The Will and the Wilds(44)

I pull my hand out, apply a nearly useless salve, and wrap it again. I managed to rise early and finish the chores, though my soiled clothes are soaking in the washtub. Blood is a tricky thing to clean. Fortunately, most of my dresses are dark and don’t show evidence of my adventures in the wildwood. Regardless, I don’t like knowing it’s there.

I hold my hand to my breast and take a deep breath. Maekallus will need me again today. The words of Attaby ring in my head: Little mortal, you’ve just half a soul left. Be careful how you divide it.

Half a soul. What will I lose today by bestowing another kiss on Maekallus? I must redouble my efforts to break his binding. I’m not ready to die.

And I don’t want Maekallus to die, either.

The sentiment lingers in my thoughts as I prepare my basket for another trek through the wildwood. I think of Maekallus carrying me, his arms pocked by corruption, yet still strong and . . . warm. I stroke the wrapping around the unchanged gray mark the gobler left on my forearm. The gobler’s hand was so cold. Maekallus’s touch warms by the day.

I try to ignore the pressure in my chest as I check on my father.

He’s paler than yesterday. His voice rasps, too. I put down my basket and straightway make him more aster leaf tea and soup. I take the pillows and blankets from my bed and make him as comfortable as he can be. He wakes from his dozing and smiles at me.

“I’ll get over it,” he promises.

“Of course you will. I’m not caring for all those mushrooms myself.” I need to tend the oon berry surrounding the house. I may have the Will Stone, but my father does not, and I am not home as much as I should be. If only I’d healed Maekallus last night instead of trying to save a few hours. Then I could have stayed at Papa’s side today.

I help my father drink his tea. I won’t be gone long. I pray that my body will have the strength it needs to be swift. The cut on my palm throbs in response, soaking the bandage.

I wait until slumber claims my father again, then take a long moment to listen to his breathing before I set out for the glade.

The Will Stone tells me Maekallus has not wandered far. I find him only an eighth of a mile from the clearing where his binding spell is staked. I’m glad—it takes so much of my energy just to make it this far, and I can’t spare time waiting for him to return.

He’s tucked into a small space between clustered trees, a little rocky to get to, the ground slightly sloped. He leans against an aspen. His breathing is similar to my father’s, but heavier, wetter. The mortal realm is working hard on him. His skin is more black than peach, and black streaks through his bound hair. Half his face is darkened with corruption. The muscles of his back are taut. I can only imagine the pain it causes him.

When I speak, it startles him. It is becoming easier and easier to sneak up on Maekallus. I imagine few could scare him, before he met me.

“I brought you some stew,” I offer. “And water, though now you should be able to find it on your own.”

He somehow manages to grin, even as the skin around the gray burn on his chest weeps a few drops of tar. “Did you know the forest looks all the same? The cage has only gotten larger.”

“That’s not true.” I set the basket down in a nook formed by a tree root. “Farther east it opens up into a sort of studded meadow. South, past my home, there’s a waterfall. Just a small one, but it’s beautiful in the winter. It makes thick icicles that shine with rainbows when the sun hits them.” I pause. “Do you have that, in the monster realm? Rainbows, waterfalls.”

“Rainbows, no,” he rasps. “Waterfalls, yes. Most are not made of water, however.”

The scholarly part of me wants to ask what they are made of, but the memory of that strange, horrifying substance Attaby had collected in a bowl on his makeshift worktable makes me pause. Besides, now is not the time for research.

My eyes drop to the thread of light ever piercing his chest. I wonder if that hurts, too. He doesn’t show it, if it does. For a mysting and a trickster, Maekallus keeps his complaining to a minimum.

I lick my lips. Half a soul. “We’ll break it, won’t we?”

He rubs the poisoned flesh of his chest and stands with effort. “Somehow.”

We face each other, silent for several seconds, until I feel strange inside. My mind blanks of words. Why should I feel awkward now? I’ve kissed him several times. Yet now, even with him in this deteriorated state, I feel . . . nervous. Like I did with Tennith.

Papa is waiting, I remind myself. I leave my basket and pick my way across the short space between us. Clench my hands into fists to hide the anxious quiver of my fingers. Say a silent apology to that deep space inside me. I can feel the warmth of what I lost radiating from Maekallus’s broken body.

I lift my face toward his. Take in the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth. I don’t want to admit it to myself, but he is handsome. More so than before, though the exchanging of soul hasn’t altered his face. It is the way I look at him that has changed, and that scares me most of all.

He hesitates. Only for a moment, but I notice it, and I wonder.

He doesn’t touch me, save for his lips to mine. They are half-cold, half-warm. I crack with silent thunder even before feeling the break inside me. Hear my fractured soul’s sorrow as yet more of it spins out of me and into him. At least this time I remain conscious.