chapter fourteen
PAUSING MY SKETCH, I LEAN back against the ship's rail and let the sun warm my face. The ocean breeze carries the scent of salt and sun-warmed wood, and I close my eyes, savoring this rare moment of peace.
Picking my pen back up, I glance up at Vilder, who dances with his swords in a way that defies description: graceful, fluid, as if the blades are extensions of him. Sweat pearls on his tawny skin, and with the golden glyphs glinting in the sunlight, he looks nothing short of a god.
I turn my attention back to my journal. So much has happened since I arrived in Bowen five nights ago. It makes for great tales. Unexpected sadness pierces through me at the thought of Llyr never reading my stories again. He was my biggest supporter.
A shadow falls across my face. “Is that supposed to be me?” Vilder asks, nodding toward the sketch accompanying my story.
My mouth falls open. He wasn’t supposed to see that. His expression is a mix of surprise and something else. Intrigue? Amusement, perhaps? His eyebrows are raised, his lips a thin line. I scramble for an explanation, a witty deflection, but my mind’s blank.
He leans his twin swords against the railing and moves closer. They’re made of another type of stone—similar to the shadowshard I’m carrying. I count seven gold glyphs engraved into each blade.
He tilts his head for a better view. “You’re good,” he says, smiling. “Is it a journal?”
“My life is way too dark to journal about,” I mutter, snapping the book shut.
He tilts his head. “You write stories?” He sounds genuinely interested.
“Just some short stories. It’s . . .” My shoulders slump.
Only Llyr and Em have ever read my stories, and they both betrayed me in the end.
“It’s mostly different versions of my own life where I’m not the victim,” I say, staring out toward the sea.
The ship rocks gently beneath us, the ocean stretching endlessly in all directions.
“Maybe if I write it enough times, it’ll feel real and I’ll stop being so scared. ”
He slides down next to me on the sun-warmed deck. “I’ll teach you how to defend yourself,” he says. “Will you let me read one?”
I glance up at him. Llyr once told me that stories are made to be shared, so I tentatively hand him the worn leather-bound journal, its pages filled with years of scribbled thoughts and meticulously crafted tales.
I watch him carefully as he flips through the pages, studying the many different sketches.
Which story will he choose? A nervous flutter blooms in my chest as he settles on one.
I study his face as he reads, noticing every small smile, chuckle, or wide-eyed look of surprise.
“You have talent. I like it.” He nods to himself.
I feel a surge of excitement at his words. “You think so?”
“Ooh!” Seniia claps her hands.
I turn toward her where she lounges against a coil of rope, propped on one elbow, reading.
She puts down her book on medicinal herbs. “Coming from Vilder, that is a huge compliment, La?na!” Seniia’s blue-green eyes sparkle. Closing her book, she walks over and flops down into a cross-legged position, facing us, resting her staff in her lap.
Gray lifts her head from her paws, staring at the white-feathered serpent, who in turn slides from the staff and up Seniia’s arm, eying the wolf from its vantage point atop her shoulder. Does that thing ever blink?
Seniia nods toward Vilder. “On the Western Plains, those born under the yellow wind moon often become olams, right, Vilder?”
He grits his teeth but lets out a grunt of approval.
“What’s an olam?”
Seniia looks to Vilder.
He stares at the ocean for a long time. “It’s a master storyteller,” he finally says, “sometimes referred to as a singer. Although you can technically be a singer without having reached the status of an olam . . .”
Seniia nods enthusiastically. “You have to hear them someday, La?na. They can listen to the wind, hear its stories, and when they perform . . .” She sighs.
“It’s like the world around you ceases to exist. Their words and their music wash over you, a tangible force carrying you away on currents of sound.
They’re not just stories; they channel the very essence of the wind—its power, its sorrow, its joy.
They weave the wind’s whispers into stories that sing, and it’s breathtakingly beautiful.
I’ve seen grown men weep at their performances, overwhelmed by the sheer emotion. It’s . . . indescribable, really.”
A singer. That’s what Astēr called Vilder. Is he a storyteller? My cheeks heat at the thought of a master of the craft reading my childish stories.
“It’s quite rare to see a singer outside the Western Plains unless they are performing somewhere,” Seniia says, then purses her lips.
