The Will and the Wilds(23)



“No, it must be tomorrow,” I blurt. And yet . . . even if we leave on the morrow and return the same night, it might be too late. Even now, the wound on my hand throbs, the bandage growing bloody. I keep it pressed into my side to hide the black tendrils reaching toward my fingers.

I press my lips together. There’s a slim chance this will work, but it’s a chance nonetheless. I must go.

“Is it so urgent?” asks Tennith.

I run my thumbnail along the smoothness of the Telling Stone. “I’m afraid so.”

He rubs his chin. “Then I will speak to my father this afternoon. I don’t foresee him needing the wagon. Though if you can ride horseback, it would be better.”

I bounce on my toes with elation. “Yes, I can ride. Tennith, thank you.”

He smiles at me. His smile is different from Maekallus’s. Kinder, yet . . . plainer, in a way. An expected smile. “Let’s plan for an hour after dawn?”

I thank him again, and hurry on my way. I have to prepare. I have to convince my father—

I have to kiss Maekallus.

My steps slow. The mortal realm hasn’t devoured him yet, but it will, and this time the blight is spreading more quickly. I don’t know how long he will last, I only know I need to buy myself as much time as possible.

Only a piece, I remind myself. It should only be a piece, right?

Distracted, I purchase bandages, food for the journey, thread. Return home and speak to my father in a soothing voice, massaging the stone between my fingers as I tell him of Caisgard and Tennith, of how he needs to stay and protect the house. It takes a little persuading, but not nearly as much as I expected. Perhaps he senses the need I have for this. Perhaps he is more perceptive than I give him credit for. And he will be safe, for a day. He is forgetful, but he is not incapable. He proved as much with the first gobler.

I prepare for the journey, finishing too soon, and cook a hearty dinner for us to enjoy together. While we eat, I try to savor my father’s company, listening to the stories he never tires of telling and that I never tire of hearing. I sit with my back to the fire, facing him in his chair, so that he won’t notice the bandage on my right hand, only the glistening treasure on my left.

I kiss him goodnight, claiming the need to turn in early for my journey on the morrow, then slip out of the house with my stone, a crown of oon berry, and the silver dagger. Trifles unlikely to offer much protection against my increasingly foolish ventures. The sunset turns from orange to pink to violet. A shiver warns of distant mystings—there’s been more activity in these parts than usual—but they’re not moving toward me, and the warning soon fades. It takes me longer to reach the clearing this time, for the weariness of my lost soul is compounded by the exertion of the day. I don’t rush, though darkness looms, and the wildwood surrounds me. Perhaps I am more a fool than I thought, if these shadowed trees no longer frighten me.

I hear him breathing before I see him. He’s moved across the glade, holding on to a low branch of a young birch. His bandage is scarlet. Black pocks his skin like freckles, and I wonder what they feel like. Are they painless, like the mark of the gobler’s hand on my arm, or do they burn, like the bite of a newly spent match?

I almost ask him.

“I’m going to a library in the neighboring city.” I cross the glade halfway, standing close to where the thin line of light pierces the ground. “There may be books there to aid me. The apothecary seemed to think so, and he once studied the supernatural.”

He looks at me, gaze luminescent. “Still trying to use humans to solve a demon’s problems?”

“Would you rather I tried nothing? I can frolic around the wildwood as bait for the gobler, but I cannot actually summon it.” I touch the mark, wondering if that would be enough, or if it would simply paint me a target for something else. “I must consider other options.”

He presses his forehead against the branch. “I’ll go mad here.”

My shoulders soften. I hug myself against the chill of settling dusk. “I . . . am sorry. Could I undo all of this, I would face the gobler myself.”

He laughs like that’s a grand joke, and I suppose it is, for I know from experience that I alone am no match for the bulbous breed of mysting. But I meant the words sincerely. I do not enjoy his suffering.

A patch of black expands before my eyes, and I think I hear his wound squelch, but I can’t be sure. I clench my teeth, trying to keep my dinner.

“How long?” he asks.

“I don’t know. A day, maybe two.”

“I . . . we might not—”

“I know.”

I approach him slowly, my feet heavy. It’s different this time. Maekallus is hurt, but he’s alert. Far more a man than a writhing ball of tar. The last bits of sunlight glint off his horn. I wish it were darker, like with Tennith. Here, even in the growing shadows of the forest, I feel exposed. Small. Unsure.

I stand before him, less than half a pace between us. He doesn’t move, but hunger gleams in his eyes, and I wonder how long a narval can go between soul meals. It must be a while, or they would be more common on the mortal plane. More people would be wandering around without souls. Or perhaps their doctors and families have locked them away in a room somewhere, hidden from society, staring into nothingness and waiting for death to claim them. Fendell is tucked away from large cities, and only small merchant caravans bother to pass through. I’ve never heard stories to make me believe otherwise.

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