The Will and the Wilds(59)

I’m cold and weary, but I cannot stop the smile that spreads across my face. Soon, Maekallus will be free, and I’ll have my soul back.





CHAPTER 24

Narvals bleed red.





I hate how my entire being prickles, like pine needles pierce my veins, as I near Maekallus’s glade. I hate that I feel anything toward him, when I could barely muster the strength to smile at Tennith. I hate how uncertain I feel, even with the black vial clutched in one hand and the Will Stone clasped in the other. Once upon a time, I wondered at the extremes bards sang about in their songs. Now I would cut the strings of their mandolins were I to hear them.

How, with but a portion of a soul, can I feel this way? So full of rage and sorrow and passion. Maekallus consumed the majority of my soul before losing his edge. I can only suppose the difference is that I am a naturally souled being, while he is not. Perhaps I must lose my soul in its entirety before my emotions relent. It almost sounds like a blissful end.

The lantern swings from my wrist, arcing back and forth through the nearly complete darkness of the wildwood. A few crickets chirp nearby—more proof that Maekallus is no longer a threat.

I hate the strange spark of hope the thought gives me. I hate feeling anything beyond contempt for the thief of my soul. I should stay away and let the mortal realm eat at him a little longer. Let it punish him for me. But human decency aside, the longer I wait to free Maekallus, the more of my soul I’ll have to relinquish to keep him alive. And he must live, if I’m to retrieve the fullness of my soul. Neither of us has time to spare.

He’s easy to find, for he’s near the center of the glade, curled around the spot where the thread of the gobler’s spell sucks into the earth. For a moment I think the corruption has already devoured him, and panic rises in a great bubble up my throat. But as I steady the lantern, I see that the smudges and streaks on Maekallus’s exposed skin are mud. He is speckled with black, yes, but it’s not bad.

I step lightly as I near him. A breeze through the leaves muffles the sound of my approach. A wolf howls, but the sound is distant, almost too far to hear. I lift my lantern.

He’s sleeping. He looks more human asleep, save for that ever-shrinking horn. His breathing is unlabored, yet a line creases his brow as if he, too, dreams of the monster realm. I wonder if he dreamed at all, before meeting me.

I look at him too long. Standing there, staring at him, I feel directionless, like I’ve transported somewhere as foreign as the Deep and I’m spinning, spinning, unable to stop. I press my fist, the one holding the Will Stone, into my chest. I feel my ribs pulling apart, opening a bottomless hole in me—

I drop the Will Stone before I can do anything rash. I breathe deeply and grind my teeth. “Maekallus.”

He is not a sound sleeper, for he wakes upon hearing his name. Slowly, his lids heavy, he opens his eyes. They dart from side to side as if he doesn’t recognize where he is.

I wonder what his true name is. The name of the bastard that spawned him.

It doesn’t matter.

His eyes find my lantern first, then my face. He sits up quickly, then presses a hand to his head. “Enna? What—”

I crouch down and hold out the black vial. “The gobler returned and left this. Unless something down there broke the stone’s spell, this belonged to Grapf.”

He blinks at the vial, then looks at me. Too long. The vial! I want to shout. It’s what we’ve been waiting for!

I shake my hand to pull his attention back to it. Straightening, he takes it and turns it over in the light of my lamp. Uncorks it. Lets a bit of the liquid onto his finger.

His face twists. He corks the vial and wipes his hand on wet grass. “I think we have a winner.”

“What is it?”

“Phlegm.”

I frown, but I don’t care what it is. It’s something.

Uncaring for the condition of my dress, I touch my knees to the forest floor and pull the scrying spell from my pocket. “If this spell works, we’ll find him at last.”

“But if he’s in the Deep—”

“I’ll go into the monster realm myself and will him here.”

His eyes harden. “No, you won’t.”

“You can’t,” I bite back. “I will do whatever it takes. I want my soul back, Maekallus.”

He leans back as though I’ve struck him. Good.

His amber gaze shifts to the scrying spell. He takes it from my hand and unfolds it. Snarls. “I can’t read this.”

“You don’t need to.” I snatch it back. I get the feeling that Maekallus wants to do this himself. But why? To spare me? He should have thought of sparing me earlier.

He didn’t have a soul.

I ignore the thought and read through the words. I’m no sorcerer. I’ve never cast a spell in my life, minus the circles that got me into this situation in the first place. I don’t know where the magic comes from—what god, what place, what origin—but I want to make sure I get the spell right. I will myself to get it right, because if this doesn’t work, I’m as good as dead. Both of us are.

The spell is in Horda, a dead language used by people who inhabited Amaranda before we did. Scholars still learn some of their tongue, and I know sorcerers used it. I’m fairly certain I can pronounce the words.