Page 169 of Into the Isle

Chapter 47

Ravinica

WHITE LIGHT SEPARATED me from the strange visions. I was thrust back into my body, with the outlines of Elayina the bog seer and her tree-cave slowly coming into focus.

A hazy wave of dizziness passed over me. I wobbled where I sat, wide-eyed and utterly confused.

The memories, if they could be called that, had come in fragments. Four distinct stories that seemed to arrive in a chronological order I couldn’t grasp.

It had been the birth of something, the building of something, the fall of something, and finally the death of something.

I knew nothing of the people inside my head, or their stories. They certainly had nothing to do with me.

They were memories from a life I had never lived.

My body was alight with a strange sensation. The daze I felt—an otherworldliness—did not pass for many long minutes, and I couldn’t speak during that time.

The first thing I did was Shape the air in front of me, wagging my fingers, reaching into my soul to try and pull my magic to the forefront.

The air did not light up with the rune marks like it did when other runeshapers cast. The characters gave no clue I had summoned them, and no magic sprouted from my fingertips.

My power was still dormant.

Shame and disappointment filled me, aching to my gut.

Finally, my leathery tongue dislodged from the roof of my mouth. I swallowed over my parched throat and stared at the tired, ancient woman in front of me.

“W-Why did you show me this?” I stammered.

“I showed you nothing, child.” Elayina inclined her chin. “I merely jostled memories that were already trapped inside you.”

My brow furrowed. “How is that possible? I don’t know who those people were.”

“You must share a relation with those ancestors for their memories to be inside you, Ravinica. Beyond that, I cannot explain.”

I was flabbergasted. Dumbstruck. I couldn’t make sense of what the witch was saying, though it felt important. With my heart racing and my eyes bulging, I thought back on the fragments. The visions.

The King Who Saw.

The Deceiver in Gold.

The memories had been stories from their lives. Ancient myths a thousand years old.

I recalled the final one—the betrayal and death.

“But . . . these memories,” I eked out. “They are nothing like the histories I learned.”

Elayina gave me a small, sad nod. “Funny how that works, eh? Let me ask you, child: Who writes the history books?”

I thought for a moment. “The winners.”

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