Chapter 3
Isla
I take a few deep breaths and then shove my nerves aside.
I can do this.
I pace up and down behind the canvas wall of the performance tent, listening to the roar of the crowd as the strongman finishes his act. The ground trembles as he drops his final weight. Cheers erupt and thunder rains as boots stomp against the wooden planks of the seating area.
I’m next.
I press a hand to my churning stomach. I’m not going to let my nerves get to me. This is not the Ice Court. I can do this.
Normally, I feel pretty when I’m all dressed up for a performance, but tonight, my costume feels too tight.
The fabric is midnight blue, covered in tiny silver sequins.
The fitted sleeves end at my elbows, and the skirt splits high on both sides to allow for movement.
My legs are covered in matching blue tights.
“You ready?” Lyre appears beside me, her face flushed with excitement. She’s up after me.
“I am.”
“You'll be brilliant.” She squeezes my arm. “I’ve been watching you practice. You’re even better than you were before.”
Before the fall. That before? Before I lost my nerve.
I swallow thickly and force a smile.
Master Roland’s booming voice cuts through the noise as he starts his introduction.
I can’t seem to stop my racing heart, barely hearing a word he is saying.
“She soars through the air like a creature born of wind and sky itself!” His voice drops to a dramatic whisper that somehow still carries to every corner of the tent. “Her voice will transport you to realms beyond imagination! You will question whether she is human at all.”
Kakara help me.
I wish he wouldn’t say such things.
“She performs feats that would kill any ordinary performer! She hangs by a thread between earth and the heavens themselves!” There’s a pause, building the tension. “I give you…the incomparable…the magnificent…the death-defying…Isla of the Air!”
The crowd erupts.
I take a deep breath. Then another. My legs feel like water as I step through the canvas opening and into the light.
The performance area is a circle of packed dirt surrounded by tiered wooden seating. Lanterns hang from the tent poles, casting light across hundreds of faces. They are all watching me. All waiting.
It isn’t a full house. Not like the old days, as Master Roland likes to call them, but it’s busy enough for me.
I pull in another fortifying breath and pull back my shoulders.
Above me, my silks hang from the very peak of the tent. Two long strips of deep crimson fabric, flowing down like ribbons of blood against the canvas ceiling. They’re secured to a metal ring that’s been bolted through the canvas and attached to the main support pole.
I’ve climbed these silks at least a thousand times. I know every twist, every wrap, every hold.
I walk to the center of the ring, letting the crowd see me. I raise my arms above my head in a graceful arc, then lower them slowly. A traditional opening gesture.
The crowd applauds.
I reach for the silks, wrapping my hands around the fabric. I test my grip once, twice.
Then I begin to climb.
Hand over hand, using my legs to grip the silk, I ascend. The ground falls away beneath me. The faces below become smaller.
When I am high, I stop. I wrap the silk around my waist, creating a secure hold, then let myself fall backward. The crowd gasps as I hang upside down, my arms spread wide. The blood rushes to my head, but I’m used to it.
I begin to sing.
The first note rises from my throat, pure and clear. I let a thread of magic weave through it, so subtle that no one could possibly detect it. The note lifts, soaring almost as high as I am.
The crowd falls silent.
I pull myself upright, unwrapping from my waist hold, and begin the routine. I twist the silks around my body in complex patterns, creating shapes and holds that look impossible. Then I allow myself to drop suddenly, making the audience gasp. I catch myself at the last possible moment.
All the while, I sing.
My magic helps. Just a touch. I manipulate the air around me, creating subtle currents that keep me aloft when my grip should fail. That allows me to spin faster, drop further, and catch myself at the last possible second.
I use just enough magic to make the impossible look effortless.
I’m skilled in my own right. I’ve trained for years. But the magic takes it to another level.
I once again execute a drop that sends me plummeting toward the ground, only to catch myself at the last second by hooking one foot in the silk. I hang there, spinning slowly, my arms outstretched. My voice rises higher.
The crowd is mesmerized. I can feel it. I even start to enjoy it.
Yes!
I’m not sure why I was so afraid…so silly. This is what I do. It is who I am.
