The Will and the Wilds

by Holmberg, Charlie N.

  CHAPTER 9

  Grinlers are carnivorous pack hunters. Despite their small size and lack of speech, they are quick on their feet and manage to communicate hunting plans through grunts, snorts, and body language.

  This is wrong. It isn’t fading.

  Maekallus sits between the thick roots of an oak, his back pressed against the trunk, his hands touching the bandage wrapped around his middle. The wound hurts more than it should. Too slow to heal. But that isn’t what bothers him.

  It’s the fire. The feeling. The soul.

  Not even a soul. A sliver of a soul. But it continues to swirl inside him, every bit as alive as when he first consumed it.

  It isn’t right. When he takes a soul, it burns inside him for a few hours, then fades into nothing. Dead weight. A too-big breath of hot air. Once he returns to the monster realm, his body digests it, and that is that. But more than a day has passed since Enna parted with this fragment of herself.

  A soul’s vigor never lasts so long. Not for anyone.

  His mind tries to piece it together. Is this slice of soul alive because the rest of it still lives inside its original host? Is it affected by the gobler’s damnable spell? Whatever it is, the bits and pieces of human feeling, that bizarre inner awareness they have, live within him. Perhaps that is what makes his chest hurt.

  Or perhaps that is why, when a splotch of black begins to form on his shoulder, Maekallus feels a tendril of fear.

  CHAPTER 10

  Some mystings cannot be killed by standard metal-worked weapons. All, however, are susceptible to sharpened silver.

  The cut on my hand is worse in the morning. There’s no trace of black in it, but the skin around the fissure is red and sore. I wrap it best I can before I set off for the wildwood. I have little hope when I wander to Maekallus’s glade. Although I skimmed both my and my grandmother’s notes late into the night, I found nothing that might save us.

  He leans against the base of a tree, nestled between two thick roots, his eyes closed. It surprises me how peaceful he looks, almost as much as it surprises me that he’s asleep. I don’t know what I expected. I never put much thought to the question of whether or not mystings slept. I’ll note it in my book later.

  I let myself stare at him, the way I never would were he able to witness it, all while trying to look away from the blots of blood staining his bandages. He does not know his age, but physically he looks to be in his mid to late twenties. If I put my bias aside, I can admit that his is a handsome face. A different one—no one in Fendell looks quite like he does, and I’ve never met a man or woman with red hair. His pants, layered like armor, are dirty and speckled with blood. The hem skims the top of his hoof feet. I wonder, beneath his clothes, how much of him is equine. His knees, bent slightly in rest, look entirely human. Somewhere between ankle and knee, he changes, then.

  I wonder again at my grandmother’s words, the blood of bastards, as I near. I notice that his breathing is not smooth, like there’s phlegm in his lungs. I don’t get much closer before he opens his eyes, and their vivid canary-colored irises remind me of what he is.

  My wound throbs. “You haven’t healed.”

  He shifts. Something pops loud enough for me to hear. “This world . . . this spell. It’s weakened me.”

  Even his voice has lost strength.

  I roll my lips together and approach him, kneeling down by his knees. I don’t ask permission—it seems strange to be polite to a mysting—and gently pull at the edge of his bandage to peek at the wound inside. The poultice I applied has kept the scabs from sticking to the bandage, and a lot of the injury has clotted over. Good.

  What is not good is the black ooze seeping between the stitches—the infection of the mortal realm.

  And the smell. I pull back, and press the bandage back down. “The corruption didn’t happen this quickly last time, did it?”

  He shrugs. “Last time I didn’t have an open wound on my chest.”

  “Don’t talk like it was my doing.” I pick up a different poultice from my basket, but instinctively I know it will do no good. The mystical parts of Maekallus have kept him alive where a mortal would have died, but nothing monster or man will save him from destruction if he cannot descend to his own realm.

  At least, nothing I possess.

  I massage my fingers, thinking. “I’m going to go into the village. See what I can find there, unless there’s more you’re not telling me.”

