My father’s hands grip the armrests of his chair. “Elefie’s grave . . .”
His eyes are moist, so I back down in silence, excusing myself to my room. My mother’s grave is not the only one out there. My father’s parents are also buried on our land. My father will not leave them unless absolutely necessary. One reason of many why even the closest college, in Caisgard, is beyond my reach. My father is not so addled as to be unable to care for himself, but I would not leave him. Not for anything.
And so I need to find another way.
Thumbing through my notes, I find what I need. I linger on the page depicting a summoning ring, first drawn in charcoal to copy my grandmother’s hand, and later outlined in ink. An eight-pointed star made of two overlapping squares, each point touching an encompassing circle. A summoning circle can be made with a number of things, but some substances provide stronger magic than others. Blood, for instance, is a strong summoner. Especially human blood.
Cringing, I close the book. It rests in my lap for a long time, my fingers drumming against its worn cover. Long enough for the shadows to shift in my room. I think, ponder, until I’ve no thoughts but one.
The Telling Stone has grown nearly as cold as it was last evening. The gobler is coming.
In the kitchen, I grab a basket, putting into it a cask three-quarters full of oil, flint and steel, my silver dagger, and all the coin I can find. In my father’s room, I retrieve my mother’s gold-link necklace and two of Papa’s war medals. My mother’s wedding ring stays in its safe place in the top drawer of my father’s old dresser. Papa may not notice these other valuables missing, but he would notice the ring’s absence.
Putting a towel over the items, I make a plate of bread and cheese for my father and hand it to him. “Here you are. I’ll go collect the milk from the Lovesses.”
He cocks a brow at me. “The milk . . . ? Our collection day is tomorrow, is it not?”
I’m surprised he remembers. It seems almost cruel to take the small victory from him, but I say, “No, no, it’s today. You just asked me to fetch it.” Guilt worms between my breasts, but my resolve to live, and keep my father alive, is stronger.
“Oh. Yes. Thank you, Enna. The stone?”
Drawing my arm back, I let the dangling stone slip beneath my sleeve. I grit my teeth against a shiver. “Warm. I’ll return soon.”
He nods, and I escape.
Though the wildwood is a strong emerging ground for mystings, it is a beautiful place, and I know its border well. Despite the chill running up my arm, I clutch the Telling Stone in my aching hand, waiting for it to warn me of more otherworldly creatures. For now, there is only the gobler.
I trek into the wildwood, heading southeast, away from the town and, hopefully, from any of the townsfolk. First, because I theorize the less intelligent—and possibly more violent—mystings will not port into the wildwood so close to human civilization. Any mysting is a danger to a human, yes, but a group of armed humans is a danger to any mysting. The location may scare away a mysting who would kill me on sight, such as a grinler. Second, if I were seen conversing with mystings, my neighbors would ostracize my father and me for good, no matter how wanted our mushrooms are. There are some lines that simply cannot be crossed. Third, I do not wish to draw unwanted attention to any of the townsfolk—although this is a risk I willingly take, no one else should have to suffer for it.
I find a relatively flat, clear space between wild trees. After securing a stick, I carefully trace a circle in the dirt, stamping it out and starting again when the line doesn’t curve right. Within it, I draw the eight-pointed star. I trace over the lines, deepening them, before carefully pouring enough oil into the shallow trenches to fill the entire symbol. I will offer no blood to the monster realm, but I will trade them fire.
I work the flint and steel over an old seedpod until it catches, then light the summoning circle aflame. The smoke burns my sinuses, and I have to shut my eyes against the light. But the fire is short lived, and soon a smoldering star stares up at me, dark and angry and empty.
Pressing a hand to my chest to calm my heart, I step back as far as the witnessing trees will allow me and snatch up my basket. I draw my dagger immediately. The moment I see even a partial mysting that wants meat more than discussion, I’ll strike.
For a moment, I think my spell did not work, and I study the ashy lines to determine why. But as the tiny embers of grass and clover blacken, a glint of pale-blue light suffuses the marks. The chill in my Telling Stone deepens until it burns. Gasping, I pull my sleeve beneath my bracelet. The sensation of being watched by someone else sends a tingle across my scalp.