I pull myself up again, climbing higher. Almost to the very top now. I wrap both silks around my arms and begin to spin. Faster and faster, letting the fabric unwind as I descend, still spinning.
Then I start to feel warmth. Not from the exertion, but an internal glow.
It starts in my chest, a gentle heat that spreads through my ribs. At first, I ignore it.
But it grows…and grows.
The warmth intensifies, spreading from my chest to my shoulders, down my arms. My skin prickles. The air around me shifts, and not from my own manipulation.
Something is wrong.
I try to maintain the routine, continuing my spin, but the heat is becoming uncomfortable. My voice wavers for just a moment before I steady it with another thread of magic.
What is happening?
A beam of light explodes from me… No, not away from me but…into me.
It’s bright, almost blinding. I’m spinning on the silks, so I can’t see where it’s coming from.
But I can feel it.
It’s pulling something from me. My magic is being pulled out of me, dragged through that beam of light toward…toward…
I almost fall.
My hands slip on the silks. I scramble to catch myself, wrapping my legs tighter, gripping with every ounce of strength I have. The spin stops abruptly, jerking me to a halt. The silks twist around my body in a tangle.
The heat is unbearable now.
I groan, clenching my teeth.
I try to hold on, but my magic is failing. No. It’s not failing. It’s being taken. It’s being pulled out of me.
It hurts.
I slide down the silks. My hands burn from the friction, but I can barely feel it over the searing heat in my veins. My feet lose their grip. I’m falling, tumbling through the air in a tangle of crimson fabric.
A loop of silk catches me around the waist, stopping my fall with a jarring impact that knocks the breath from my lungs. I dangle there, suspended above the ground, unable to breathe, unable to think.
The pain is too excruciating.
It feels like my body has been doused in flames. Like my skin is melting, like my bones are turning to ash. The light is still pouring from my chest, so bright I can see it even through my closed eyelids.
Someone is screaming.
The sound is primal and filled with agony.
Then I’m screaming too. I can’t help it.
I want to turn, to see who or what is pulling this from me, but I can’t move. The pain is too much. It holds me frozen, suspended in that moment of pure, white-hot agony.
The crowd is shouting now. Their voices blend together into a roar of confusion and alarm.
“What’s happening?”
“Look at her!”
“The light!”
Their words wash over me, meaningless. All I can feel is the burning. All I can hear is my own screaming.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it stops.
The light vanishes. The heat disappears. The pain is gone, as if it never existed in the first place.
I hang there in the silks, gasping, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. My body trembles. Sweat drips down my face, stinging my eyes.
Slowly, carefully, I look down at myself.
I expect to see burns and scorched fabric. But there’s nothing. My costume is intact, the sequins still catching the light. My skin is unmarked. I feel…fine.
What just happened?
I untangle myself from the silks, sliding down to the ground on shaking legs. My silk shoes hit the dirt. I stagger, catching myself before I fall.
More screams erupt from the crowd.
But they’re not looking at me.
Every head is turned toward the seating area. People are pointing, shouting, backing away in a wave of movement.
I turn to look.
A fae stands in the middle of the wooden benches. He’s surrounded by empty space as people scramble to get away from him. His tunic is ripped open, torn straight down the middle.
And there, on his bare chest, is a marking. I take a step closer and then another, narrowing my eyes.
I gasp.
It’s an eclipse.
The design is intricate and stunning. A perfect circle of a bright golden sun surrounded by swirling darkness that seems to move beneath his skin like a living shadow. The light and dark intertwine, creating a pattern that’s both beautiful and terrifying.
I’ve heard of this marking. Everyone has.
The fae himself is taller than any man I’ve ever seen, including Rider, our strongman.
His shoulders are impossibly broad, his build powerful.
His hair is dark, falling past his shoulders in waves.
Even from this distance, even in my shocked state, I can see that he’s…
beautiful. Striking in a way that makes it hard to stop staring.
He looks stunned. He keeps blinking, looking around like he just woke from a dream. His hands move to his chest, touching the marking there as if he can’t quite believe it’s real. Then they move to his pointed ears. He is frowning heavily. He shakes his head.
“It’s the Shadowfae King!” someone shouts.
“It can’t be,” a lady yells.
