Skyshade (The Lightlark Saga Book 3) (The Lightlark Saga, 3) (Volume 3)

Her heart thundered in her chest. This didn’t make any sense. Why did her father have an island with her name on it, when he had lived here before he had ever even met her mother?

Isla.

It had to be a coincidence. Her name meant island. Perhaps it didn’t mean anything at all.

But what if it did?

Isla removed that sheet of map from the wall, rolled it up, and placed it in the pocket of her cape. She moved around the room, to see if there was anything that could help her now, anything that might indicate the portal, but all she saw were letters between him and family members, detailed maps of Nightshade, and books upon books about the other realms. She flipped through one about Wildlings, read the first sentence of the middle chapter, and nearly snorted.

Wildling women have fangs that curve out of their mouths like pythons, they have claws like panthers—they drink blood in buckets.

Is that what her father had thought of the Wildlings before meeting her mother? She wondered for a moment about their story. How they met, and where, and how they had fallen in love.

Part of it she could guess, given the details she already knew. Her father had escaped with the sword, using the portaling device he had stolen from Grim. Somehow, he must have ended up on the Wildling newland. Her mother must have happened upon him, and, for some reason, they had chosen not to kill each other.

Isla swallowed, realizing how closely it matched her own story. She had somehow ended up on Nightshade, using the starstick. Grim had happened upon her. And—though she had stabbed a blade through his chest during that first meeting—they had decided not to kill each other.

Yet.

Life and darkness. Opposites in so many ways. One power created, the other destroyed. It seemed like a pairing that could never work, not really. Perhaps they were too different. Perhaps her own parents’ joining had been wrong.

She remembered what the prophet-followers had said, before their death. A girl will be born. She will either destroy the world . . . or save it.

She wouldn’t be the cause of more destruction. She would find a way to close the portal and buy herself more time. She would use that time to change her fate.

This map . . . it had to mean something.

There was only one way to find out.

Map in one hand and starstick in the other, she imagined the island in her mind’s eye, felt around for it, tried to visualize it, tried to pin down its place in the world. She fell through her puddle of stars.

Then she was drowning, pulled down by a relentless current. Only her last-second instinct to reach her arm high over her head kept the map from disintegrating in the water. She had landed in the middle of the sea—a wave crested, about to pull her under again. She closed her eyes tightly and used her starstick to whisk her away. Anywhere. Anywhere.

She landed roughly. Her cheek was scratched from the shell-laden beach, her landing had dragged her across it. The sand was dark, volcanic ash. She peeled herself up from the ground, coughing up water, folding over, her mouth and eyes full of salt. Her fingers felt around for her map and found it damp—but whole. She carefully opened it up, tying the corners down with rocks so it could dry. She didn’t have fresh water, but once her tears cleared her vision enough to see properly, she carefully folded the map into her pocket.

Four tries later, she found herself on a wider coastline.

The rest of the islands had been barren, lifeless, but this—

This might as well have been the Wildling newland. She could see the forests from the beach, rising high. She could hear squawks and growls and the chitter of insects. She could feel endless gleaming threads, reaching toward her like fingers. This place . . . was alive. She half-expected a group of people to approach, but no one came.

She needed a better vantage point.

In the days since she’d had the bracelets removed, she had been hesitant to use her power. It had been buried so long, she feared it would rush up in an uncontrollable wave.

That was part of why she was here. According to this map, the island was far from any other inhabited land she knew of. If it was empty; it could be the perfect place for her to explore her abilities again, without fearing ruin.

She just needed to ensure it was the right location.

Breathe. It was almost as if she could hear Oro in her head. She slowly filled her lungs, wincing, her airways still dry with salt. She carefully focused her mind, like an arrow. Then, without daring open her eyes, she shot into the sky.

It was a risk. She could fall, she could propel herself too high; but for a moment, she let go of her fear, and of gravity, and her stomach dropped—

Then, there was just peace. Silence. Weightlessness.

She opened her eyes and nearly vomited. The land was so far from her feet. She gasped and fell, screaming, hands pinwheeling, before stopping herself.

Breathe, she commanded.

Hurriedly, she studied the coast, the islands nearby. She had memorized the map by now. This was it.

This was Isla.

With the rush of relief, she lost her grip on the sky, and fell—the ground rushed up to meet her.

She shot her arm out, and a burst of energy helped cushion her fall. Still, she landed roughly against the sand.

Every bone and muscle ached, but she forced herself up, because she had found it—the island only her father seemed to know about.

From the sky, she had seen just how large the island was, but tonight, she would start with this forest. As soon as she took a step inside, it seemed to quiet.

Isla went still. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

Fruit, everywhere. Hanging plump from trees, the forest was heavy with it. The ground smelled sweet from the fruit that had fallen and broken open. She reached up and grabbed one, smelling it, recognizing it. This was a variety Poppy had fed her as a child once, and never again. Isla had asked, and Terra had said the tree had died.

Because of her.

Because of her powerlessness.

Now, she knew that had been a lie. So many lies.

Isla bit into the fruit and groaned. Its yellow juice dripped down her face as she ate ravenously. It was the sweetest variety she had ever eaten, and there were dozens of them—hundreds—hanging right there.

It was impossible. Nightshade didn’t have many varieties of fresh fruit. In the aftermath of the storms, it was barely getting by, yet there was this land with endless food. Endless resources.

How did Grim not know about it?

She quickly used her abilities to weave a basket with vines. She filled it to the brim with fruit, portaled into a Nightshade village, left it on a doorstep, and did it again. Again. Again. Until her arms were sore, and that tiny patch of island was bare.