Twisting around, I see him leaning against the trunk of a great oak, a wicked grin bright beneath blazing, yellow eyes.
CHAPTER 3
Red salt will keep away rodyns, goblers, hepters, and any plant-eating mysting.
I stumble back until my heel breaks the ash of the summoning circle. My mind fails to categorize this mysting; had his likeness appeared in the pages of my grandmother’s journal, I’m sure I would have remembered. My mind takes notes even as I struggle not to panic. Another new discovery! I must memorize everything.
He is humanoid, with the face and body of a man, but his eyes are too bright, and I’ve never beheld a human man, woman, or child with anything resembling their fierce yellow color. He has a strong yet slender jaw and a sturdy nose and brow. Pale red hair hangs over his shoulder in a loose tail. A flowing, angular tunic, or perhaps a wrapped cloak, covers his shoulders, but exposes his left side and the subtle musculature beneath his peachy, too-human skin. Strange pants made of layered leather—not bovine leather—and studs cover his legs. He wears no shoes over feet that resemble the hooves of a horse, and a wicked tail writhes behind him, the asymmetrical, pointed end of which looks sharper than the dagger in my hand.
But what stands out the most about this creature is not the make of his clothes or the unnatural brilliance of his eyes. Not even the equine shape of his unshod feet. It is the great horn that protrudes from the center of his forehead, steep and pointing nearly skyward, made of bone or coral or . . . I cannot name its tightly spiraled substance, but it looks like the horn of fabled unicorns, straight and strong and ending in a deadly point. Though the mysting is of normal height for a man, his terrible horn must be three feet long, giving him the visage of a giant.
“Wh-What are you?” I manage, trying to find my wits, for I must strike the bargain, and I cannot appear cowardly.
The mysting raises a red-tinted eyebrow and glances over his shoulder. He tilts his head to the side, and I watch the menacing horn shift with him. “You can see me?” His voice is a man’s voice, with the slightest edge of a growl.
“Of course I can see you. I summoned you.” Possible invisibility. I’ll theorize later why my summoning has thwarted such a spell.
He laughs and sets his hands on his hips. “I only came to see who was foolish enough to build a summoning circle in the wildwood.” His grin fades, and he studies me anew—my chin-length hair, my mother’s blue eyes, my plain dress and shoes. “You should not be able to see me.”
I twist my wrist to hide my bracelet. “Well, I do, and I wish to strike a deal.”
He smirks. His canines are slightly pronounced, and the tip of one touches his lower lip. “And what benefit could interest me in making deals with mortals?”
“To sate your curiosity, apparently.”
He cocks that eyebrow again, and the corrupt smile looms on his lips. There have been so few smiles in my home since my grandmother’s passing, and seeing such a bold one aimed toward me is unsettling. “Hmmmmm, perhaps. You’re no witch or mysting hunter, girl. What purpose do you have for dabbling with the star? I could kill you, and only the trees would hear your screams.”
I clench my hands into fists, the Telling Stone at the center of the left, and step away from the summoning circle, willing myself to look taller than I am. “We are not so deep into the wildwood.�
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“Do your screams carry far?” His eyes glint. He thinks himself clever. “I’m more suited to placing one man’s wallet in another’s pocket or dousing a wedding gown in pig’s blood. If that’s what you want, I’m listening.”
A trickster, then. I’ve half a page dedicated to them in my book. But it’s unlikely a mysting built as he is, with so deadly a horn, is satisfied with mere teasing. “I have summoned you”—I force my voice to be level—“and you have come. You will help me.”
My left hand is behind me, and on impulse, I reach back to pull my sleeve over the icy Telling Stone. My fingers tingle against its bite. I wonder if it’s trying to warn me, or if I’m merely squeezing it too tightly.
The mysting’s brows draw together.
“Tell me your name,” I try. “What you are.”
“Maekallus,” he answers, and his brow rises, almost like he’s surprised he answered. “You don’t know my kind, yet you want to barter with me? I’m a narval.”
