She got to know each of the Wildlings in the village and ventured to other settlements close by. Wren took Isla into the forest and taught her a few Wildling wielding techniques, including stances, arm movements, and uses of ability. They spoke for hours.
At the end of one of these lessons, she caught Wren studying her, and said, “What is it?”
Wren shook her head. “It’s just—we always wondered why you never came to see us,” she said. “I know why now, but before . . . we were confused. Your mother is the only other ruler I’ve ever known, and she was always there. Playing in the village. Talking to us. She knew everyone. Everyone loved her.”
Her mother.
“What—what was she like?” Isla asked, her voice small. She felt like a child again, clinging to any mention of her mother. Terra and Poppy almost never spoke about her.
Wren smiled. “She was extraordinary,” she said. “Fearless. Reckless, at times.” Her smile faded. “We grieved her immensely and hoped to know you too. But . . .” She shrugged. “I suppose we did know something must be going on,” she said. “We were curious . . . when you didn’t take a bonded.”
Isla’s brows came together. “Take a what?”
“A bonded,” Wren said. She lifted her arm, and a massive hawk with a stripe of orange on its back came soaring down from the treetops, landing on her sleeve. The bird blinked at her with its sharp eyes.
“Oh, an animal companion,” Isla said.
“A bonded,” Wren repeated. Isla didn’t know why it seemed to be important to Wren, but if taking one showed that Isla was a Wildling, even though she hadn’t had their curse or powers up until recently—
“I’ll take one,” Isla said. “If it’s not too late.” It might be a pain to transport the creature with her everywhere, and she didn’t know how Oro would feel about an animal residing in the Mainland castle, but she would figure that out later. Gaining her people’s trust was more important.
Wren seemed surprised. “You would do the ceremony?”
Isla didn’t know anything about a ceremony, but she said, “Of course.”
Wren smiled. “Then I will announce it,” she said. She looked around, felt a leaf between two fingers, and studied the treetops. “Tonight is a good night . . . yes, tonight will work.”
Tonight.
Okay. Isla could do tonight. “So . . .” she said. “I can pick anything? An insect”—that would be easier to carry around—“a bird”—could be useful to transport messages—“a . . . butterfly?”
Wren shook her head sharply. “A bonded reflects the disposition of a person. For rulers, it represents their power and strength.”
So, Isla would be expected to bond with a larger animal. Great. That would make things more difficult, but she couldn’t very well back out now.
“And you don’t pick your bonded,” Wren continued. “It’s the other way around.” Her eyes were fierce. “The bonded chooses you.”
. . .
Isla was wading in water up to her knees. The ceremony, it turned out, was far more complicated than she had anticipated. This was a sacred part of the newland, Wren told her, the oldest part, born of seeds and creatures taken straight from Lightlark. It was a swamp, with grass that grew taller than her, water lilies as large as rugs, mud that seeped between her bare toes, and slick creatures that moved below the dark water, smoothing around her ankles.
She was at the very front, a leader who had no idea where she was going. She should have asked more questions, she thought bitterly, though they would have revealed how little she knew about her people and their customs.
She risked a quick look over her shoulder and saw the Wildlings silently wading behind her, faces illuminated by the fireflies they held in their palms. Their bonded were with them, swimming alongside, flying above, or watching from the thin strips of bare land at their sides.
One of them caught her eye, and she whipped back around. Her head was beginning to itch. She scratched just below the crown of flowers her people had made her for the occasion—purple larkspur, in honor of her ancestor, Lark Crown, one of the three original creators of Lightlark. She had spent hours sitting still as her people made bracelets down her arms from the rare varieties of larkspur, its color so concentrated, it stained parts of her skin purple, an honor reserved for a ruler. It was a valiant color. The color of a leader and warrior.
Isla didn’t feel like either as she carefully stepped across the muddy ground, wincing anytime her foot sank too deep or connected with something solid. She was so focused on stepping around a strange clump of rocks that it took her a while to notice the wading behind her had all but quieted.
She turned to see the Wildlings were retreating, the light of their fireflies getting dimmer and dimmer.
Only Wren approached. “This is where we leave you,” she said. Perhaps it was Isla’s eyes widening, but Wren seemed to sense she needed more instruction. Her head dipped low. Her tone was sharp. “You don’t come back until the morning. You don’t come back without a bonded.” Isla swallowed. What if none of the creatures wanted her? Wren handed her a bow and a single arrow.
“What is this for?”
“It’s tradition, for a ruler’s hunt for their bonded. For the rest of us, we simply must catch our animals, to show our worthiness. Rulers must put an arrow through theirs.” Wren’s eyes darted around nervously, and that’s when Isla’s stomach began to sink in earnest. The Wildling looked afraid.
Of what?
“I thought—I thought you said the creature chooses me.”
“It does,” Wren explained. “The creatures out here . . . if you’re able to wound one . . . it’s because it allows you to.”
Isla took the bow and single arrow with trembling fingers. As soon as they were out of her hands, Wren gave a sharp nod, then began to hurry away, toward the others.
She watched them go, her confidence shrinking along with their silhouettes, until she couldn’t see them anymore.
With a shaking breath, she turned around to face the heart of the swamp.
The swamp turned back to forest, though none of it was familiar.
She climbed out of the water and stilled—the trees lining the marsh . . . they were in the shape of people. Their arms made up the main branches, green sprouted from the crowns of their heads, their bodies formed the trunks, and their legs, the exposed roots that went straight into the dark water. They were frozen in strange movements, their faces carved into the wood. Some had mouths stretched far too wide, like they had been screaming.
Isla swallowed and kept moving. Wren had been clear. She couldn’t return without a bonded. It would make her look weak, unworthy of ruling her realm.
The forest was quiet. She walked until she reached a massive tree that had tipped over on its side. Its branches were large enough to be entire pathways, rising into the air, going as far as she could see. They were covered in a thin layer of moss. She jumped, gripping the soft edge with her fingers, then pulled the rest of her body onto the lowest one. With a quick assessment of her surroundings, she followed the path, into the core of the tree.
It was far too silent. Isla had the uncomfortable feeling that there were eyes everywhere, watching her, yet every time she turned around, she was alone.