Chapter 1: Dawn Island

Isaac Robinson, April 28, 521

The first rays of dawn hurt my eyes as I groan and regain consciousness. My mouth is dry, my tongue swollen and sticky, tasting of salt and bile. Although the black sand beneath me is already hot, cold sweat clings to my skin. My ribs ache with each breath.

The world shakes violently as I try to sit up. The volcanic beach stretches out in the pale morning light; the sand, normally jet black, is now a dull charcoal in the pre-dawn darkness. Behind me, the silhouette of a volcano cuts an irregular line against the bright sky, its peak shrouded in slow-moving gray steam.

My stomach churns at the smell, a stench of rotten eggs and sulfur, now more intense in the cool morning air. I barely have time to turn around before I start choking on acid and seawater, my whole body convulsing with each painful gag. The vomit splatters the damp sand and the sour smell mixes with the volcanic gases.

In the nearby tide pools, iridescent vapor from mineral stains casts an unnatural glow in the cool dawn. As I collapse backward, my vision blurs and black sand clings to my wet cheek. The rising sun paints the ocean sickly yellows and greens, and the waves move lazily like oil.

The distant cry of a seabird echoes across the deserted beach, and the sound makes my throbbing head pound harder. I try to focus on what looks like a village on the shore, but my eyes won't cooperate: the thatched roofs blur and double.

The heat begins to close in as the sun rises. My skin is tight and feverish, and my muscles are weak and shaking. I know I need water. I need shelter. But right now, even as I lift my head, the world is spinning dangerously.

When the first rays of the sun hit my face, I close my eyes tightly to block out the pain. The black sand beneath my feet seems to pulse with the heat, or maybe it's just the fever. The village could be miles away.

The world tilts with every step I take as I crawl toward the cluster of thatched roofs. My throat burns and my legs tremble as if they could give out at any moment. The black sand has given way to compact earth; the smell of sulfur fades under the smoke of burning wood and the salty smell of drying fish.

A woman is standing next to a weathered wooden house, hanging faded clothes on a clothesline. Her back is to me, her movements quiet and graceful. I try to call out to her, but only a broken whisper comes out.

I take another step. The floor shakes beneath my feet.

"Help..." I whisper.

The sheets flap in the morning breeze as my knees buckle. The last thing I see before darkness envelops me is the woman turning around, eyes wide and hands outstretched, as I collapse to the floor.

Time passes...

A sharp, metallic taste lingers in my mouth as I regain consciousness. The murmur of muffled voices drifts through the fog in my mind.

"Do you think it's a pirate?" a boy whispers.

"Pirates have scars and eye patches," a girl replies matter-of-factly. "This one just looks sick."

I squeeze my eyes open and blink at the sunlight streaming through the window. Two faces peer down at the foot of the bed: a boy with sun-bleached hair and a toothless smile, and a girl holding a shell necklace, her brown eyes wide with curiosity.

When they realize I'm awake, the boy lets out a startled scream and backs away. "Mom! The dead pirate is awake!"

My throat burns as I stammer, "No... I'm not a pirate. The words are barely audible, but the children freeze.

The girl leans over and stares at me with sudden fascination. "Then why were you in the sea?"

I try to answer, but my voice sticks in my throat. Suddenly I hear heavy footsteps approaching. The smell of salt and herbs grows stronger as a shadow floods the doorway.

The boy is tugging at someone's skirt. "Mom, he says he's not a pirate!"

I try to brace myself on my elbows, but the room tilts too much. Before darkness envelops me again, the last thing I see are a woman's calloused hands reaching out to me and her firm but not unpleasant voice saying:

"Dead or alive, pirate or not, first we'll give you some water."

Before I can even lift my head from the sweat-soaked pillow, the woman is already standing over the bed, her silhouette framed by daylight, one hand resting on the curved sword at her hip. The leather hilt of the blade is darkened by years of use, and the metal guard is scratched from wear.

She pushes a steaming wooden bowl toward me. The smell hits me like a blow: rancid seaweed cooked in vinegar.

"Stand up," she commands.

I can barely get my elbows on the floor before she lifts me up with surprising strength. The room spins violently as she shoves the bowl into my hands. The liquid looks like swamp water, with pieces of... Something floating in it.