A narval! There is an entry for his kind in my book, copied from my grandmother’s journal, but there is no picture to accompany it. It’s a short entry, and I stretch my memory to recall what it says.
He steps forward, and it takes the full strength of my resolve to resist stepping back. He’s a head taller than I am. I glance to the horn.
“What, exactly, do you want?” he asks.
I suck in a deep breath. “There is a gobler near my home.”
“This is the wildwood, is it not?”
“Its companion attacked my house last night.” I leave out its interest in the stone, which pulses cold into my hand, and the fact that it also attacked me. “I don’t know why, but it ignored my wards, and I fear the other will strike soon. You’ll find it in the wildwood, north.” I point.
“A gobler, in these parts?”
“Were I lying, I would do better.” I squeeze the stone.
His smirk returns. “All right, mortal. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll find this gobler for you, eliminate it, but I want something in return.”
The moment of truth. The fingers of my right hand graze the silver dagger. “I have gold.”
Maekallus snorts. “Oh no, I don’t want gold. If you dare to take me as your champion, I will have a kiss.”
The demand startles me enough that my basket slips down my arm, yet his words trigger my memory, and I recall with sudden clarity what my grandmother first penned on that aging page: Beware the narvals, formed from the spilled blood of bastards. They feed upon souls, and will steal one with a willing kiss.
“No.” I plant my feet. “I am no witch, but I am no fool. I will not give you my soul for this simple protection.”
He laughs. “Your soul? I asked only for a kiss.”
“You suppose me naive.”
“It will not take your soul,” he says, and the Telling Stone shivers. To warn me against the approaching gobler, or this narval’s charm? I cannot expect him to be wooed by my beauty, for while I’ve never thought myself ugly, I am not so fair as to inspire interest in the men of my town. Even if I were, I doubt a mysting, even a humanoid one, would desire someone so prim. As I consider, Maekallus confirms my first thought by saying, “It doesn’t have to be your kiss, mortal.”
I squeeze the chilly stone of my bracelet until my arm aches. “I will give you gold. Two medallions, one now, and one after the deed is done. And more if this gobler has further companions.”
My hand tingles, and Maekallus bows his head. “As you wish.”
I’m shocked to hear the words from his mouth, but I dare not wait for him to change his mind. Releasing the stone, I reach into the basket for my father’s war medals.
“Give me your hand,” he says, and reaches his own forward. “There is a sense of ceremony about these things.” His tone is so lighthearted, like we’re old chums exchanging pleasantries.
I hesitate. Draw the dagger from the basket and settle it in my cold grip. Maekallus laughs at this, but I ignore the patronizing sound. I extend my right hand.
He grasps it, and a sharp pain tears through my palm. I gasp and wrench away. A three-inch slash opens the skin of my palm from below my little finger to the base of my thumb. Blood seeps from its lips. My teeth cage a protest, but I see a similar cut on Maekallus’s hand. His blood, too, is red.
“So it is sealed. I’ll find your gobler, and with that, I’ll find you.” He tips his head toward my bleeding hand and slips backward between the trees. When I shift to see him depart, my eyes find only the depth of the wood.
I inspect my hand, frowning at its injury. The towel from my basket becomes its bandage, and I notice that, though Maekallus never reached for it, one of my father’s medals is missing.
I stomp out the summoning ring with my feet, all the while pressing the towel into my hand, hoping the wound will not need to be stitched. When that is finished, I escape the space between trees and head home.
A sudden spike of frost shoots up my left arm, and I stumble. Finding my footing, I swing the stone into my hand and squeeze. I sense the gobler, and his nearness, but . . . no, it’s different now.
The Telling Stone does not warn me of one gobler, but two.
CHAPTER 4
Some of the intelligent species of mysting are tricksters—these are creatures more interested in toying with mortals than feasting upon them. However, do not let that fact convince you they are docile, for often a trickster will claim something far more valuable than flesh.
