The Will and the Wilds(24)

The cut on my hand twinges. I close my fist around it.

I try not to touch him, but our height difference makes it hard. I stand on my toes, ignoring the quiver of my hands. Maekallus, however, is not so meek. His hand grabs my hip, and with a swift pull, the space between us evaporates. His lips claim mine, and it’s as though I’m standing right under the town warning bell, its ceaseless gongs radiating through my bones.

It’s nothing like Tennith’s kiss. There’s desperation in the movement of his lips. They’re rough, but in a different way. Tennith was much warmer. Maekallus is like kissing the twilight.

I feel it break inside me, another piece of my soul. It doesn’t hurt this time, but instead leaves me with a deep pit of sorrow in a place I didn’t know I possessed.

We break apart, and I gasp for air to fill the emptiness. The breath doesn’t reach.

. . .

I hear my name.

Again.

Maekallus’s hand slaps my cheek.

I startle, take in my surroundings. The glade. The wildwood. Twilight. I stumble back, putting space between myself and the narval.

He studies me. In the dim light, I see the spots of black are gone. His breathing has evened, quieted.

I touch my cheek. “What . . . ?”

“You weren’t answering.”

I blink. The twilight. I . . . I don’t remember. There’s a moment of time that merely . . . vanished.

Maekallus tugs at his bandage. Breaks it, without unraveling it. His chest is entirely healed. My soul did that, too.

My soul.

Caisgard.

“I’ll leave in the morning.” I feel there is more I should say, but my mind can’t piece the words together. And I’m tired. So I go.

As promised, Tennith arrives in the morning on a dappled mare, with her sister for me to ride.

Caisgard feels a lifetime away.





CHAPTER 11

A mystium is a crossbreed between a mysting and a mortal. Incredibly rare, as most mystings and mortals are not a reproductive match. One can only assume violence to be involved in their creation.





“We’re almost there.”

I start at Tennith’s voice, though I can’t remember where my thoughts had been, if they’d been anywhere at all. I look up the road ahead and note the spire of a shrine over the next hill. We’re nearly to Caisgard. I should be excited, yet I find myself tightening my grip on the mare’s reins. For how long had I been . . . aloof?

“Oh, we are.”

I focus on the nearing city, trying not to notice how Tennith’s gaze lingers on me and not the road. It’s been clear since morning that he wishes to ask me something. Something, no doubt, pertaining to the night I approached him and asked him to kiss me. Still, he hasn’t said a word, and I can only assume my own words—please don’t ask me to explain—are the reason for his hesitation. I’m grateful. I don’t know what I would say to him.

“I think I know where the library is, but we’ll have to ask to make sure when we get inside the gate.” He shifts his mare closer to mine. “I’ll see you there, then go to the market to look for that milking cow.”

“Thank you, so much.” I twist the reins in my hands. “This means a great deal to me.”

He smiles, though it exposes no teeth. “I’m happy to help, and Frera needs the exercise.”

I glance down to my mare. Did he tell me her name before? I can’t recall. She is a black beauty with blotches of white. The uneven coloring makes me think of Maekallus, covered in tar, bubbling . . .

I squeeze my eyes shut for a long moment.

“Enna?”

“Just a headache.” I try to be gracious. I wish I could say something to lighten this heaviness around us, but my mind is blank.

“Do you need to rest, or—”

“I need to go to the library. Please, don’t worry about me. Take your time with the animals. My task will take some searching.”

And I am correct.

The Duke of Sands’s library is enormous, a castle in and of itself. I’m instantly lost upon passing its heavy doors, although lost in the best way possible—between innumerable shelves stacked with leather-bound books. I see only a few occupants, half of whom are armored guards. I try not to look at them too long. I’m not used to guards, and an irrational part of myself fears they will take one look at me and know my conspiracy with Maekallus.

My thumb strokes the tip of my scar as I wander between the shelves. So many books. Shelves upon shelves upon shelves of them, and I wish to open them all and dive into their words. To imagine, as a student, I could spend day after day among these aging spines, squinting at worn handwriting and building upon my own knowledge, my own theories.

Surely these have not all been cataloged. Such a feat would demand a lifetime of work. I look over titles, hoping to find something that aligns with my present subject of interest. I do not, and though I find myself at the other end of that first cavernous room, I can’t remember walking through half of these shelves. It’s as though I perused them as the undead.

I shudder and grip my Telling Stone. Focus, Enna.

I spy an old man sitting at a table, sorting through newer-looking volumes. Hoping he’s the librarian, I approach.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, but I need help finding some books.”