I take a sip and almost throw up.

"What the hell is that?" I yell, spitting brown drops onto the straw mattress. "IT'S LIKE ROTTEN FISH!"

The boy gasps from the doorway. His sister covers her mouth with her hands, her eyes shining with glee at the outburst.

The woman doesn't flinch. She simply pulls the sword halfway out of its sheath with a metallic hiss.

"Either you drink it," she says calmly, "or I'll immobilize you, put you to sleep, and pour it down your throat while you're asleep. Your choice."

I swallowed hard.

With a shaky breath, I brought the bowl to my lips and emptied it in one gulp, as if it were a shot of whiskey. Ha, ha, ha. That brings back memories. The disgusting concoction burns deep inside me and coats my tongue with a taste of liquefied volcanic rock. My entire body reels in protest.

But within seconds I feel a strange warmth spreading through my chest. The pounding in my head subsides. My vision clears enough to see the woman nod in satisfaction as she sheathes her sword.

"Good," she says. "Now that you're not dying... She pulls up a stool with her boot. Tell me how it is possible that the currents washed you up on my beach with no boat, no weapons, and apparently no sense of balance.

The woman tightens her grip on the sword hilt as she watches me. "First, tell me your name, boy."

"Isaac," I answer, my voice still hoarse from the seawater and seasickness.

She tilts her head, waiting for something.

Suddenly I understand that what he wants is my last name."Robinson. Isaac Robinson." 

Something flashes in her eyes-recognition? Suspicion? But it disappears before I can be sure. She exhales sharply, then nods. "Lira Varek." She points to the children crowded around the door. "This is my son, Jory."

The boy, his hair bleached by the sun and his smile missing two teeth, jumps up and down on his tiptoes. "Hello, castaway!"

"And this is my daughter, Nessa."

The girl is smaller, about seven or eight years old, with dark, serious eyes, and clings to her mother's belt. She says nothing, just looks at me, as if deciding if I'm worth her time.

The fire crackles between us in the dim light of Lira's kitchen. She wipes her hands on her flour-covered apron and watches me with those piercing eyes that don't miss a thing.

"Isaac Robinson," she repeats, trying the name. "That last name isn't from this archipelago."

I keep my hands steady around the hot cup of cider she brought me. "It's a family name from the mainland. My father was from there. But I've lived on an island my whole life."

Lira's fingers drummed on the wooden table. "Which island?"

"A small one. I took a slow sip, the spices burning my tongue. "One that doesn't appear on maps."

The lie came easily. The truth was more complicated.

Lira leaned back in her chair, which creaked. "You speak like a scholar. That's strange coming from someone who grew up among fishermen."

"My father valued education." I traced the edge of the cup. "Even in isolation."

Outside, the wind rattled the shutters. The light from the fire danced on Lira's face as she watched me.

"And your father," she said finally. Where is he now?"

The cider turned to ash in my mouth. "I suppose he's out there investigating."

The firelight flickered across her face as she sat on her worn stool, her calloused hands resting on her knees. Her piercing gaze made my skin tingle.

"So you're an island boy," she said in a voice as rough as sun-bleached wood. "What brings you to this island?"

I set the cup down and met her eyes.

"I was trying to get to the mainland," I said, the half-truth coming easily. "I boarded a merchant ship from the southern islands. I paid my last coins for passage."

"Then the storm came," I continued, closing my fingers over my palms. "It wasn't just bad weather. Something was strange. The waves came from three directions at once. The compass spun like a top."

Lira narrowed her eyes, but said nothing.

"The ship quickly split in two. I woke up alone on your black sands, with no trace of the ship or other survivors. I was the only one left."

The fire crackled loudly in the heavy silence that followed. Outside, the wind carried the distant smell of salt and seaweed.

Lira's calloused fingers clung to the mug. "Interesting," she said, the word hanging between us like a knife. "But it still doesn't explain what a boy your age was doing on a ship bound for the mainland."

The flames reflected in his eyes as he leaned forward. "Merchant ships don't take teenage stowaways out of charity. So either you're lying about the ship or you're leaving something out." He tilted his head to gauge my reaction. "Which is it?"

