He didn't remember. He really, truly, did not remember. That memory had been one of Solomon's worst fears, been one of the weights on his shoulders for so long, that he couldn't help but laugh in pure disbelief.

"You don't remember." It was obvious, and yet he couldn't help but say it. Solomon shook his head. "I've only ever done it once. This morning doesn't really count. It was a memory--it caught me by surprise."

He looked up again, searching for some evidence of that event in Skulduggery's soul. This close, the dark threads of Necromancy stood out in stark contrast to the light of the panes. This close, he could see the way that light shifted. "It was during that fight we had in the Temple, during the war. I always thought--"

Solomon cut himself off, not sure what he meant to say. "I always thought," he repeated slowly, "that I only survived because you were playing with me." Except ... did he? Was it because Vile was playing with him, or because some part of him remembered? Solomon wasn't sure he wanted to know. "But I was never sure whether that final volley was held back at all or not." He blinked and tilted his head. "You don't remember how I survived it?"

He wasn't sure what was in his tone. Confusion. Incredulity. Offence. Relief. He'd spent those whole five years terrified Vile might come after him to finish the job, just because he had touched a skill only Vile had mastered. All that time, Vile hadn't even known?