The Will and the Wilds(18)

He hesitates. Turns toward the deepest part of the wildwood. For a moment, his eyes lose focus. “I’m not sure.”

Despite my desperation, my uncertainty, and my hate, his answer intrigues me. What is Maekallus, to not know his own age?

I eye my tome. Formed from the spilled blood of bastards. Human bastards, of course. Where the human ends and the magic begins, I haven’t a clue, and I imagine Maekallus doesn’t, either.

“Then tell me,” I say, turning back to my growing entry on narvals, “how long do your kind live?”

He glances down at my book and frowns. “Until something kills us.”

Constitutionally immortal? I write. But I am tired, and Maekallus is ornery, so I close my notes and set the breakfast leftovers and bread on the ground. Straighten and lift my basket. “Eat this if the hart isn’t enough. I’m going to get a sword and see if that helps. I’ll return.”

He bids me no farewell.





My father’s sword is heavier than it looks.

I knew this, of course, but I have not tried to heft it for several years, and it reminds me of its weight as I carry it, wrapped in linen, through the wildwood. I want to be swift. Even with his faulty mind, my father will notice his sword gone. Before leaving, I wrote down a list of chores that need to be done and things that need fixing (which I may have broken myself for this purpose) to keep his eye away from the mantel. So long as he doesn’t misplace the list, I should be successful in my ruse.

I’m exhausted when I reach the clearing. Again, too exhausted for the effort I’ve expended. Something is wrong with me, and I know precisely what. If I let myself focus on it, if I wait for my breath to calm so I can listen with something other than my ears, I can hear that sliver of my soul burning inside the mysting with the great horn. I try to beckon it back to me, silently, but it doesn’t heed the call.

I note that the food I left is still there, save the fried pork. Solely carnivorous? More study needed.

“And this will work when the dagger didn’t?” Maekallus asks, but the remark only has an edge of cynicism. He’s curious, and he looms close when I set the scabbard against the earth and, with both hands and some effort, pull the blade free.

He instantly steps back. “Ah. Clever Enna.”

The blade is carved with runes and flecked with silver—a sword forged for the battling of mystings. Specifically, for that brief war two decades ago. Hefting the blade, I swing it through the gleaming thread—only for it to pass through, just as the dagger did.

I don’t give up. There are half a dozen runes on this blade. I cut through the binding spell, or try to, six times—each time aligning the cut with a different rune on the sword. Alas, this blade has no effect, and I’m soon wheezing from the effort.

Planting the sword’s tip in the soil, I lean against it, trying to summon more energy.

“Cut it out of me.”

I look up at his words. “What?”

“Cut it out of me,” he repeats, and points to the center of his chest, just below his heart, where the red line of light pierces him.

I straighten. Blood rushes from me so quickly I sway on my feet. “You’re joking.”

“I heal faster than a human.” His tail flicks. “Try cutting it out of me.”

My stomach squeezes. “If you die, I’ll go with you.”

“I won’t die from this. Even so, I’d risk it. So should you.” He shakes his head, as though the trees surrounding us whisper to him. “I can’t stay here. I’ll do anything.”

Though I tote about my mother’s dagger, I’ve never actually stabbed a living thing before. I’ve flayed, and I’ve butchered . . . but the thought of pushing this heavy sword through a body where blood readily flows, feeling the resistance of flesh . . .

I press the back of my hand to my mouth and try not to retch.

Maekallus emits a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan and grabs the hilt of the sword, picking my fingers from it. The humanness of his touch is unnerving, and it strikes me that he feels warmer than I remember.

He looks over the workmanship and turns the blade about. “Unwieldly. But there’s not enough silver to kill me.” His arms are just long enough to point the blade at his chest.

I realize with cold mortification that he’s actually going to attempt to cut it out, and I turn away, covering my ears. My imagination, however, betrays me, and I see it all in my mind’s eye—the gaping wound, the blood—

My hand stings, and I lower it enough to look at the cut. The scar has reopened.

A thud of the sword hitting the grass pulls my attention behind me.

Maekallus sucks in a shaky breath. “That . . . didn’t work.”

Bile climbs up my throat at the sight of the deep wound, like a mouth, staring at me from his chest. It bleeds readily from torn muscle. All the while, the thread of the binding shines through it.

Maekallus drops to one knee, and I come to myself, urgency pushing past my revulsion. I look around and spot his cloak hanging from its branch. My strength returned, I grab it and run to Maekallus, pressing the fabric against the wound.

He coughs, and a thin line of blood dribbles down from the corner of his mouth.

“Oh gods in heaven,” I mumble, gathering the fabric and pushing.

He winces, and suddenly his weight presses against me, knocking me to my knees as I try to hold him up while keeping the cloak in place. He mutters, “Not . . . healing as fast . . . as I thought.”