The Will and the Wilds

by Holmberg, Charlie N.

  I pick up the book on the floor, tempted to rip out its useless pages. Even if I could neglect my father and convince Tennith to stay another day, I don’t think it would be fruitful, and then there would be the gossip. Curse this world, for how it runs on rumor! All I have is the scrying spell folded in my pocket.

  “I forgot to eat.” At least I can be honest about that. “I can do so as we ride. Did you find your cow?”

  He nods. “A fine young lady with eyes like sunstones. Got a decent price on her, too. But she’s not fast, so we’ll need to set out . . . Are you sure you’re well?”

  “Yes, quite,” I lie. I leave my books on my chair to be sorted later. “Let’s go. I—”

  I wince and hold up my hand. The very center of the scar has opened, the cut thin as baby hair and short as my pinky nail, but the musty library air makes it sting.

  “That’s a nasty scar.” Tennith reaches for it, but stops himself. “Where’d you get it?”

  I pull my hand away from his line of sight. “A while back, playing with one of my father’s swords.”

  “Your father was a swordsman?”

  It surprises me that Tennith doesn’t know this, given the stories spun about us, but I suppose only the oldest in Fendell would, and the best things about people always get forgotten beneath the worst.

  “He was.” There is pride in my voice, and I’m not ashamed of it. “One of the best.”

  Yes, my father. A man who has trekked where no scholar has gone: to the monster realm. Somewhere in the recesses of his broken mind, he must know more than what’s recorded at that library.

  I return home at dusk and bid Tennith a chillier goodbye than I wish to give him, but I cannot welcome conversation about the other evening. Not now.

  My father paces the living room when I arrive. “Enna, didn’t you say you were hunting new wood in the forest? You’ve been gone so long—”

  “I went to Caisgard, Papa.” I place my good hand on his forearm, the Telling Stone dangling from my wrist, cool and complacent. “Tennith escorted me, so I could go to the library.”

  His forehead wrinkles, then relaxes. “Oh. That’s right.”

  “Sit down, Papa. I’ll make you some tea.”

  “I’ve no mind to sit.”

  “Then do it so I can talk to you. Please.”

  He eyes me. I must look frightened, or determined, for his features soften and he drops into his old chair by the fire. I add a quarter log to the dwindling flames and kneel before him. Unclasping the bracelet from my hand, I place it in his palms, then put my hands on top.

  “I need you to tell me what you know about mystings and their magic, Papa. I’ve done something foolish and I”—my voice chokes, but I clear it and speak strongly—“need your help.”

  “My girl, what have you done? Oh no, you must never take this off. Never take it off, and never show another.” He busies himself refastening it to my wrist. If he notices its lack of warmth, he doesn’t say so.

  “If a woman were to make a bargain with a mysting, like Grandmother did,” I say as he sets the clasp, “and the mysting failed to fulfill the bargain—”

  “Foolish to bargain with mystings.” His eyes grow distant. “Oh, Elefie.”

  “Papa.”

  He looks at me.

  “If this bargain bound the woman to the demon, and a new spell bound that demon to the mortal realm, what should she do?”

  My father shakes his head. “Mystings can’t stay in our world, sweet Enna. It will kill them if they do. They must go back below.”

  “I know, Papa. But if this mysting dies, so will the woman.”

  He watches my face.

  “They’re bound together, and she can’t break the spell keeping him here. She can postpone fate, but it costs pieces of her soul. Pieces she might not get back.”

  “The Telling Stone protects you.”

  I shake my head and drop my hands. “Only when I heed its warnings.”

  “Have you done something, Enna? Has Mother been pestering you about the wildwood again?”

  “Grandmother is dead these seven years, Papa.”

  “Oh.” He gazes into the fire, expression slack, for a long moment. “Oh, yes. I buried her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that where my sword went? To break a binding?”

  I straighten. “Yes, Papa. But it didn’t work. A thread of light holds the mysting to the earth, and it cannot be cut by knife. Or even by the sword. There must be a way. Do you know a spell I could use?”

  He draws with his fingers in the air, and speaks as though in the middle of a story. “And you draw an X in the center of the summoning circle, stand at its very center, and murmur, ‘Kardish wer en apt li mon.’ That’s how you get into the realm of monsters. But don’t stay too long. If the mystings don’t kill you, the realm will.”

  My father has never before told me how he entered the monster realm nearly two decades before; I never imagined it would be different from a mysting’s descent circle. I marvel at his words, watch him draw the circle in the air. Repeat the enchantment over and over until I can barely hear or think anything else. Memorize it. I fish in my pocket for a charcoal nub and scrawl the words phonetically on the wooden floor. I must write them down, for my father may never repeat himself as long as he lives.

  He drops his hands and sighs. “These questions are best left to your grandmother. You’ll have to ask her in the morning, after the chores are done.”

  Clutching the Telling Stone, I blink tears from my eyes. “Yes, Papa. I will.”

  CHAPTER 12

  It seems that a mysting can tolerate the atmosphere of the mortal realm for three to eight days, perhaps depending on his its specific composition and endurance.

  What if she doesn’t return?

  Maekallus paces the length of his chain of light, though this time more from—what, anxiety?—than boredom.

  Anxiety? Is he feeling anxiety?

  He pauses and grabs the sides of his head as though he can rip the unpleasant sensation out. He’s felt it before, of course. Anxiety, fear. Not often—he has little to fear in the mortal realm—and never for long. But even those sour emotions are more exciting than the lack of them. They are alive.

