The Will and the Wilds(74)

I scoop up my basket from the doorstep and venture into the wildwood, toward the thicket of oon berry I discovered not long ago. It’s warm enough to pull up more plants, move them to our land, and coax them into the growing hedge. I pull dried lavender from my pocket and sprinkle it beside me as I walk, staring up into the trees to see which welcome the change of season and which resist. A jay calls from a nearby limb. The air smells of rain, though it hasn’t rained for two days.

When I reach the thicket, I kneel down and examine the plants. The old ones are too thick in root to upend with any ease—I hunt for the offshoots, the daring ones that fell away from their parents last winter and sprouted in the spring. I gently ease my spade into the earth, loosen the soil, and scoop my protection from its home. I set one in my bag, then another, wincing when it pushes a thorn through the seam of my glove. The spike in my chest warms again, but perhaps that is just from the exercise. Ignoring it, I stand in the thicket until I find three more young plants to uproot. My work done, I set my tools and gloves in my basket and walk the rest of the way around the thicket, over a fallen tree branch, and—

I hear the hiss of the viper half a heartbeat before it lunges from the foliage ahead of me. Enough time for my heart to plummet, but not enough for me to act.

But the snake stops midstrike, midair. Nothing holds it, and yet it lingers there as if frozen, its long neck compressed, its mouth agape, revealing dripping fangs and a struggle for air.

I stagger back from my near death, struggling for air myself. I lift my eyes from the snake to the invisible being I know holds it. I fight to speak, to act, for I’m stiff as the ancient trees around me and cold as the depths of winter. A deep ache radiates through my chest, and I wonder if the snake had sunk its fangs into me after all.

I manage a wheezy “Maekallus.”

His invisibility drops at his name. His fingers are coiled behind the serpent’s head, and his yellow eyes regard me, narrowed and wary. He slowly stands from a crouch, the viper writhing in his grip. He wears a cloak of strange make, fastened at his left shoulder, and pants of layered leather pinned together by small metal studs. They end at hooved feet.

Save for the blunt end of his horn, he is the same mysting I summoned the day after the first gobler attacked.

I’m at a loss for words. A lump hard as granite sits in my throat. I feel my pulse around it, quick and hard. My eyes burn without tears. The horn in my chest—the one that once protruded regally from his forehead—feels like an ember.

I lift a hand, not quite reaching, and take a step forward.

The viper writhes in his grip. Frowning, he moves to strike it against the nearest tree.

“No!” I call, staying him. “Please don’t hurt it. I . . . I was trespassing in its territory. It was only protecting itself.”

Maekallus raises an eyebrow at me before shrugging and flinging the snake far to my left. I don’t see where it lands, but it will survive.

I swallow, my mouth dry as week-old bread. My pulse thumps hard against my chest and neck. Does he hear it? “Do . . . you remember me?” I ask.

He scoffs. “I gave you back your soul, not my wits.”

There’s an edge to his voice. Not an angry one, but . . . one I don’t remember him having, even before he took that first piece of my soul. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know exactly . . . how it works.”

Yet I do know, but I try not to dwell on that knowledge, because I desperately do not want to fall apart before this man, this mysting. I don’t wish to show him the weakness I’ve been harboring like poached meat for too long.

He does not feel the way he once did. He remembers, but he isn’t . . .

Tears threaten my vision, and I blink and shove the thoughts away, clawing for composure. “W-Why are you here?”

He gives me that narrow gaze again, then a shrug. “The Deep isn’t a friendly place.”

“No, it’s not.” The lump has reformed and chokes my words to a whisper. I swallow again. Take a deep breath. “I—”

“He is not me.”

Four simple words. They would be nonsense to anyone else, but they rake across my skin like briars. Even with the fullness of my soul, I don’t have the strength to hold back the tears that pool in the corners of my eyes.

He shifts awkwardly, averting his gaze. His inhuman gaze. “I shouldn’t be here,” he grumbles as a tear streaks down my face.

I cross my arms over my chest, as if I could somehow keep more of me from breaking. As if I could squeeze out the hurt like pus from a wound. I tremble within my own arms, wishing I did not want so badly to be in his.

He turns and walks deeper into the wildwood. I can’t bring myself to watch him go, yet I feel each footstep as if my body were the forest floor. Before he gets out of earshot, I croak, “Maekallus.”

He pauses. Looks back.

I don’t dare to meet his eyes again. I won’t be able to say the words if I see his eyes, but I have to speak them. No other opportunity will present itself. I will down that lump in my throat without the aid of any otherworldly charm.

“I forgive you.”

He doesn’t reply. A moment later, his footsteps carry him away, and the warmth from the horn embedded in my chest dies.

I break like a dam, rooted where I stand.

Not even the threat of serpents can move me.