And how would I have explained to the Gales if I bonded to Vane? Stole their king? With Vane’s potential for power, they want to make sure he’s bound to the royal line, so our people will have confidence in our world once again. Come out of hiding. Trust the Gales.
Plus, Solana’s a Southerly, and her bond will be a softening influence—should the power of four go to his head.
If I interfered with that, I’d be banished for such treason. Permanently branded a traitor.
No, it has to be this way. Even if my treacherous heart still scalds the inside of my chest.
I’ve burned so many different ways for Vane.
Guilt.
Desire.
But this is the worst.
The scorching heat of loss.
I dive into the pain, let the fire consume me. It’ll make me tougher. Stronger.
Water may have weakened my body—but it didn’t weaken my resolve.
It’s time to prove how strong I am.
I pull myself upright, squeezing my pendant with one hand. My other hand rubs my temples, easing the headache caused by my braid.
It took me months to master weaving the intricate style. The hair is divided into five equal sections, and the four outer strands are twisted and folded around the central strand, to represent the way our lives are inseparably bound to the four winds. Even the men wear a variation of the braid. It’s a physical display to show that we live not for ourselves, but for the service of the winds. The service of the guardians.
I’m a guardian.
My plans have been turned inside out and ripped to shreds, but my purpose holds true. And I will honor that purpose. With everything I have.
But I have to figure out what to do about Vane. We still have to train together, and judging by how hurt and angry he looked as he left, that’s going to be a challenge.
Spots flicker behind my eyes just thinking about being close to him again. Flying together. Holding on to each other . . .
I scrape together the last of my willpower and push those feelings away.
I can do this.
I just need to get used to it. And Vane clearly needs the night off. So tonight we’ll take our space. Give ourselves time to come to terms with everything. No harm can come from that.
Unless . . .
Panic closes off my lungs.
Vane has a rebellious side. I’ve seen it flare against even my smallest attempts at control during our training—and this is much, much bigger. Who knows what he might do in response?
I can think of one thing that would be very bad.
Irreversible.
I curse my stupidity as I take off through the grove, leaping over fallen branches and pushing my legs harder than I’ve ever pushed them. But when I reach the main road, his car is long gone.
Quick and catlike, I scale the nearest palm, standing on the wobbly branches at the top. I don’t care if anyone sees me. I have to feel as much air as I can.
Hands shaking from nerves and adrenaline and anger at myself for allowing yet another disaster, I undo the buttons of my jacket, slipping it off my shoulders and dropping it to the ground, exposing as much skin as possible. I close my eyes and concentrate on the air around me, feeling for Vane’s trace with each cell of my skin.
Every sylph leaves their mark on the wind. A change in the draft’s tune, as though the wind ran into a friend and added new notes to its song to carry away the memory of the meeting. We can brand the wind by commanding it too loudly—like I did when I called the Northerly I attacked Vane with—and have it carry our trace permanently. But even silent contact leaves a faint trail. The draft only carries it until it finds something else to chant about and drops the tune. Before that, anyone listening can pick up the trace and follow it to the source.
I read traces better on the winds of my heritage, so I focus on the Easterlies in the grove. Most carry no sign of having seen either of us. But when I listen near Vane’s house, I find a soft breeze singing of the jarring blur of motion caused by someone on the run.
That has to be Vane.
I call the draft to me and inhale the trace.
A tingling rush knocks me back, and I lose my footing in the branches, toppling to the ground. A nearby Southerly saves me from a painful fall, but when I’m safely on my feet, I can’t calm my tremors.
It’s like I’ve taken in a small part of him, a fractured piece he left behind.
Almost like a loss.
I have no idea if that’s possible—or what it means if it is—but I’ll worry about it later. For now, all that matters is finding Vane. I have to track him down before he does something he’ll regret. Something we’ll both regret.
Already running, I call the nearest Northerly and spin the wind around me so fast I’ll be nothing more than a blur in the sky.
“High,” I whisper, catching my breath as the gust sweeps me away.
In seconds I’m over the main roadway, the setting sun making me squint as I concentrate on the air. The warm tingles of Vane’s trace tell me which way to turn. An inner compass guiding me straight to him.
I just hope I reach him in time.
CHAPTER 33
VANE