Maekallus waits in the wildwood, crouched in a thick cluster of trees—the kind that refuse to part for any blade. He doesn’t usually skulk about human forests. It amuses him more to sneak into mortals’ taverns. Humans are such fun pawns when they’re drunk. Day or night, they never see him, but the darkness tends to bring out the best players. Drunkards, lovers, thrill seekers. Nothing in the Deep is as fun as twisting the tedious lives of mankind.
Few humans tread this magicked place, especially at night. There are several places where the film separating the mortal world and the Deep grows thin, making it easier to cross from one to the other. The wildwood is one of those places, though Maekallus does not frequent it often. There are far more exotic places to see, far more willing people to devour.
He glances at the clotting cut along his palm. Mere gold, and only a couple of tokens at that. Why had he agreed? There isn’t anything alluring about the human who’d engaged him. Well, that isn’t entirely true. She was decent to look at, young, quick to think. Her soul would have been vivid. Perhaps its vigor would last longer than others’ had. Perhaps he’d get to savor the addiction of human emotion for more than a few hours.
But to devour her requires a kiss, and one willingly given. Not simple tokens. Yet he made the bargain just the same—its mark stings the length of his palm. Maekallus doesn’t consider himself noble, but a deal is a deal. He will hunt and slaughter this gobler quickly, then find better prey.
It has to be quick. The strain of the mortal realm already makes his skin itch.
The sky promises twilight, and so Maekallus slinks from the trees and ventures a little closer to the west edge of the wildwood. A gobler. He snorts. Fat, slow things, dull as river stones. Stupid creatures to be frightened of. Perhaps the gold tokens were a good deal after all.
The slash on his hand pulses with the power of the bargain, and through it he senses the location of the gobler the human woman had had in mind when she formed the pact. He will feel that pulse until he completes his promise. He treks, waiting for the ground to smooth. Comes around a boulder and hears the faint growl of a wolf drinking from a shallow brook. He pauses and glares at the beast. It sticks its tail between its legs and dashes away.
The predators of the mortal realm are so docile. No wonder humans lack the means to fight off the most pathetic of his kind. It’s nice to play the predator. He isn’t always in a position to do so. The Deep is home to creatures far more terrible than narvals and goblers.
A little farther along, the t
errain levels. Bending forward, Maekallus takes off at a run, his obsidian-hard hooves pounding against the earth, wind stirring about his ears and shoulders. His tail whips back and curls up for balance, its deadly blade poised to strike.
His hand burns where the spell slices the skin. He makes a fist, relishing the sting. Too long without a soul, and even petty bargains are worth it for the vigor of the mark.
The blue, ashy light of twilight descends, blackening the trees. Good hunting, for Maekallus’s eyes are keen in the dark. Close now. He can smell the blubbery ka’pig. He slows, reorients himself, and stalks through the brush. Not far from the border. The gobler certainly seems to have intentions with the humans tonight. Odd; their tastes usually run more aquatic.
The trees spread apart, forming an oblong glade. The pudgy shadow of the gobler is not difficult to find.
“Far from home,” Maekallus chides as he steps into the glade. The gobler turns around, its large eyes bulging in the emerging starlight. Reaching to his forehead, Maekallus grips the base of his horn and pulls. A glimmer of light dances across his vision, and the horn comes loose from his forehead. His body quickly reorients its balance, and he hefts the horn as though it were a great sword. The separation is easier in the Deep than on the mortal plane. Here, the detachment hurts, and he will not be able to keep the magic going long. Fortunately, this will only take a moment.
The gobler sneers and draws a gleaming hook from beneath its folds of fat. “Do not meddle, narval,” it says in the tongue of the Deep, its words garbled and heavy. The sounds of a choking bonehound.
“But I’ve been paid to.” Maekallus lunges forward, jabbing his horn at the gobler’s massive gut. The gobler swerves and grabs the “blade” with his silly hook, diverting it. But Maekallus is faster. He yanks the horn free and stabs again. The point pierces flesh easily, puncturing fat like it’s no more than air. It slides deep into the gobler’s chest until it stabs through the heart and hits spine. The gobler coughs and shakes as its bluish blood waters the forest floor. Maekallus jerks the horn free.
The Will and the Wilds Page 3