A small difference, but a difference all the same. Trying, she thought, with a bite of bitterness in her chest.

She spent the rest of the night eating her way through the woods, trying everything. Eventually, the native creatures seemed to get used to her presence, because the snakes began to slither. The birds began to call to each other. A boar with wild, twisted horns darted in front of her and was gone.

By the time Isla found a pool where she could scrub the salt and sand from her skin, she wondered if her father’s biggest secret wasn’t his own death, his wife, his child—

—But the island.

She hadn’t traveled here only to see a piece of her parent. No, this island would serve a purpose.

Still in the center of the water, Isla reached into the deepest crevices of her power. Into all the places she had buried her ability, and emotions, and sanity.

And let it all come rushing out.

The water around her exploded upward before turning into steam.

Waves of petals and trees broke through the land around her. The air itself seemed to shatter, wind howling. Shadows coated her arms, wrapped in sparks.

The beast within her—the one that made her powers deadly—uncurled. She gave into it, only here. Only in a land where she couldn’t hurt anyone.

As her power unleashed across the island, the monster within felt relief.

Isla awoke in the middle of the night, shivering from another nightmare, only to find a serpent curled at the foot of her bed.

She hadn’t gotten another from Wren in a while. Where had it come from? Cautiously, she reached out to grab it, but the serpent slithered onto the floor.

Lynx was still asleep, curled in the corner. Isla stepped out of the bed, and lunged toward the snake to catch it—

But it was too fast. It slithered beneath the door frame. She crept into the hall, following it around the corner, only to watch it be joined by more snakes. They were all the same dark green color with black specks, moving as one, as if each were pieces of the same whole.

Follow the snakes.

She did, even though the traitors had been captured. The serpents were relentless; it was as if they were trying to lead her somewhere, tell her something. She followed them until she turned a corner and nearly crashed into a wall adorned with an intricate mirror.

Her reflection stared back at her.

She was covered in snakes. They were wrapped around her arms, her stomach, her throat, squeezing—

She gasped, and they were gone. They weren’t on the floor either. They had vanished, as if they had never been there to start with.

Slowly, she inched back down the hall, her heart hammering, only to crash into something solid. She seized, then whipped around, and Grim gently grabbed her wrists before she could reach for her hidden dagger.

“Hearteater,” he breathed. “What are you doing?” His voice sounded faraway.

She blinked, and it was as if she was plunged back into this moment, into the hall. She heard a faint screeching.

“Did—did you see them?” she asked, squinting against the darkness, searching for any sign of them.

Grim frowned. “See what?”

“All the snakes,” she said, as if it was obvious.

“Heart,” he said, knuckles running across her forehead. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she told him, stepping away from his touch. She drew her brows together, studying him. “You look like a demon.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“That wasn’t a compliment.” She shook her head. “Why are you in armor?”

“The stormfinch,” he said. “It’s singing.”

That was the screeching.

Hope flared within her. Finally, another chance. She still had the other ring Azul had returned to her . . . he had trapped a shred of storm inside. Perhaps it would work.

Quickly, she got dressed and slipped the second ring on her finger. Without Wraith they couldn’t fly, so Grim portaled them to a location just outside one of the rural villages. Some of his people lived far from the tunnel system, so he would bring them to safety himself.

Rain had just started to fall; it was cold on the crown of her head. A flash of lightning soon joined it.

The clouds above began circling ominously.

Villagers rushed out of their houses at the sight of their ruler. He portaled them all to the castle. Isla took more, using her starstick. After everyone was evacuated, they went to another town.

Bells were still ringing faintly from other villages. Warnings of what was about to come. Villagers began pouring out of their houses again, possessions pressed to their chests. But, before Isla and Grim were past the wall surrounding the cluster of houses, the first tornado touched down.

Then another.

Another.

Grim’s power shot out. He portaled a few screaming people away, as the tornado barreled right toward them. Then his own abilities faltered.

Just like the last one, this tempest was full of tiny pieces of shade-made metal, swirling everywhere, stabbing into surrounding trees and grazing her skin, nullifying power.

“Hearteater, get down,” Grim said, before pulling her behind the stone wall. The storm roared behind them, sending trees and bricks flying. She reached for her power, but it had dimmed. Gone, as though she were wearing her bracelets.

There were screams.

There was nothing she could do.

This—this was why they needed to close the portal. She held the ring tightly, waiting for it to tremble in her hand, to heat—but nothing. She was too far away.

Isla made to stand, and Grim pulled her back down. “You’ll get yourself killed,” he said over the roaring; but he meant all of them.

He was right. She closed her eyes tightly, wind bellowing around them, the ground peeling away in coils, dirt smattering against her every inch, metal cutting through her clothes, and knew that getting close enough again would be almost impossible.

It seemed like hours before everything went still again. Grim stood first, then helped her up.

She choked back a sob.

Destruction. Death. Bodies . . .

It was just the beginning.

For a week, there was a new storm every day. The season had started in earnest. Each time, Isla attempted to capture part of it; but she never got close to a tornado again. Most of the tempests raged far above—and with Wraith still injured, she couldn’t go that high. Her Skyling ability wouldn’t work, thanks to the metal.

Every death—every quiet morning after, watching the aftermath, seeing the ruin—made her remember.

Ashes. Bodies. Destruction.

There was less than a month left of winter when she finally took the feather between her fingers again.

And wrote, Teach me.