moment, she decided he had finally lost his mind. Beside her, Toren was already sitting up, reaching for a blanket.
“Calm down,” Dorian said, his voice rough. “I found it.”
Liana sat upright. “You are certain?”
“I am still a professional, despite the River Lands’ repeated attempts to prove otherwise.”
Toren draped the blanket over Dorian’s shoulders and summoned a warm current of air. It moved through Dorian’s wet hair first, then beneath his shirt. Dorian closed his eyes briefly as warmth returned to his skin.
He considered objecting.
Instead, he allowed it. “Thank you.”
By the time they packed the camp, his clothes were merely damp. The Mirror Call still pulled steadily from the clearing. Waiting. It was unmistakably the same pull he had felt from the Drommala remains at the Pain Monastery.
Before leaving, Dorian unclipped the bronze bell bracelet from his wrist and fastened it around Sniffy’s neck. The otter accepted one last piece of smoked fish.
“Vesh ta nor.”
Sniffy chirped, nudged Dorian’s hand with his nose, then slipped into the river and disappeared downstream.
Only then did Dorian lead them into the clearing.
Liana stopped beside him. “That?”
A broad puddle reflected the pale morning sky.
“Yes.”
Toren frowned. “A puddle?”
“A mirror.” Dorian crouched beside the water. “Glass is merely convenient. Anything capable of holding a reflection can become a door between worlds.”
He touched one finger to the surface.
“And some are Wander Mirrors. They move or hide, while others settle into temporary reflections. This one appears to combine both rare qualities.”
Liana folded her arms. “I dislike Mirrorwalking.”
“I know.”
Dorian rolled up his left sleeve. “Now we discover how hungry it is.”
The ring bit into his forearm. Blood struck the water and disappeared without spreading.
Nothing happened.
He fed it more.
The puddle swallowed every drop.
“It is ancient,” Dorian murmured. “And greedy.”
Blood continued to run from his arm. Colour drained from his face, and the ground shifted beneath him. Toren caught his elbow.
Dorian gently pulled free. “I’m concentrating.”
He turned the ring’s wheel to blue and pressed it against the wound. Cool reflective energy flowed into him, replacing enough of what the mirror had taken to keep him standing.
He opened the cut again.
More blood vanished into the water.
Then again.
Only then did the puddle answer.
Ripples crossed the surface without wind. The reflection darkened until the water turned perfectly black.
“There.”
Dorian sealed the wound and lowered his hand above the mirror. Black water climbed around his fingers like living glass, cold and smooth against his skin.
The connection formed.
He checked the straps securing Lucky’s capsule across his back.
“Hold on to me.”
Toren’s hand found Dorian’s shoulder immediately. Liana gripped Toren’s forearm. Dorian looked back once at the quiet island, then stepped forward.
The black water rose without a splash and swallowed him.
Toren followed.
Liana came last.
A moment later, the blackness was gone. The puddle reflected nothing but the sky.