“Just—just portal me to my room,” she said. The Wildling healing elixir would take care of the swelling, but it would be weeks before she walked the same again. She would have to come up with an excuse for Terra and Poppy. Pretend she had sprained it in training, or something else.
Her teeth gritted against the pain that roared again with their landing. She looked down at herself. She was a mess. Covered in dirt and mud. She would need about a thousand baths, and a quarter vial of healing elixir.
Tears stung as she closed her eyes. Was this what it would be like working with the Nightshade demon? Getting hurt? Running for her life from an ancient being for curiosity’s sake?
She opened her eyes again and was surprised to see the Nightshade was still in the center of her room, leaking darkness everywhere.
“Can you not do that?” she snapped, watching the shadows uncurl, spreading themselves all over her stuff, only to return and repeat the process.
The shadows twitched, as if they had heard her and were offended.
Stupid. A shadow can’t have its feelings hurt.
Grim looked appalled. “You do not give me orders, witch.”
She glared at him. “I thought I was Hearteater,” she said, in about the most syrupy tone she could manage.
He glared back.
This was her chance to get answers. “Why did he have so many bones?”
“The blacksmith kills people with unique abilities and makes weapons from their blood and bones. He senses blood close by and kills anyone he can find, on the off chance they are useful.” So why had he seemed desperate to have her blood?
Isla swallowed. She could have very well joined the fence of bones and skulls. Her people would have fallen. The blacksmith was ancient. He’d seemed surprised that she was able to harm him. She had never been more grateful to have her dagger.
“So you can’t use your abilities during our search. You will have to be powerless.”
Grim said nothing.
Why was Grim the one looking for this sword? Not using his powers seemed like a massive inconvenience. Didn’t he have people for that? Didn’t he have far better things to do? She asked all these questions, in quick succession, and Grim’s annoyance grew.
“You talk too much,” he growled, and, for some reason, that stung.
Isla’s chest felt as if someone were sitting on it. “I don’t usually have people to talk to,” she murmured.
His tone didn’t get any gentler as he said, “This is too important for me to tell anyone in my court. I can’t risk sending someone else or trusting them with any of my information.” He hesitated before saying, “I’ve been betrayed in the search for the sword before.”
Someone betrayed him? Why?
Would he betray her?
Isla turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “But you trust me?”
“Absolutely not.” He took a step toward her. Another. “If you have any desire at all to survive the Centennial, you will not tell anyone in your court either.”
Her court. She didn’t even know what that was. Celeste didn’t have a court, just her string of guardians who died every few years and were replaced, an endless cycle. Terra and Poppy were the only people Isla saw regularly.
As if she would ever tell any of them. They would all call her a fool for working with the Nightshade. They would ensure she could never leave her room again until the Centennial.
“What about the blacksmith? He knows we’re looking for it.”
Grim shook his head gruffly. “He won’t remember.”
She tilted her head at him. “Why?”
“Few people are foolish enough to visit him in the first place. But, in an abundance of caution, I took his memories away.”
Isla blinked. “That’s something . . . you can do?”
He nodded, as if it were not the cruelest power in the world.
“It’s . . . permanent?”
“If I want it to be.”
She shivered. There were still so many unanswered questions. If he needed the sword so badly, why didn’t he look for it before? Why now? What had changed?
Isla wondered if she should back out. Grim was clearly using her. Now she wasn’t even sure if what he had promised was worth the risk.
She and Celeste had a plan for the Centennial. She hadn’t managed to find the skin gloves, but there was still time. Almost a year.
Isla looked around her room. The glass cage. Grim was insufferable, but the search for the sword promised something she had longed for since she was a child. Freedom. Escape, for just a while.
“So . . .” she said, wondering if she was making a huge mistake. The blacksmith had said the sword was stolen and last sensed on Grim’s territory. “Who are the best thieves on Nightshade?”
PREMONITION
There was still no word on the Skyling vote. It had been pushed back, after much debate. Most Wildlings trained for war, and the rest worked nonstop to make more healing elixirs. Starlings on the newland were creating special armor for them, infused with energy.
Now, she needed to focus on the shield. Maren had promised Isla a list of the greatest wielders on Star Isle, to determine how large it would be.
Days had passed without her request being fulfilled. It was unlike Maren, who had managed all other aspects of preparing for the incoming war and evacuation with ease. Enya had helped Isla provide direct aid to Star Isle in the last few weeks—food, resources, guards at their bridge—and Maren had managed everything without issue.
She was clearly surprised to see Isla when she stepped foot on Star Isle.
“Isla,” Maren said. “I wasn’t expecting you today. We can get—”
“Who is the best Starling at wielding?” Isla asked. “Just—just take me to them.” Her tone was harsh, but Grim was coming in only twenty days. They couldn’t waste a moment.
Maren didn’t meet her eyes. It took her several seconds to even say a word. “There are a few who are skilled. I can take you to them.”
“No,” Isla said. “Who is the best?” She frowned. “Is it—is it you?” Was that why Maren had been evasive?
Maren shook her head.
“Then who?”
The Starling met her eyes. The intensity there took Isla aback. “The king hasn’t changed his mind about taking fighters who aren’t volunteers?”
“No. No one is being forced to fight. We just need energy for the shield.”
“Can . . . can the pooling of energy be anonymous?”
Anonymous? Isla was getting irritated. “I suppose so. Why?”
Maren’s expression became more intense than usual. “Promise me,” she said. “If I tell you, promise that you won’t tell anyone.”
Isla frowned. She was her ruler. She didn’t have to make promises in exchange for information. Still, she saw the fierceness in Maren’s face and nodded. “I won’t tell anyone but the king.”
Maren considered. She closed her eyes. “I will show you,” she said.
She took her to a field of craters. They were holes in the isle like stars had fallen from the sky and left their marks. Someone stood in one of the craters’ center.
Streams of silver shot from their hands in glittering ribbons. They whipped against the sides of the crater, piercing the rock, slicing through it like butter. Creatures formed from the sparks, and they slithered, jumped, flew around the crater, contained only by its perimeter. It was a dazzling display of power.
It was Cinder.
Isla’s mouth had dropped open watching. Cinder wielded power like a master. Her stances, the liquidous movements of her arms—everything was so natural, as if she’d been alive for many multiples of her actual age.
She jumped down into the crater, and the little girl whipped around. A smile transformed her features. “Isla!”
“Who was your teacher?” she asked in lieu of greeting. “Are they still living?”
Cinder regarded her strangely. “Teacher?” She looked to Maren, who had carefully made her way down one of the crater’s edges. Maren only shrugged a shoulder.
“Who taught you to wield this way?” Isla shook her head in disbelief. “I was told there weren’t any Starling masters left. How many can wield like you? You must have started training before you could walk! You must practice every moment.”
Cinder laughed. “No, not really.” She shrugged. “I’m just good at it, I guess.”