The Will and the Wilds(16)

“My name is Enna.”

The words hurt as they come up my throat. I feel as though the narval reached his hand down it, up to his elbow, and grabbed something from deep inside me. I’m raw and sore and so very tired. I struggle to keep my eyes open, despite the revelation that Maekallus hosts a piece of my soul.

A piece of my soul. What does it mean? I squeeze the Telling Stone for comfort and focus on keeping the lantern steady.

“Enna.”

I look up at him, at his yellow eyes and calculating stare. The moment I kissed him, all the tar, all the rot vanished as though it had never been. The way he looks, the way he stands, is entirely predator, as though I’m an injured boar and he doesn’t know if I’ll fall or summon the strength to strike one last time. He seems almost as surprised at our predicament as I am. At least there is some tiny comfort in that.

He snorts. “Mortals have such simple names.”

“Then you can start calling me by my simple name and stop calling me ‘mortal.’ Or ‘girl,’ or ‘woman.’” I falter, and the light of the lantern swings. “I feel . . . ill.” And Papa must have discovered my absence, unless he fell asleep in his chair. I pray that he has. I should not leave him for so long, besides. “I must go.”

“The binding still holds.”

“I know. I’ll come back tomorrow.” I can’t think like this. I don’t even know if I can walk all the way home, but I know better than to sleep in the wildwood. “You’ll have to suffer until I’m back.”

He steps forward, his body tense, tail twitching. “I cannot stay here.” He looks at the surrounding wood as though it’s ready to come alive. What does a mysting have to fear from the wildwood?

“You’ll have to.” I eye him, the shadows hugging his shirtless body, masked by the night. He’ll last at least a few days. He did before, he can do it again. And maybe . . . maybe the piece of myself that lives within him will make him last a little longer.

I can feel it, somehow. My heart aches for its return.

I don’t offer him any more goodbye than that. I press my hand against a tree, then another, picking my way out of the wildwood. Trying to listen to the forest beyond my own labored breathing. I think I fall asleep on my feet a few times as I trek toward home under the light of the moon, praying and chanting verse to keep evils away.

I don’t even remember arriving home, but when I awake, that is where I am.





The hurt is less in the morning, as is the fatigue, but they’re both present, as though it’s the end of the day and not the start of it. So is the nagging sensation that something is missing, like I’ve forgotten something, yet I can’t pinpoint what it could be.

The Telling Stone is cool where it touches my wrist, reminding me that Maekallus is near, while promising that other mystings are not.

I wash my face, comb my hair, and change into my favorite dress. Sage green with a high neck and long sleeves trimmed with homemade lace. I trace the mark the gobler left before wrapping it with more salt and tusk nettle. I help my father with breakfast, chatting with him as though I hadn’t kissed a mysting in the wildwood last night, giving up part of my soul. As if I hadn’t offered myself to Tennith Lovess just before. I wonder what Tennith thinks of me, then realize it doesn’t matter.

What does matter is the scar on my hand, smooth and slightly pink. Healed, for now. There’s a bit of a stitch embedded at the base of it, and I pull it free with my teeth.

My father goes down to work with the mushrooms and some hides he’d hung earlier. I don’t make an excuse to leave. If he’s busy, I’m free, so I take my basket and fill it with my silver dagger, breakfast leftovers, some bread, and my book, more for the purpose of taking notes than from the hope of finding an easy answer. Flint and steel and a candle, just in case. Then out to my garden for lavender, rabbit’s ear, oon berry, tusk nettle, blue thistle, aster leaf, and tapis root. I harvest all of it before venturing back into the wildwood.

I don’t see Maekallus at first, only his cloak hanging high in a tree. But he isn’t hard to find, even if he did wish to hide. The string of red light remains rooted in the earth, and it points to the heavy branches of a tree.

The Telling Stone throbs as I stare at it, and curiosity drives me to unhook the clasp of my bracelet and let it slide from my wrist into my basket. The light vanishes. When I touch the Telling Stone, it reappears. I feel a sliver of relief, knowing that my secret is unlikely to be discovered by passersby. Fortunately, there will be few in this area, only hunters, and unless they have a charm like mine, they will not see the binding spell. According to the narval, they’re unlikely to see him, either.

After securing the bracelet, I walk toward the spot where the spell skewers the ground and set down my basket. “Are you trying to hide?” I ask.

“I’m exploring,” his voice replies, and it has almost a metallic ring to it, like a heavy bell swaying in the breeze. He falls to the earth in a blur, graceful and swift, landing on two hooves, his other hand skimming the dirt. His reddish hair falls over his shoulder, tied with a long piece of grass. The binding spell shifts with his movements as he comes near, menacing horn leading the way, tail swishing behind him . . . and maybe it’s a trick of the light, but the asymmetrical end of that tail no longer looks sharp as a blade. I wonder if I should modify my sketch.