  He scoffs. “Unless you have a sorcerer on hand who can find the gobler, I fear we’re at an impasse.”

  I don’t, of course. Sorcery is a dying craft, thanks to growing laws regarding mystings. Sorcery is enormously the conjuring and brewing of magical ingredients, many of which stem from the monster realm. Even if sorcery were still a viable profession, a sorcerer would never waste his talents on a wayward place like Fendell.

  Maekallus perks up. “You could lure the gobler here. With whatever he wanted the first time. What did he want?”

  I lean away from him, touching my forearm through my sleeve, seeing the black mark there in my mind. “I don’t know.”

  He narrows his eyes. He clearly doesn’t believe me. “The only way I know for certain to break the spell is to obtain the knife he used to make it, or to kill him. If three of their kind have come here for the same purpose, they’re bound to come again.” He groans and leans back against the tree.

  I stand slowly, pondering his words. I feel a shiver and, where Maekallus can’t see, grasp the Telling Stone in my hand. But the stone is only cool; the chill is all my own.

  Come again. Would they come again? And why do they want this?

  Is there more my father hasn’t told me? Perhaps he never knew the true significance of the stone, or the knowledge may have been relegated to the misty part of his mind.

  I force saliva down my tight throat. “Tell me about the gobler’s knife.”

  “You won’t find one in a human—”

  “Tell me about the knife.” I grab my book and a charcoal pencil from my basket.

  Maekallus grumbles deep in his throat. “It’s made from the tusk of a vuldor.”

  I’ve never encountered the term. “What is that?” My tone betrays my eagerness.

  His lip curls up. At least he can find humor in our sick predicament. Is it because he is a trickster? I look away from the smirk. “A beast of the Deep, what else? Shoulder-heavy mutt with three eyes and great tusks.” He points his index fingers skyward and holds them over his lower canines to illustrate. “The gobler used a knife made of that tusk, hollowed out to hold mystium blood. At least, I think that’s how it works.”

  I pause in drawing my rendition of a vuldor. “A mystium?”

  “A mortal-mysting mix.”

  I shift away from him. “A child? Such a thing isn’t possible.”

  “Not common.” He watches me as though my revulsion amuses him, and I have the urge to slap him. Then I see a dark patch on his shoulder, and I lose the courage. “But possible. If the female is mortal.”

  I imagine a mysting—every horrid picture in Grandmother’s journal rushes through my head—emerging into this realm under the cover of night and finding some unsuspecting maiden, taking her someplace where no one could hear her screams . . .

  I turn away, trying to blink away the visage. Could such a thing have happened to me, when I ventured into the wildwood and drew a summoning ring without so much as an escort? How foolish I’ve been.

  I write down the information, pondering what it could mean. Could I interview a mystium? But to find one I’d have to do a great deal of surveying, and most would think me mad for the very idea, especially if I claimed to have heard it straight from the mouth of a mysting. I sigh to myself. Only an affiliation with a college could give me the credibility and resources I’d need.

  I turn the book about and show him my vuldor. “Like this?”

  He eyes the picture, brows drawn together. “Hardly helpful.”

  “It’s h
elpful to me.”

  Maekallus frowns. Hesitates. Watches me like I am the object of study. “Its head is wide”—he spaces his hands about a foot apart—“and flat. Their feet have three toes.”

  I smear charcoal with my thumb and adjust my depiction. He doesn’t correct the stance, which has the vuldor on all fours, so I assume I got that much right. I truly hope none of these vuldors ever find their way across the threshold. Glancing up, I see the bandage around Maekallus’s chest. Black has begun to vein out from its edges. Further questioning will have to wait.

  I set my notes aside. “Do you have the medallion I gave you?”

  His eyes narrow until he almost scowls at me. “Why does it matter?”

