The Will and the Wilds(38)

My father is happy to have me around. I play fell the king with him, and to my sorrow, I also forget my strategy. Memory just . . . doesn’t hold as easily as it should, and the explanation is clear. It’s a long game, and it pleases me that Papa wins.

I fear the following day, when we must return to the market, but while my soul is in pieces, my mind is still sharp, and I manage just fine, though I change my usual path to avoid Tennith. I’m not sure what I’d say to him, and my moments of listlessness and blankness have me on edge. Occasionally, pain spikes in that deepness where my soul resides. I can’t remember the recipe for my grandmother’s meat pie, and I allow my too-tired body more naps than I should. But if I look past all of that, I’m well enough.

My father, however, is not. He starts to cough and look a little pale, so I put him to bed and make him vegetable broth and tea. It revitalizes him for a time, but when he goes to our vegetable garden to pull weeds, he sickens again, and I order him to spend the rest of the day in bed. I try to will him better, but it seems illness is not something that can be coerced.

With my father abed, I’m left to stew in my own thoughts. I wonder about the grinlers and how far the Will Stone’s power stretches. Nearly a dozen grinlers heeded my command, but they have limited intelligence. Would such a tactic work on greater mystings, like Maekallus? Like this Scroud? Could I not simply will him and his goblers to leave me be, should they return?

I write all my thoughts into my notes, filling page after page with questions and theories. I had willed Maekallus out of the glade to rescue me. Did he sacrifice himself to help me merely because the stone bid him to do so? Or perhaps he was persuaded by the fact that I am the one keeping him alive. Us alive.

Does it matter, his motivation? Why do I even care?

I wonder if I could will another creature to come to me. The gobler in the wildwood, the one who set the spell on Maekallus. Could I force him to break the spell, or will that interworld barrier prevent it, just as it banned Maekallus from descending to the monster realm?

I try, but the stone does not tingle, nor does it reveal its secrets to my mind. I document all of this in my book.

Papa sleeps late the following day. I make him a hearty meal in hopes of improving his stamina and a tonic of aster leaf, which is good for the lungs. My stone is cooler that morning, warning of the approach of a mysting—a rooter—nearby. I will it away, and the stone warms.

It’s the knowledge of its protection that finally gives me the strength to return to the glade, basket in tow.

Maekallus has worn an ovular track in the clearing with his pacing. I remember his claim of impending madness and feel guilty for my absence. The black spots blemishing his skin mark the time I’ve spent away. Gripping the stone, I try once more to will him back into the monster realm, but the stone does not heed my request.

I drop the stone. “I’m sorry.”

He spins about, finding me amid the trees. I can’t read his expression. Not quite relieved, not quite angry.

I swallow. “I needed some time to think. I . . . I didn’t mean to trap you here.” I lift my basket as a peace offering. “I brought you food and books.”

He guffaws. “I told you, I can’t read mortal writings.”

“I’ll read them to you. I don’t mind.” I step into the glade, over the matted grass and packed dirt of his track. I cross almost to where the binding spell pierces the earth, then set my basket down and sit on a patch of orchard grass. It’s strange, this absurd predicament I’m in. It’s bizarre and morbid and deadly, and yet in this confined space with this impertinent mysting, I feel . . . normal. Not the outcast, not the peculiar woman who lives on the outskirts of town. It’s as if here, I am truly myself.

And with that thought, the sudden urge to explain boils up my throat.

I say, “I should tell you—” at the same time Maekallus asks, “Have you been amusing yourself with your newfound power?”

A frown tugs at my lips. “Of course not.”

He smirks. “To think of the games you could play with humans—with anyone—with a stone like that.”

“Then it is a good thing I possess it, and not you.”

He cocks a brow.

I pat the grass next to me. “Sit.”

He doesn’t move. I wait, and he says, “You can will it.”

“Now that I know I have the ability, I will be more careful not to use it. If you do not wish to sit, I will not make you.”

He considers this. “I find you odd, Enna.”

“Most do.” I pat the grass.

He sighs and crosses the glade, sitting beside me. He smells like the forest, like summer and ancient trees. I offer him the food I brought. He takes it, but doesn’t eat.

After several seconds of silence, I speak. “My mother was killed by grinlers.” I watch the glimmer of the binding spell where it lifts from the earth, stretching toward the mysting beside me. “It happened in the middle of day, just like . . . then. She was pregnant with me. They killed her, and my father cut me out to save me.”

I glance to Maekallus. He looks almost . . . sympathetic. But surely no mysting could experience such a sensation. Not toward a mortal.

But what about a mysting with a soul?

“Their attack frightened me, but I suppose it helped us in a way,” I continue. “Since now I understand this stone better. If I cannot get you back to your home, at least I can relieve these weeds from your incessant stomping.”