I swallowed hard, the cider tasting bitter in my mouth. The truth curled in my chest: the forged papers, the stolen bunk, the argument with the first mate before the storm... But all I could say was, "I had money for the fare."

Lira snorted, "And I'm Queen of Gaia." She set her cup down on the table with a sharp thud. "Try again, boy. And this time tell the truth."

Jory's shadow shifted in the doorway, listening. Nessa's shell necklace clanked as she fidgeted. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

I dried my palms on the rough blanket. "There was a letter. From my father's colleagues in the guild. They owed him a favor. The lie tasted metallic. They wanted to hire me as a cabin boy.

"Do you think I'm stupid? Lira narrowed her eyes. "You expect me to believe that the guild is now recruiting on remote islands?" She kicked the leg of the stool with her boot. "I'll give you one last chance before I send you back with the tide."

The wind howled through the cracks in the walls.

"I snuck aboard," I said. "I'd heard that the Guild was looking for volunteers for an expedition to the continent of Meridian. I wanted to go and... well, you know the rest."

Lira studied me over the rim of her cup, her dark eyes unfathomable. So," she finally said in a low voice. "You want to go to Meridian? Why?"

The question hung in the air like the sulfuric steam from the tide pools. I could have lied, made up some half-truth about destiny or duty. But the fever still burned in my veins, and the words slipped out before I could stop them.

"I want to find the Eldrich."

Lira's cup stopped halfway to her lips. Even the children at the door stopped.

For a moment there was only the crackling of the fire and the distant roar of the sea. Then Lira set down her drink with deliberate slowness.

"You're either the bravest fool I've ever met, or the stupidest. Though you're definitely a fool.

I leaned forward, the light from the fire casting shadows across my face. "I am neither. I am Isaac, the man who will reach the top of the world!" My voice rose, harsh and fervent. "The man whose name will be so great that at the end of time he will be considered the most important man who ever walked this world!"

Silence.

Jory's eyes were wide. Nessa had taken a step back, clutching her shell necklace as if it were a shield against madness.

Lira didn't move. She didn't even blink. Then, very slowly, she exhaled through her nose.

"May the gods save us," she murmured. "Another one."

He expected a taunt. A provocation. A sword drawn in warning. But Lira merely rubbed his temple, as if he had heard this speech a hundred times before.

"Do you think you're the first person I've ever met with the great ambition of finding the Eldrich?" He shook his head. "The world eats men like you for breakfast. Men who think their names mean something to the darkness."

"Well, I tried," I replied, my voice shaking with conviction. "Let the world try to wipe me out. Win or die, because a life where I don't have what I want is not worth living. That's my motto."

Lira stared at me for a long time. Then, to my surprise, he let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

"All right." She grabbed a bottle of whiskey and poured herself a generous amount, then took another bottle of grape juice and poured some for me. "Drink, Isaac Robinson, conqueror of the world. A supply ship will arrive tomorrow." She pushed the cup towards me with a relentless gaze. "And it happens to be headed for Migdagland, and it just so happens that the owner of the boat is my cousin. I can ask him to take you if you want."

My eyes were wide open and with a great deal of enthusiasm I said, "Could you ask him?!"

The fire suddenly extinguished.

Lira paused and said. "When this world tears you apart, when you're bleeding out with nothing but your big words to keep you warm, remember this moment. Remember that I warned you boy."

I took the cup and our fingers brushed together for a moment. Then I raised it in a mock toast, never taking my eyes off her.

"To fate."

Lira didn't smile. But as I drank, I could have sworn I saw something flash in her eyes, something I had doubted before. It wasn't pity or anger, but something far worse.

Recognition.

Suddenly,Lira inhaled sharply and asked. "How many days have you been on the ship?"

"Three," I answered.

She inhaled again and said,"God, that explains the smell!"

Jory and Nessa laughed until Lira gave them a look. When she looked back at me, her look had changed: it was still sharp, but with a new, calculating edge. "Well, kid, my water heater's broken right now, but they're coming to fix it this afternoon, o I advise you to take a shower when they fix it."

I sniffed my armpits, grimaced, and said,

"Yeah, I think that's a good idea."