Nightbane (The Lightlark Saga Book 2)

Moon Isle was melting. The previous labyrinth of ice and snow had lost its bite. The ice sculptures that had lined the walkway to the palace for centuries were nothing more than puddles. The woods were carved open, no snow to hide their inner workings. It was like the Moonlings had taken the cold with them, packed it in their ships.

Cleo had told her the night before to visit the oracle. Now, with Oro next to her, she needed to find out why.

The oracle was already thawed. She floated in the water of her glacier, edges melting.

Isla remembered what the oracle had told her and Oro months prior. So many secrets, trapped between you. But, just like this wall, they too will one day give way and unravel and fall . . . leaving quite a mess and madness.

Back then, there had been three women trapped in the glacier. Three sisters. Oro had said the other two had allied with Nightshade and hadn’t thawed in over a thousand years. Now, they were gone.

“You’re dying,” Isla said. The oracle’s power—a force in the air that Isla could almost taste now that she knew what to look for—was dimming. “Cleo injured you.”

“Don’t look so dour, Wildling. I’m ancient. We tend to die slowly. She left me alive long enough to tell you what you need to know.”

It didn’t make sense. Why would Cleo help her, then join her enemy? The oracle’s white hair floated around her face, curling in the water. Her voice was a thousand voices braided into one, echoing, smothered slightly by the wall of ice between them. “Though . . . you are the one with most of the answers this time. Not me.”

“What do you mean?” Oro demanded. Isla wasn’t sure if they could trust the oracle, but he would know if she was telling the truth.

“Her memories are the key. They unlock the world. Everything—why they are coming, what they will do with Lightlark, the weapon they already have, how to stop them—is in her mind. All she must do is remember. Everything.”

No. The memories had only just stopped again, and she was happier than ever. She swallowed. “And if I can’t?”

“Then Lightlark will fall. Forever.”

Oro frowned. “Is the future not solid?”

The oracle’s gown floated in the slight current of the water, her sleeves going far beyond her arms. “No, it is not. Not all of it.” She looked beyond them, at the woods that had been far whiter the last time they had visited. “This much is clear: they are coming. If they succeed, there will be nothing left. And by the time they step foot on the island, I will be gone.”

The ice started hardening again, and Isla pressed her hand against it. “I need to know. Is my vision real?”

The oracle nodded. “Very.”

Chills snaked down her spine. That level of destruction . . . the death in her mind . . .

She had one more question. “The vault,” Isla said. “Is it important?” Even though it had rejected her, she knew it was crucial. She could feel it calling to her, the connection stronger as her powers intensified.

“More than you know,” the oracle said. “The vault will change everything . . . if you can find the strength to open it for good.” The woman tilted her head at Isla for just a moment—and in that second, somehow, she spoke directly into her mind. The oracle said, “Before Nightshade arrives, you will visit me. Alone. Only then will I give my final prophecy.” Isla wasn’t sure if it was an order or yet another telling of the future, but it didn’t matter.

As soon as Isla nodded—the most imperceivable lowering of her chin—the oracle fell back into the last remaining ice and froze over.

“I don’t want to remember,” she told Oro as she sat at the foot of their bed.

They had shared it for over a week now. During that time, her mind had been blissfully clear of any memories of Grim. Oro had banished his presence. She was happy.

She should have known happiness was only ever temporary.

Oro shook his head. “There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t. The oracle was clear. I have to remember everything . . . and somehow find a way to open the vault.”

Her knees were pulled to her chest. The memories she’d had so far were useless. Her being foolish enough to portal to Nightshade. Stabbing him in the chest. Grim nearly choking her. Their duel.

“I hate him,” she said. “Not just for taking the memories away. But in the memories themselves. The ones I’ve already remembered.”

Isla had already made up her mind. Of course she would remember. Of course she wouldn’t put her own happiness above the safety of all Lightlark.

It didn’t mean she was happy about it.

Tears streaked down her face. “I hate him, and I hate myself for even having these memories in the first place.”

Oro’s arms went around her back and under her knees. He hauled her against him. “This is not your fault, Isla. Whatever happened a year ago . . . you were not the person you are now. Do not judge yourself. Do not hate yourself.”

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.