Nightbane (Lightlark, #2)(49)

After Oro was asleep, Isla sneaked into her room. She found a parchment and quill and wrote herself a note. No matter what she remembered. No matter what had happened in the year before the Centennial—

You hate him.

You hate him.

You hate him.

You hate him.

You hate him.

You hate him.


That very same night, Isla used her starstick to portal to the only person who might be able to get her memories back faster.

Remlar did not look surprised to see her. He was standing outside his hive. Isla didn’t know if he ever slept. “Welcome back, Wildling,” he said, purring the last word. He was surrounded by the other winged beings who lived in the hive. Their skin was light blue, and their wings were thin and silky behind them. Before, they hadn’t worked. Now, they stood perched high over their shoulders.

“If my memories were taken by a Nightshade, how would I remember? Can you give them to me?”

The others flew away, up into holes in the giant wooden hive behind them, clearly not wanting to be involved in this conversation.

Remlar pursed his lips. “No. Memories are difficult to uncover. A skilled Nightshade could return them . . . but doing so all at once could be dangerous. The mind is so easily fractured . . .” He sighed. “The far better option is that they be restored by you.” That, at least, explained why Grim hadn’t simply given her memories back at the end of the Centennial. He had seemed so confident she would remember . . . and she had.

“How do I do that?”

“Assuming they weren’t meant to be erased forever, the stronger your Nightshade powers become, the more the veil that has been put on them will weaken.”

Isla frowned. “So, the more I master Nightshade power, the more I will remember.”

He nodded.

Great. Now, she needed to learn yet another ability? She didn’t want to wield death and shadows. She had been suppressing it. She didn’t have time.

But if this was the way to save Lightlark . . . she had to try. “Fine. Teach me.”

Remlar raised his brow at her.

“Please.”

He shrugged a shoulder and pointed to the grass before them. “It’s simple. Summon, Wildling.”

“How?”

“Just try it. Focus. Reach, just like you do for your other abilities. But this time . . . look for the shadows.”

Isla placed a hand in front of her. She could feel the Wildling ability inside, humming, ready to be used. Familiar.

Then, there was its umbra. It was harder to grasp—slippery, temperamental. The roots of her hair became sweaty as she focused, using all her usual rituals and tricks. Her mouth was a line. She reached for the power, over and over, until finally, she clutched it, for just a second—

Her hand pressed against the ground. Whatever her skin touched died. When she removed it, there was only her imprint, dark and sizzling.

“Is that good enough?” she asked.

Remlar didn’t answer.

She turned—but she wasn’t in the Sky Isle woods any longer.





BEFORE


She was in a market.

It had been a month since Isla had dueled with the Nightshade in the forest. She hadn’t expected to see him again, of course. He was repulsed by her.

She was repulsed by him.

Her days were spent training with Terra and Poppy and meeting Celeste in secret.

She had a million things to think about, but sometimes, her thoughts would drift to the Nightshade ruler.

Grimshaw. In her mind, she called him Grim. It seemed fitting, given the dread his memory caused. Losing the duel meant Grim could slay her the first chance he got at the Centennial. It pained her to think one mistaken visit to Nightshade could cost her years of training and preparation. Especially since she was working with Celeste.

Isla had spent the last three weeks looking for an object that was central to her and Celeste’s plan to survive the Centennial: a pair of gloves made of flesh that would allow them to absorb a whisper of power. She had searched every dark market in every newland, without success.

Except for Nightshade.

It had a famed night market that now operated during the day. A place where ungodly things were sold and traded. She had heard whispers of it in the darkest corners of the other agoras, which had been a bit like monsters whispering about even bigger monsters.

Skin gloves had to be made while a person was alive—they couldn’t be taken from a corpse, which might have made attaining them slightly easier. According to the few merchants she had trusted enough to ask, they used to be far more common years before, when more power could be absorbed. Nowadays, after the curses, the amount of ability the gloves could muster was useless.

In most cases, anyway.

If any last pair of skin gloves still existed, they would be on Nightshade. She had promised herself she would never return, but—

Isla drew her puddle of stars, then it was done.

With mastery, one day, she might be able to portal anywhere she wanted. For now, she could only return to places she’d been before. The moment she landed in Grim’s castle, she imagined he might step out of a wall and put his broadsword to her chin. But the hall was empty.

She didn’t linger or explore—that was what had gotten her found out last time. With quiet steps, she made her way out of the palace and into the busy streets. Women wore clothes she had never seen in other realms’ lands—boots that reached their thighs, dresses with chain mail woven through, pants that were glossy and shimmering. Compared to them, Isla was wearing far too much clothing. She kept her head down and her hood—a black one she had procured in another market—buttoned at its front, so as not to show what she wore beneath, the only other dark-colored clothing she owned, a deep-plum silk dress meant for sleeping.