“I’ve heard there’re hardly any moonborn in Arià at all.
That they are all born with the gifts of the yellow wind moon.
There must be something to it, because I can only think of one C’elēn presently alive that was born there.
He is, in fact, the ealdorman at the temple where I grew up, but he’s so old he’s basically ancient. ”
“The explanation for that may not be what you’d expect,” Vilder mutters.
Seniia ignores him. “How does that work with your anam’caeur?” she asks instead.
He shrugs. “I’ve never really thought about that.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “You have a bonded wolf, and you have never thought about your anam’caeur?”
“Yes, but . . .” His expression darkens.
“Ha! I knew you were bonded!” Seniia sounds triumphant. “Which means that you can sha—”
Gray lets out a low growl, cutting her off.
She holds her hands up, palms facing the wolf. “Sensitive topic. I get it.”
“What’s an . . . anam’caeur?” I do my best pronunciation of the word.
“We Reāns have a stronger bond with those we consider anamè than with our own family,” Seniia replies as Vilder gathers his swords to continue his practice.
“ ‘Anam’ means soul, and ‘caeur’ means heart and an anamè is one you share a soul-heart connection with that transcends the physical realm. It is a deep, intuitive bond between two individuals, and the bond will make you a part of a Reān’s anam’caeur. ”
“It sounds beautiful,” I say truthfully. The concept of creating my own family deeply resonates with me. Not for the first time since I met them, I wish I were born Reān. But anam’caeur . . . the word is similar to what Llyr had been talking about. The anam’vile.
“What about anam'vile?” I ask. “Llyr mentioned anam’vile—veilwalkers—once.”
Seniia’s expression shifts slightly. "That’s different. Anam’vile means soul-veil and are those who cross the veils of the soul. It’s a rare gift, not a bond like anamè.”
I nod. Did Llyr have that gift?
“How many anamè can you have?” I ask.
“No more than five.” She lifts one finger.
“One string is reserved for a mate—and that’s by far the strongest one.
If you’re ever in a position where you must choose, you will always choose your mate.
Always. No exception. Some say the mating bond even transcends death.
That once mated, if you die and are reborn, the bond will still be intact if the one reborn consents to it.
That’s how strong it is.” She holds my gaze until I nod, making sure I get the seriousness of this mating business, then raises a second finger.
“The second string is for a wolf, like I suspected with Vilder and Gray.” She throws a glance in their direction.
“Although he is adamant to keep it secret for some gods know reason. It is not unheard of for wolves to accompany a Reān—we are related, after all—but wolves wanting to bond, to share their gifts . . . That is a rare thing indeed. There are only two alive that I’m aware of, one of them being the ashina .
. .” She looks thoughtful for a moment, then continues.
“If you are moonborn, like me and Vilder”—she lifts a third finger, the one with the beautiful blue crystal on a gold ring—“one string is reserved for the one elēn you’ll be bonded to at the end of our initial year of training.
The bond between two elēn is second only to the mating bond, and in rare instances, it’s the same.
If it’s not, a C’elēn rarely mates.” She raises her last two fingers.
“And that leaves two strings for the soul sisters or brothers you meet along the sacred journey of life.”
I frown. “Why do you say strings?”
“Because once you have agreed to be part of an anam’caeur, there is a string connecting your heart to theirs. Except for at the initiation, it’s mostly invisible, but once there, visible or not, it means you can track your anamè to the world’s end, if needed. There is nowhere they cannot find you.”
The mere idea of being bound not just to one but potentially five different beings, each with their own unique needs and personalities, causes an icy wave of fear to wash over me; my muscles tense, and my stomach clenches.
Maybe this anamè thing isn’t for me after all.
And although I can discern from the tone of her voice that Seniia herself yearns for those connections, these strings she’s talking about resemble the constraints of the brace a little too much for my liking.
From the sound of it, there’s no room for escape, and the idea of never being able to hide from someone is nothing if not terrifying.
Being human may not be so bad after all.
I push to my feet as the city of Caelēn comes into view, fighting to keep my composure at the breathtaking sight.
Seniia comes to stand next to me. “It’s something else, isn’t it?”
I nod. “Something else” is a vast understatement for the view in front of me. I stare at the floating island suspended two thousand feet into the sky.