The Will and the Wilds(66)

“Return whence you came and . . . kill Scroud.”

The Will Stone does not react. Why? Is such a thing not possible? Fear makes itself known to me then, tracing my spine with the touch of ice.

I could order the gobler to kill himself, or, simply, to die. Yet I hesitate to do so. Perhaps I’m too soft a mortal. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never before taken a sentient life. Or maybe the explanation lies with Maekallus, who has made me look at mystings differently.

I take a deep breath, letting it fill me to the brim before releasing it. “When I indicate, you are going to flee east, never faltering, until you reach the sea. You will never return to the forest. You will never harm a human. The sea and the Deep will be your only homes. You will never speak of this night or of the stone you seek.” Then, to be sure, I add, “You will never speak again.”

Grapf doesn’t move.

I swallow. “Go.”

He runs.

He sprints through the forest, grazing tree trunks, tripping over ditches and inclines. He runs, and I watch him until the darkness swallows him. My stone warms ever so slightly against my palm.

I can will the gobler to run, but I cannot will it of myself. My body is spent, and without the scrying spell to mark my path, I am hopelessly lost. I sway and drop to my knees.

I know he will forgive me when I hold the stone to my lips and whisper, “Maekallus, find me. And don’t let anyone else see you.”

Resting my head against the earth, I close my eyes, but sleep is far from me.

With the last of my strength, I crawl forward until my once-scarred hand wraps around the hilt of the tusk dagger. Then I lie inert, listening to the rhythm of my breathing and the song of remembered nightmares.

The moon is high when I hear another set of footsteps approach. These, I don’t will away.





CHAPTER 27

Freblon are humanoid mystings that average about three feet in height. They are incredibly thin to the point of looking malnourished and wear a crown of bone across their foreheads.





The pull on his body suddenly stops. Panic rises. Does this mean something has happened to Enna? Is she . . .

But he sees her lying in the wild grass up ahead, her face pale in the moonlight. His stomach pitches as he runs to her and drops to his knees at her side. Feels for injuries, for breathing, for—

“Maekallus,” she whispers.

Relief blooms as he brushes hair off her face. “Are you hurt?”

“Tired.”

He lets out a long breath. “Gods below, woman.” He expected the worst, especially when the tug of the Will Stone took him away from the portal ring. There are too many mystings this deep in the wildwood. He’s already killed two, one who crossed his path and another who had followed the line of his curse.

He puts a hand under her head and helps her sit up. That’s when he sees it.

He freezes, staring. The dagger. The tusk dagger, clasped in her hand. For a moment he doesn’t breathe. A long moment. Until his lungs gasp for air.

A bubble of corruption rolls across his back, aching like a bad bruise. He ignores it. “You found it.”

She lifts the dagger. Smiles. “I can free you, Maekallus.”

He shakes his head, staring at his salvation. “But . . . how, when . . .”

She doesn’t answer his questions. Instead she grabs his blackened shoulder, presses the tip of the blade beneath his pectoral, and slides it across his chest.

It crosses the glowing thread of light, and the spell vanishes.

It feels like a boulder lifting from his ribs. He gasps, air filling parts of him he’d forgotten he had. Muscles unwind and joints relax. He falls forward onto his hands, nearly whacking Enna with his horn.

“Maekallus?”

“I’m . . . fine,” he says between breaths. He touches his chest, and the soul dances beneath his fingertips.

“I’m glad,” she whispers.

He looks back at her. Even in the dark he can see bags under her eyes. Her touch is chilly. Taking her hand, he puts an arm around her and helps her stand.

“Your soul,” he says.

“My soul.”

“If there’s a way, it’s in the monster realm. Attaby had a theory. But . . .”

Moonlight glitters off her blue eyes. Blue like the mortal sky. “But?”

“But it may not—”

“We have to try.”

He takes a deep breath, marveling at the freedom he feels. “You can only come to my realm unharmed if you’re one of us.”

She searches his eyes. “What do you mean?”

If you have no soul. He can’t bring himself to say it, to ask for yet more from Enna. Her soul stirs within him, eager, waiting.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer at first, and he feels like a fool for asking. Of course she doesn’t trust him. He’s lied to her for his own gain, betrayed her, stolen from her—

“Yes.”

The whisper shocks him like a bucket of cold water. He doesn’t understand. How . . . ? But it isn’t important now. He needs to act quickly. Once he takes it . . . he has only hours.

He puts a hand beneath her chin. Her skin is so soft, so fragile. He runs his thumb over her lips.

She closes her eyes and waits.