  “I’m going to get supplies. Bandages, if nothing else. I’ll need money.” I avoid looking at his face and hold out my hand. There are several seconds of stale silence between us. Finally, he shifts his hand, and the medallion appears between his first and second fingers like he’s a parlor magician. I take it, snatch my basket, and tromp from the glade. I walk quickly, and the exercise forces stress out of my shoulders, making me focus more on my heavy breathing than vuldors and the creation of “mystiums.” Were all such half-bred children begotten by violence? There are many humanoid species of mysting, some my kind could even find attractive. Could such a coupling come from want or desire?

  My cheeks burn at the thought, and I cast it aside. Of course such a thing is impossible. Mystings are incapable of tender feelings. They don’t have souls.

  I walk farther, past the food market, silversmith, baker, wainwright. The sun makes me too warm in my high-collared dress, and weariness pulls at me again. I reach the apothecary at the end of the way and slow, staring at the mortar and pestle engraved on the sign overhanging the door. I have not been to this place in a long time—the last time was over a year ago, when I needed a starter for the nettle in my mysting garden. People here have a tendency to gossip. The apothecary is a flunked scholar of the supernatural, come to Fendell after his botched study in Wellsgard, the capital. I once asked him too many questions about mystings and the monster realm, and needless to say, word spread of my eccentricity. But if anyone in town has a strange cure for my unspeakable predicament, it is Lunus Mather. That’s worth the risk.

  The hinges of the door creak loudly enough to hurt my ears when I enter. The metal has never seen oil, and I wonder if it’s intentional. Lunus is in the back room, and I hear glass break before he parts a half curtain and peeks out at me. Many of the shelves in the main room are empty save for common things. What Lunus considers valuable is kept in the back.

  He is of an age with my father, but the years have not treated his body well. A slight hunch presses against his back. Frown wrinkles drag at his forehead and mouth, and a swollen wart nests against the side of his large, hooked nose. He is terribly pale, perhaps because his musky shop always has its curtains drawn.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he says, like I’m a great disappointment. I would think a merchant of any kind would be happy to host a customer of any make. “Bulbs? Seeds? I probably don’t have it.”

  “I’m looking for something strong to counter mysting spells.”

  “Did your little herb garden die, Rydar?” he guffaws, calling me by my surname. “Or did Daddy think they were weeds?”

  I swallow a sharp retort. My Telling Stone rubs against the side of my hand, and I palm it, seeking strength. “I have coin. Do you want it or not?” Please want it.

  He considers me. “I’ve many things against mystings. You’ll need to be specific.”

  “Mysting spells. I need something to nullify their handiwork.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “And what sort of mysting has been visiting you long enough to cast a spell?”

  He’s already sowing his seeds of rumor—witch—and it’s an effort to keep disdain from leaking into my expression.

  “It’s a matter of study.” I’m holding the Telling Stone so tightly the clasp that connects it to the bracelet pinches my hand. “Do you have anything of use?”

  He taps his spindly fingers on one of his shelves. “I might know of something. Somewhere.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t have time for this. I truly do not have time, as my aching hand reminds me. I squeeze the stone hard enough that my fist tingles around it. “Tell me, Lunus. Something to affect a spell cast by mysting magic. Anything.”

  He straightens as though suddenly interested in me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him stand so tall, and it gives me a fright. However, for one reason or another, my directness coerces an answer out of him. “I’ve nothing of the sort here, but in Caisgard there’s a great library, the largest one in this quarter of Amaranda. Once belonged to the Duke of Sands, but the family turned it public some fifty years ago. Perhaps you’ll find what you need there.”

  I release the stone and rub my hand. Caisgard is the closest city to us, some three hours away on horseback. I wonder if this library is affiliated with the college there. I’ve only been to Caisgard twice in my life, both times with my paternal grandparents. The second time, my grandfather took me to meet with a professor, and it ended disastrously. The man had looked me in the eye and insisted women had no place at the college.

  I shake the memory from my head. The largest library I’ve ever visited is the single shelf of books in the apothecary’s shop, so the thought of the greatest library in our quarter of the kingdom sends a thrill across my back. Even for just a day, it would be . . . nice . . . to dive into literature, to feed this hunger always gaping in the back of my mind. Of course, I won’t have the time to explore to my heart’s content—I’ll need to limit my research to my immediate predicament.

