Chapter Twenty
Twenty
Saoirse
“There he found it, at the feet of—what?”
Brona scowls as she twirls out from under Callen’s arm, the rí of Painted Claw dropping their blunted dagger in the process.
Wooden bowls lie discarded nearby, flecks of delicate whitefish smattered in herbs clinging to their edges.
I plaster myself to the cave wall beside them, the mossy stone a cool reprieve from the sticky heat of my skin.
“The heart of Mount Iolair,” I say, tracking Callen as they duck to grab their dagger and swipe at Brona’s legs. “Deeper, even, than Eamon’s forge.”
Brona jumps, swearing loudly when Callen manages to nick her ankle. “Do you know how many people have mined Mount Iolair? The seanchaí used to say the shadows are so deep at the roots of the mountain, even a—godsdammit!—violet moon crystal wouldn’t be enough to light your path.”
“Aye.” I press back as they tumble together one last time before Brona throws up a hand, signaling the end of their bout. “I’d expect just as many people mined Mount Iolair as went searching for the Isle of Lost Souls.”
Callen grunts, one hand gliding down their shirt collar to the slight lump over their chest. “It still doesn’t explain how he’s been able to use it.” White-blond hair sticks to their forehead as they train their eyes on me. “You’re sure he said ‘awaken’?”
“He didn’t say it, he thought it.”
Brona doubles over with one hard laugh as Callen tilts their head, face torn between shock and bemusement.
My face scrunches as I fight off a grimace then push myself free from the moss.
“Look, I know it’s strange.”
“It always has been with you.” Callen taps their collarbone, rattling the chain nestled below. But when my eyes follow the movement, Callen stops. “Right, Wolf Tamer. It’s your turn.”
Immediately, I step back. “I really shouldn’t.”
Brona, still snickering, scoops up the blunted dagger and tosses it Callen’s way. “Fair warning. She’s pretty shite at fighting.”
My skin prickles with heat as Callen flips the handle over their fingers, raising a brow.
“Really? I thought your brothers taught you.”
“When I was seven, sure.” I rub at the bandage over my arm. “But like with you, I couldn’t touch them much past a certain point. It became too tricky.”
The air shifts—grows heavier—and I bite down my regret.
“Anyway, it was always more for fun than practicality. Aidan did teach me how to fire a sling, though.”
“Not much use on a pirate ship, I’d imagine.” Callen balances the dagger thoughtfully on their fingertip. “What about the wolves?”
Brona scoffs. “What, you think I’d have the patience for it?”
“Lorcan would.” Brona’s smile falters, and Callen quickly adds, “Or Faolan? Surely the Wolf of the Wild knows how to wield his blade.”
Brona locks eyes with me as my lungs sputter out, a laugh breaking any tension that lingered on the air.
“Gods, Cal—yes, he does, but that doesn’t mean I’ve any idea what I’m doing when I…oh, shut up!”
Both of them fold into each other, their humor colliding with the cave’s arching walls, and for a second it feels like it did those long weeks on Faolan’s ship. Once I’d taken the woad tattoo and become a wolf myself.
For the first time in weeks, it feels like I’m not alone.
Relief floods through me as Brona straightens with what looks like a ridiculous amount of effort, cheeks scarlet and eyes misty. She watches me for one long beat, then holds out a hand. “Right. Come here, you.”
This time, I don’t hesitate to slip my hand into hers, familiar enough with the silken thorns of my friend’s spirit that I can tune them out as I walk to the center of the room.
Rushes and dried ferns crackle underfoot, casting shadows across the rock from the lamps scattered around the curved walls.
“Arms up. Fists clenched. Remember to tuck your—aye, you’ve got it.”
My thighs twinge as I lean onto my back leg, body twisted as Nessa showed me once, before devolving into laughter after I’d tried to punch her and tumbled flat on my face as the ship met a heavy swell. But even on steady ground with no real enemies in sight, something feels wrong in my body.
Frowning, I break form. “What’s the point?”
“Not being defenseless?”
“No, that’s not—” I wipe my damp hands on my trousers. “When would I ever be the one to attack?”
Brona cocks her head. “When Maccus or his men try to come for you again?”
“He already did today.” I grimace, remembering the fury on his face when I’d asked that question. The way he grabbed my arm, then told me to get out. “Trust me when I say against someone his size, it wouldn’t matter how much training I had.”
The mirth bleeds from Callen’s face as they consider me, a curtain of hair falling into their eyes. “Saoirse has a point.”
“Oh, so you think she should stay helpless?”
