The Will and the Wilds(33)

Beuhger. So that was the word the Telling Stone murmured. I wonder what makes the mysting a she, but keep the question to myself. Maekallus studies the broken summoning circle, his red-tinted brows drawn, his tail writhing like a cat’s. A splotch of corruption blooms between his shoulder blades.

“Those mystings were close,” he says, “very close, to come up so quickly. The more that press against a portal, the harder it is to cross over.”

The statement reminds me of something similar my father said once, when I asked him about the War That Almost Was. “It’s difficult for large numbers on either side to cross over at once, and neither side can keep an occupying force. It’s what makes a war between realms so unfeasible.”

Maekallus nods. “There was someone who didn’t think so once.”

The words send new tremors across my shoulders. “Who?”

But Maekallus doesn’t hear me, or chooses not to. He’s watching the circle. I touch my Telling Stone, but there’s no danger. The beuhger must have descended elsewhere.

I eye the thin rivers of blood drying in the crook of his elbow. Coming to myself, I rush to the basket for the bandages I brought. I wet a cloth with water from a canteen and hurry to Maekallus’s side.

He grabs my forearm before I can administer to him. Holds me tightly, pulls me close. For a moment I think he intends to kiss me again, to relieve the disease spotting him, but instead he says, “It’s like they wanted to come here.” His voice is low, his eyes searching. “The same place the gobler was. Why?”

The Telling Stone dangles from my free hand. I hold very still, not wanting to draw attention to it. “I don’t know,” I whisper.

Maekallus frowns and releases me. I hesitate. He says nothing, so I dab his arm with the cloth. He twitches.

“Sorry.” The word is pathetic on my lips.

“I’ve been attacked by grinlers before. It didn’t used to hurt. Not like this.”

I lighten my touch near the wound itself. It’s mostly stopped bleeding, but a freckle of corruption burgeons between two of the teeth marks. Maekallus winces, as though he feels it. And maybe he does. “The . . . soul?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this.” He looks at the thread of the binding spell, the ever-unmoving leash stemming from the center of his chest. He wipes his hand over his face. “I’m going mad.”

“You seem sane enough to me.” I press gauze to the wound. Maekallus eyes me like I’ve said something insolent. I manage to shrug. “If it makes you feel better.”

He growls. I wrap his arm.

“The gobler didn’t come.” An obvious observation, but I feel it needs to be said.

“No.”

“What next?”

He shakes his head. A piece of hair spills from the tail holding\ it. Without thinking, I brush it back.

Our eyes meet again. His yellow, demonic eyes. I almost forget the horn is there.

He looks at my lips.

My chest aches in remembrance of the lost pieces of my soul. I step away from him. My handiwork is finished.

The sun is beginning its set, but I can’t leave. Not yet. Not before I’ve put this experience to page. I pull my basket free from its hiding place behind the pine and grab my book. Open it to the new section on souls, turn the page. “Beuhgers. Tell me about them.”

He eyes my book. “Beuhgers can’t help us.”

I shake my head. “I want to know about them. I’ve never seen them documented. Never heard their name uttered in story.” Unless they had a second name. “How did you know that one was female?” I begin a sketch, trying to remember the creature’s appearance. I pause long enough to write, Cowardly, beside it. “What is their range of height? Are they docile? Do you know their diet, their intelligence, their—”

My book zooms out from beneath me, causing my charcoal to scrape a hard line down the open page. I protest as Maekallus lifts it up to his face, flipping through the pictures.

“What is this?” he asks.

I leap to my feet. “You’ll get blood on it. Give it back.”

He flips another page.

“Give it back.”

My skin tingles at my own boldness. Maekallus looks at me with a questioning gaze, but hands the book back, upside down. I pull a bit of my sleeve over my thumb and use it to blot out as much of that charcoal line as I can.

When I’m nearly finished, I say, “I like to study. To learn more about your kind.”

He snorts. “Beuhgers are not my kind.”

I pause, glance at him. “You sound like you don’t like them.”

“They’re dumb-witted carrion eaters. No one likes them.”

A grin works its way across my mouth—I can’t hide it, despite how I try. Maekallus looks at me like I’m a madwoman. Perhaps I am.

I set my notes against the grass and write down, Unintelligent carrion eaters. I return to my sketch, only to realize I’m having trouble seeing the lines. I glance over my shoulder, past the trees, to the rays of the setting sun.

A long breath escapes me. It’s edged with the residual anxiety from the arrival of so many mystings in this glade. “It’s getting dark. I need to return.”

He growls again.

Closing my book, I glance to the red thread stretching between Maekallus and the ground. Feel the sting in my palm. “I’ll . . . think of something. I don’t know what, but I’ll think of something.” I stand. “I’ll set you free, Maekallus. Both of us.”