The Will and the Wilds(55)

Papa wakes again, and there’s a little more color to his cheeks. I make him a simple mushroom stew, and while he seems strong enough to feed himself, I take the liberty of doing it. I want to. I owe him too much not to take care of him. He is forgetful, sometimes distant, but he has been my caretaker all my life, and I his. My love for him runs deep, especially now that I understand the sacrifice he made to protect me.

We talk for a little bit; I read him a few passages of poetry. But my father is not well, not yet, and he slips into another restful slumber.

I roll the Will Stone between my hands. If Maekallus is near, I could will him to my side and get an explanation, if he even has one. But I know he bristles at being controlled, and the narrow bridge we’re building between us is an unsure one. I don’t dare shake it.

I take my coat and my dagger and trek into the wildwood as quickly as my body will let me. I don’t wish to leave my father alone for long.

I squeeze the Will Stone, pretending it is just the Telling Stone once more, urging it to lead me to Maekallus. It weakly points me toward the glade, which surprises me. I’ve freed him to roam the entire forest, or at least a good league of it. Why would he choose to linger in the place he claimed was driving him mad?

Why didn’t he stay with me? Was I so foolish as to imagine the intimacy we had shared?

I try to shake the thoughts from my head. Speculation is pointless when the answers I seek are so close. I will myself to keep going, to not need a break. I’m breathless by the time I reach the glade.

I pause at its edge. The binding spell remains just where I left it, glimmering and red, embedded into the ground just as it is in Maekallus’s chest. Maekallus, who kneels not three paces from where the spell sinks into the earth.

I stare at his feet. Human feet. Peachy and wrinkled and filthy from the wildwood.

“Maekallus?” I ask.

He flinches, like I’ve stung him.

I take a moment to catch my breath before walking to his side. “I don’t understand.” I hold my hand out to him, but he doesn’t look at it. Or at me. His gaze is pinned to the binding spell. “The scar, the mark of the bargain. It’s gone. Maekallus?”

He is silent.

“Are you hurt?” I crouch beside him. When he does not answer, I grab his right hand and open his fingers. The scar on his palm has disappeared, too.

I touch his cheek, turning his head until he looks at me. I try to search his eyes. There’s new depth to them, new darkness.

“You know,” I whisper, guessing, but I feel the truth of it. “You know what happened.”

He pulls from my touch. “Our bargain is broken.”

I stand. Despite all the exercise I got in my trek through the wood, I hug myself for warmth. “How? The gobler has not returned, or the spell would be broken.”

“You aren’t bound to me, Enna.”

“But the gobler—”

“You were never bound to me,” he says, low and gruff, like he bleeds the words. “The spell affects only me, not you. Were I to perish—when I perish—it will have no effect on you. Nor would it have if the scar remained.”

I loosen my arms. My heart’s beating too quickly. “I don’t understand.”

“The bargain is merely a token. A token I could break at any time. Your life was never in danger.”

I step back from him, my body reacting before my mind can unpack his meaning. A blackbird cries from a nearby tree. This would rouse my curiosity, as I thought all wildwood creatures had left this grove, were it not for Maekallus’s words.

My throat is dry, and I tremble, but not from the cold. I stare at him, waiting for him to move, to do anything, but he doesn’t, and that solidifies his guilt.

“You lied to me.” The revelation burns like inhaled smoke.

He studies the line of the gobler’s spell. The only change in his face is a crease that appears at the center of his brow.

“You lied to me,” I repeat, louder. Even the blackbird quiets at the accusation. I clutch my stomach, as though I could reach that deep, unidentifiable part of me where what’s left of my soul resides. That gaping hole that aches like a pulled tooth, only so much worse. Less than half remains. “You promised my peril! You said if I didn’t . . .”

His stillness infuriates me. I charge him and shove my hands into both of his shoulders, forcing his attention to me. “You took my soul !”

Again he looks away. “I needed it to live.”

“I need it to live!” My throat constricts around the declaration, forcing me to choke it out. “How could you?” Tears start to sting my eyes. I clutch the Will Stone and demand they leave, but they won’t listen.

His jaw is tight, his shoulders taut, as he speaks. “I knew you would leave me to die. I told you, En . . .” He pauses, swallows, as though unwilling to say my name. “There is no afterlife for me.”

“And are you so certain there’s one for me? You have half my soul, Maekallus!” I’m shouting now, and tears stream down my cold cheeks. “More than half! How could I possibly cross into Shava with only . . .”

I push my fists into my middle and turn away, trying to compose myself, but anger is a beast inside me, pressing against my skin as though it could tear itself free.

What did I expect? That there could be a happy ending for this twisted story? That I could ever love a mysting?