  “Thank you.”

  He eyes me, but doesn’t ask for payment, so I turn from the shop and step back into the sunlight.

  I mull over my options. I cannot take my father with me—he will need too much tending, and I must focus on the task at hand. But I will need to offer him a convincing excuse for going there alone. I could tell him the truth about everything . . . yet I can’t predict his reaction. Nor can I trust him to keep secrets, and I direly need Maekallus to remain a secret, else Fendell will hunt me as though I were a mysting myself. Perhaps I can convince him I need more herbs for the garden, something strong to be used against goblers. If I put enough emotion into it, maybe I can persuade—

  “Enna?”

  I pause, noting that I’ve nearly stepped off the cobbled path, and look up to see Tennith with one of his brothers. My thoughts leave me for a moment, flying away like dandelion seeds. Tennith says something to his brother, who nods and continues up the path, leaving us alone.

  I can still feel the pressure of Tennith’s lips on mine, the smell of his clothes—

  “You look concerned,” he says, approaching me. He’s had a day of hard labor; dirt and sweat stain his homespun shirt. He reaches out and touches my arm.

  My thoughts piece themselves back together, and before I realize what I’m saying, the first one tumbles from my mouth. “I’m going to Caisgard.”

  His hand drops. “Caisgard? What for?”

  I hesitate, but I cannot think of a good lie, or a good enough reason to lie. “There’s a library there I wish to visit. I keep an herb garden of sorts. Protection against the wilds. I think there’s much more I can do, but I need to research it first.”

  He looks impressed. “I didn’t know you could read.”

  I didn’t realize he could not.

  He considers for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip, which only makes me think again of the side of his barn and the dark of night. Uninvited, Maekallus rises in my thoughts, oozing and wheezing. I rub my eyes with my fingers and smudge the image until it’s indecipherable.

  “Do you . . . want an escort?”

  I drop my hands. I had not expected such an offer. The word no weighs my tongue, but I hold it there, considering. I cannot take my father. But I, a single woman, should not travel to Caisgard alo
ne.

  “Truly?” The word is almost a whisper.

  Tennith leans on one foot. “Harvest isn’t ready yet, and Pa has mentioned wanting a new milking cow. They have good stock in Caisgard. I think it can be arranged for next week.”

  “No, it must be tomorrow,” I blurt. And yet . . . even if we leave on the morrow and return the same night, it might be too late. Even now, the wound on my hand throbs, the bandage growing bloody. I keep it pressed into my side to hide the black tendrils reaching toward my fingers.

  I press my lips together. There’s a slim chance this will work, but it’s a chance nonetheless. I must go.

  “Is it so urgent?” asks Tennith.

  I run my thumbnail along the smoothness of the Telling Stone. “I’m afraid so.”

  He rubs his chin. “Then I will speak to my father this afternoon. I don’t foresee him needing the wagon. Though if you can ride horseback, it would be better.”

  I bounce on my toes with elation. “Yes, I can ride. Tennith, thank you.”

  He smiles at me. His smile is different from Maekallus’s. Kinder, yet . . . plainer, in a way. An expected smile. “Let’s plan for an hour after dawn?”

  I thank him again, and hurry on my way. I have to prepare. I have to convince my father—

  I have to kiss Maekallus.

  My steps slow. The mortal realm hasn’t devoured him yet, but it will, and this time the blight is spreading more quickly. I don’t know how long he will last, I only know I need to buy myself as much time as possible.

  Only a piece, I remind myself. It should only be a piece, right?

  Distracted, I purchase bandages, food for the journey, thread. Return home and speak to my father in a soothing voice, massaging the stone between my fingers as I tell him of Caisgard and Tennith, of how he needs to stay and protect the house. It takes a little persuading, but not nearly as much as I expected. Perhaps he senses the need I have for this. Perhaps he is more perceptive than I give him credit for. And he will be safe, for a day. He is forgetful, but he is not incapable. He proved as much with the first gobler.