“And you have so much, you—”
“Cinder!” Maren took her hand and began leading her away. “That’s enough. And enough of this,” she said.
Isla had the impression that Maren had restricted Cinder to use her power only during certain time frames and within the confines of this crater.
“Maren,” Isla said, stepping forward while Cinder collected her things. Her voice was low. “We need her to provide energy for the shield.” And possibly, Isla thought, to turn ore into the essential metal, if Zed and Calder managed to extract it. Maren looked from Cinder to Isla warily. “We’re going to cover most of the Mainland with thorns and bog sand, but walls of energy will be critical to limit where Nightshade can strike.”
Maren closed her eyes. “You promise to keep it anonymous?”
“I give you my word. She can form her part of the shield with no one else around.”
“Fine,” Maren said. Then, she called Cinder to her in a sharp tone. “We’re leaving,” she said. As she was taken away, Cinder looked over her shoulder and smiled. With a flick of her tiny hand, she sent a flurry of sparks to Isla that fell from the sky like glitter.
. . .
Isla told Oro about Cinder before bed. She was walking around the room, speaking with her hands, trying to demonstrate what the little girl had done.
“What do you make of it?” she asked, turning to face him when she was done.
“I think Cinder sounds like a very special child.”
“Have those existed?” she asked.
“A few, over the centuries. There have been non-rulers born with flairs, even. Unfortunately, their tales often end in tragedy. Maren is right to keep her hidden.”
Isla frowned. “But you’re the king. Couldn’t you protect her?”
“I could order an army to stand around her at all times. I could send for her to come live here, in the castle. Would you like that?”
“No,” she said. Cinder’s life seemed difficult, but in many ways she was free. The castle or legion would just become a thicker prison.
She took a step toward the bed, exhausted, when her vision suddenly went dark. Her limbs went numb—her body folded over. Before she hit the ground, she was in Oro’s arms. Physically, warmth surrounded her.
Mentally, all she felt was cold.
It was her vision again, clearer than ever.
Darkness fell from the sky, night cut into pieces. It pressed onto her skin, got stuck in her eyelashes. Howls. Dreks.
Screams. People dying all around her.
Through it all, she saw Grim. The darkness touched everything but him. He was its source.
He was looking at her. He didn’t look at the dying around him, he just looked right at her and stalked toward her with a concentration that cut through her like a blade.
Run, a voice inside her head said. Leave. Save yourself.
She either couldn’t or didn’t. She stayed there as darkness parted her lips and forced her to drink it.
She tasted death on the back of her tongue.
Then, in her chest.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
Isla tried to fight it, but it was no use. In her vision, her organs began to shut down, one by one.
She felt it, as every part of her withered away.
She felt herself die.
Oro was cradling her in his arms. Apparently, she had been screaming. Tears choked her words, as she tried to explain what she had seen. Her vision, but more. It was clearer now. Longer. Before, she had seen only Grim’s darkness and destruction.
Now, she knew how it ended.
“He kills me,” she said. “In the future, he kills me.”
Heat nearly set the room aflame. Oro’s lip curled over his teeth. She had never seen him more murderous than she did now. “Then we will kill him first.”
Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as she fell into another memory.
BEFORE
Poppy and Terra had sealed the loose pane in her room. She’d had to tell them about it in an elaborate story to explain her sprained ankle. For hours, Terra had screamed at her about how foolish she was.
Poppy wrapped her ankle in medicinal bark, and as punishment, Terra trained her harder in ways that didn’t require putting weight on her legs. It took ten days for her to walk close to normally again. She wondered if Grim would look for the sword without her, but he waited until she was almost fully healed.
He didn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart, she knew. It was because he needed her. She was integral to his search. She just needed to figure out how she fit into his plan.
Grim appeared in her room. He had a hold on his powers. The shadows that typically leaked from his feet were gone. His crown and cape were missing. He might not have worn his emblems as a ruler, but he was still unmistakably terrifying.
The blacksmith had told them the sword had been stolen, and, according to Grim, there was a notorious thieving group on his lands. They had a base on the other side of Nightshade. He wordlessly took her arm.
They portaled to the edge of a fishing town. The air was thick with salt and rotten catch. The streets were empty. Every curtain was closed. Of course, it was night—
Isla tensed. Panic gripped her chest.
“Your curse,” she said, words sputtering out of her. She pointed at the moon, like a fool, then, at him. “You can’t—”
Grim wore a bored expression. “Go outside at night?”
She nodded.
“That won’t be a problem.” Then he turned back around.
Not a problem? “Even you are not powerful enough to escape the curses.”
He sighed in clear irritation that she kept insisting on speaking to him. “No,” he admitted. “But someone else was, and they made me this.” He clutched at something below the collar of his shirt, some sort of charm, then instantly turned his attention away from her.
That didn’t satiate her curiosity or confusion at all. How was it possible that a simple strand allowed Grim to be immune from his curse? It didn’t make any sense. It should be impossible—
“While I am flattered by your concern about my well-being,” he said, in about the most pompous tone possible, “focus on finding the sword. Not me.”
She shut her mouth but wondered about the charm. Why didn’t he make one for every Nightshade? Was it rare? Did he want his people to stay cursed?
A small boat with paddles floated at the docks, waiting for them. Grim couldn’t portal them to the thieves, lest the sword be there and sense his power. Isla had asked if she could use her starstick, and he had said no.
She tried to grab one of the paddles, but he snatched it out of her hand. She sat behind him, watching his back as the muscles rolled. The sight should have disgusted her.
She wished it disgusted her.
It was miles to the isle. His paddling never weakened.
“It’s surprising,” she said, staring at him. The ocean was dark as ink around them. The moon was a paltry crescent.
She thought he was going to ignore her, but after a few minutes, he said in an annoyed voice, “What, pray tell, is so surprising?”
He was facing the opposite direction. She couldn’t see his expression, and perhaps that made her bold. “Your flair is portaling. You can go anywhere without lifting a finger. Yet . . . you climb quickly. You can paddle well. You are . . . muscled.”