Page 111 of Anathema
“Oh … a history lesson.” She raked her hands through her long, silvery locks. “Lunasier is our race of people. So mancers are like humans, in some ways, but immortal, and … quite frankly, more interesting. We’re divided into the Lunasier and the Solassions. The Lunasier get their powers from the moons. The Solassions, from the sun.”
Rubbing a hand across my forehead failed to declutter my head of all the information she’d just offered up. “I thought you got your power from blood.”
“We do, but it requires nutrients and energy. Without the moon, my powers are weak.”
“I see. Is Dolion Lunasier?”
“No. He’s Elvynira. Their power is a bit mysterious, but most can command glyphs, like mancers. It isn’t based on blood for them, but understanding, and nexumis, which is a spiritual connection that the Elvynira have with the glyph. Dolion is a high mage, which means he’s mastered many glyphs.” She pushed to her feet and brushed the dust from her skirt, then offered her hand to help me up. “Our Magelord for the king can wield nearly every glyph, though they’re not as powerful as those who wield by blood. Take my brother, for instance. His power was given by sablefyre. The Magelord can certainly wield sablefyre, but not as proficiently as Zevander.”
“What is sablefyre?”
“It is a black flame, so hot, it can disintegrate a body in seconds.”
My mouth turned dry at the visual of that. It brought to mind the black markings on his skin. “I see. Sablefyre is your bloodline?”
“No. My brother is cursed with it.”
“And the scorpions?”
“They’re his prodozja,” she said, grabbing a slice of the bread still sat out on the table. Instead of opting for the jam, she opened a second jar of a thick black substance that she smeared over the bread before taking a bite. “Mmmm. Magdah makes the best beetlejam.”
My stomach lurched. “Beetle jam? As in, bugs?”
“It’s good.” She raised the bread up and took another bite. “Crunchy is my favorite.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “And the pink jam?”
“The innards.”
Acids shot up my throat, and my face must’ve blanched three shades whiter.
She snorted a laugh. “I’m kidding. Yours is bitterberry.” She chomped another bite of the bread. “Gods, Maeve, you looked like you were about to vomit just now.”
Though I smiled, my mind lingered on the name. “You called me Maeve.”
“Oh, you don’t like diminutives?”
“No, it’s fine. Aleysia always called me Maeve.” A wave of emotion swept over me, and I cleared my throat. “Anyway, pro … doh … sah. What is that?”
“Pro-doh-ja. It’s the protective form of blood magic. A creature that unfailingly manifests in the form of whatever magic a person wields.”
“What is your prodozja?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Don’t have one. Never manifests for some of us. Zevander was lucky to learn his early on.” She stared off as though there was something more to the story. Instead of elaborating, though, she shook her head. “Anyway, now you have something to fight back with. So, get dressed.”
I glanced at the clothing again, noting the absence of a cammyck. “By chance, has Magdah finished laundering my clothes?”
“Laundering? I saw her flinging your old dress into a fire.”
“Fire? She really doesn’t like me, that one.”
Rykaia popped the last of the bread into her mouth. “Just needs to warm up to you is all. To be fair, it reeked of more than just your mortal scent.”
While her comment should’ve been humiliating, a much greater concern occupied my mind. “Do you happen to have cammyck’s here?”
“Cammyck?” Her face scrunched to a frown. “What in the gods is that?”
“It’s a body-fitting suit that you wear under dresses, and the sort.”