“It is Sebastian!” another voice cries out.
“His Majesty the king!”
“The king has returned!”
The words ripple through the crowd like wildfire.
My mind reels. One of the Lost Kings. Here. Now. How?
Even as I think it, I know it’s true. I can feel it. Through that haze of pain, I felt him. I connected with him. I know that I somehow made this happen…or was used…or…
Before I can process any of it, guards pour into the tent. They’re all wearing the dark armor of the Shadowfae. They form a perimeter around the Shadowfae King.
I’m so busy watching them grab him that I don’t even see the guards approaching me as well. More than one from each side.
Two of them grab me by my arms.
“No!” I stumble backward, my hands up, breaking their contact. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
They don’t listen. They grab at me again, their fingers wrapping around my upper arms.
“What is the meaning of this?” Master Roland’s voice booms across the tent. He walks over to us, his face red. He will fix this. He has to. “Unhand her! She’s done nothing wrong!”
“Stand aside,” one of the guards barks.
“I will not!” Master Roland plants himself in front of us, his arms spread wide. “She is under my protection. She is part of my troupe. You have no right—”
“We have every right.” The guard’s voice is cold. “She will be taken in for questioning.” He jerks his head toward the king. “No one may leave this tent. You all need to be questioned.”
“Question her here, then, like all the others.” Master Roland’s face is turning purple now. “This is an outrage!”
“No. She’s coming with us. We need to get to the bottom of what happened here. There is talk of a beam of light.” The guard glances at me, his eyes narrowed.
“What happened has nothing to do with Isla. In fact, she was—” Master Roland starts to say. I can see the guard getting agitated. I’m worried they might arrest him if he doesn’t let up soon.
“It’s alright.” I try to keep my voice steady. “I will go with them and clear this up. Don’t worry, I will be back before you know it.”
“No, my dear. That will not be necessary.” He turns to the guards. “I demand to speak with your captain. You cannot simply—"
“It’s alright,” I insist.
The guard tightens his grip on my arm. “Let’s go.”
Master Roland looks at me, his eyes filled with concern and helplessness. There’s nothing he can do. We both know it.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I will be fine.” I give him a smile, trying hard to mean it when I am terrified that I have been caught out.
They know.
They must know.
They drag me toward the exit. The king is being escorted out as well, flanked by a whole host of guards. He still looks dazed, like he doesn’t quite understand what’s happening.
Where did he come from?
What happened?
The details elude me. I can’t tear my eyes off him. I felt his confusion. His pain. I felt his loneliness, loss…sorrow. All of it. His helplessness and frustration.
I felt him for a moment.
Like I brushed up against his broken soul for a heartbeat.
“Come along, human,” the guard to my right growls when my step falters.
The fae turns, his eyes flaring as they land on me.
“Leave the human be.” His voice is deep and commanding. The guards around him snap to attention. I’m not sure they even realize that they are doing it.
Our eyes meet and lock, and time seems to slow.
His irises are a pure, vivid purple, like amethysts catching the sun. They’re the most extraordinary eyes I’ve ever seen. Freakish, yes, but also beautiful. Mesmerizing even.
I’ve heard tales of eyes like these. I’ve heard all about King Sebastian. One of the lost.
Not anymore.
I burn to help him. To free him. I did this. I got him captured.
“The girl had nothing to do with this,” he all but growls. “Let her go.”
“We will be the judge of that,” a guard up ahead says. “You will be questioned.” He looks at me. His stare is cold. “You will tell the truth, girl. Do you hear me?”
I nod as I am dragged away.
We’re led away from the performance tent, toward the looming shadow of the castle. Sebastian is being led behind me. I try to turn back, but I can’t see through the mass of guards.
The castle is bigger than I thought. It seems to grow in stature the closer we get to it, its towers reaching up into the gray sky. Torches flicker in brackets along the walls.
No.
This can’t be happening.
What will I tell them?
Surely, they will see right through me? They’ll know.
I’m in just as much trouble as the Shadowfae King.
The guards march us through the courtyard. People scatter out of our way, their faces filled with fear.
The castle gates are up ahead. They shut behind us.
I’m trapped.
My heart sinks.
I’m done for. I know it.