I flinch, and Brona’s harsh expression softens. But Callen smirks as they stalk forward, nudging my boot with theirs. “From the rumors sweeping the Crescent, our little Soulgazer’s far from helpless.”
“Sure, she has magic, but that hardly matters in a fight!” Brona’s shoulders rise even as I feel mine fall. “She keeps getting hurt.”
“So give her a weapon.” Callen turns the dagger over again. “One she can actually use.”
“What does that even mean?” Brona scoffs, but Callen’s focus levels on mine.
“Every flower on Painted Claw is dripping in poison. Every artist has a sharp tongue. Even the shadow cranes have their claws.”
Again, my eyes drop to Callen’s chest. The curved shape outlined in linen.
“Those aren’t weapons. They’re just…tools.”
Callen shifts. “What’s the difference?”
“How you use them.” I curl my fingers into a fist again, bone ring gleaming over my knuckle. “We learned that from the gods, didn’t we?”
They both fall silent, Callen’s free hand drifting to their collar and that golden chain tucked just below.
I study the movement, breath caught in my throat.
If Faolan were here, he’d tell Callen a story: one of heroic rebels against the slaughtered gods.
Voice coating the cave with honey, his tale of Róisín and her favored creature would light up the dark.
He’d know how to draw Callen in—to show us their secrets using words as though they were his magic.
But Faolan isn’t here.
“Cal…” My throat works as I spin the ring with my thumb, remembering the fury in Maccus’s expression when I asked him questions so directly. But Callen isn’t Maccus, and we’re running out of time. “What did your family do with the relic of Róisín?”
Their hand stops, chain rattling beneath the sudden loss.
I take a step closer, heart drumming louder in my ears. “Did they destroy it? Or…?”
Callen’s eyes lose all hint of playfulness, going the same flat black as peat.
“Do you really think any of the Daonnaí would?”
Wordlessly, I shake my head. “Not if there was a chance at magic or power.”
Their hand wraps tighter over the dagger’s hilt. “What are you getting at, Saoirse?”
“Your necklace.” Surprise cuts through their suspicion as I hold their gaze. “Is it the talon of Róisín?”
Callen stares at me blankly—long enough that one of the lanterns sputters, then dies, cloaking half of our bodies in shadow, the other half in light. Then slowly, they lower the dagger and reach for their necklace instead.
“My aunt Fiadh wore this every day of her life. The only time I ever saw it lying somewhere other than her neck was…”
Callen trails off, and we all fall silent.
My old friend inherited their crown three years ago, after their aunt plummeted into the sea. I didn’t hear of her passing until Da collected me for the Damhsa and Mam helped ready me for the ceremony, a constant fractured stream of gossip trailing from her lips.
Callen bites down on their own until the pain falls from their face. “This could be the relic. Maybe. But it’s not like it’s ever done anything special.”
“It wouldn’t. Not without gods’ blood to awaken it.” Brona turns her gaze toward me, a sardonic tilt to her brow. “If only we knew where to find that.”
Callen tugs the chain once more, mouth twisting, then heaves a sigh and pulls it free.
Dangling between us is a crystal talon wrapped in bronze, sleek and deadly, the length curved as long as my middle finger.
Like the soulstones, colors glint across its surface—transparent pinks blending into blues as opaque as the sky outside our cave—but where it differs is in the cracked, crimson point, as though the talon’s been dipped in blood.
Faolan’s voice surges through me as though he were sitting by the fire as well.
Róisín was a solitary god. Clever and quick, enamored with her own voice, her prized companion was silence: a crane the likes of which you can’t even imagine!
No one knows where it came from, and none have seen its like since, but it’s said Róisín took that massive bird wherever she roamed.
Some wonder if it was a past lover she’d cursed with feathers.
Others say she trapped the beast by breaking off its scarlet-tipped talon beneath a new moon.
A tightness spreads across my chest as Callen twirls the necklace in the cage of their fingers, eyes steady on mine. I reach out and their fist closes, winking the object out of sight.
“It’s the only thing I have left of her, Saoirse. Swear you won’t damage or claim it.”
My hand stops, fingers furling like a moonflower touched by dawn. “I swear.”
Callen hesitates for one long moment, then lets the precious relic fall into my hand.
There is no immediate reaction. No gut-wrenching vision or overwhelming sense of loss.
Deep grooves mark the passage of time down its curved edges, a crack gaping wide where bronze wraps the broken root.
But as I draw that scarlet tip along the webbing between my fingers, tracing it over the back of my hand, something… whispers.
Hums.
“Well?” Callen sinks onto their ankles like a bird about to take flight.