  And yet, this is different. These feelings don’t ebb or wane. He can’t just . . . ignore them, like he used to. Nor can he pop into the Deep and digest them, for only in the world beneath does he have the ability to do so.

  He lowers his hands and stares at the light of the binding as though seeing it for the first time.

  His head throbs, and for a moment he’s somewhere else, inside a building made of old wood, a counter stretching before him. Anxious. He’s feeling so anxious, because they are coming, and they won’t take no for an answer—

  He groans and shakes his head hard enough to hurt, and the strange vision dissipates. He paces faster, trying to burn off the plague of feeling. Maybe, if he moves quick enough within the gobler’s cage, the mortal realm will struggle to keep up with him.

  A thorn pierces his hoof near the south edge of the glade. Cursing, Maekallus bends to see it better in the moonlight.

  A thorn.

  In his hoof?

  He grabs the obstruction with his thumb and forefinger and pulls it free. It’s shaped like a skinny arrowhead. He doesn’t know what plant it hails from.

  He does know that his hooves are too hard to be bothered by thorns.

  He looks down. They appear the same, but . . . leaning his weight from one to the other, he notices they’re . . . softer. Softer? Changed. Just like his tail.

  Anxiety flares again. He turns about and runs several paces before the binding pulls him up short, yanking and throwing him onto his back. He pulls at the thread until his chest aches, making him remember the biting sensation of the sword point digging into his muscles.

  “Enna!” The shout echoes between the trees. Prey and predators, what if she doesn’t come back? The cut on his hand points him in her dir
ection, but it has barely changed over the last day, and it won’t tell him how far . . .

  A new feeling stabs the anxious one, something spiny, hot yet cold. It twists, and he rubs at it, raking his humanlike nails over the skin of his chest. He doesn’t know this one. Or maybe he’s experienced it once, eaten it, and forgotten.

  But he wants Enna back. With news of this library, with another stupid mortal trick to try, or just to be there. To keep him from going insane. To keep the black fire away.

  What if she knows? What if she’s learned she’ll survive, just short a couple of fractions of a soul, if she leaves him to die alone?

  The pieces of her soul writhe inside him. He lunges at a tree, his horn piercing easily into its hard flesh. He rips it out, savoring the tugging ache on his skull.

  He flings himself at the tree again, and again, and again, until chips of wood surround him. Exhausted, he falls onto the splintery bed and descends into a restless, too-human sleep.

  CHAPTER 13

  Aster leaf, which many aquatic mystings are allergic to, is also good for the lungs.

  My hands tremble as I prepare breakfast in the morning, a simple meal of boiled wheat. I’m not entirely sure why they tremble, only that too many things trouble me.

  I must face a mysting.

  I must tell Maekallus that I failed us.

  I’m missing part of my soul.

  Papa sleeps late, and when he comes into the kitchen, he says, “Enna, when we spoke last night . . . that cut on your hand. Surely . . . but you are your grandmother’s granddaughter.”

  I school my face before turning around and setting the breakfast bowls on our tiny table. “What are you going on about?”

  “You made a deal with a mysting, didn’t you? And now you’ll perish—”

  I smile. “Papa, I think you were dreaming. I have this, remember?” I hold up the Telling Stone.

  His brows touch as he considers. “But you said . . . and the cut on your hand . . .”

  I wear a thin bandage around my palm again. The scar has split farther open beneath it. “The nail on the ladder, remember?”

  “But when—”

  “Just yesterday. Don’t worry yourself and come eat. Don’t we go to the market today?”

  My father looks from me to the bowl, then back to me. His brow relaxes, and he sits down. “We’re to the market today, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, Papa. I’ll help you gather the mushrooms after we eat.” I think of Tennith, of his kind words as we traveled. He never remarked when my thoughts went blank, and I’m sure it happened more than once. He gained some courage to speak to me as we returned to Fendell, but I changed the subject to the weariness of his milk cow, and so he ultimately didn’t ask me anything.

  I let myself briefly wonder what he would have asked, had I let him. Why did you want me to kiss you? is the most obvious. What are we? is another. I don’t know if Tennith would ever want to court me—I’m hardly the first choice of his family—yet he didn’t complain when I asked him to kiss me.

  I would hope to be filled with laughter and excitement at the prospect of Tennith Lovess taking an interest in me. Me, a woman who has always planned to live her days a spinster, gaining the attention of the most handsome young man in town. I know how I should feel—there are songs about great loves and great heartbreaks. They must be true, for even twenty years after my mother’s death, my father mourns her. Yet the thought of Tennith fills me with neither elation nor sorrow. I can think only of the monster realm, of Maekallus, and of Shava, the world beyond. At least, I hope Shava would still welcome me, should I die from this venture.

  Perhaps the highs and lows of emotion, of love, are not meant for me.

  I collect mushrooms and walk with Papa into town. Tennith’s mother is the one manning their booth, and she frowns at me the entire time we make our exchange. We buy our necessities—and more bandages—before returning home. I tell my father I forgot the cabbages for tonight’s stew, and then load up my basket with oil, flint and steel, a leg of mutton purchased in town, my silver dagger, my notes, a pair of Papa’s old slacks, and a water canteen. In the wildwood, I pick up a sizable branch to use as a walking stick. I move slowly to preserve my waning strength, most of which was eaten up by the trip into town. My father did not notice the way I leaned on him. At least, I don’t think he did.

  It’s noon by the time I near the glade. Before I even reach the flat space between the trees, Maekallus’s voice says behind me, “You returned.”

  I jump, nearly spilling my basket. My hand goes to my heart. Soul or not, it beats wildly from the scare. Maekallus grins at this. I don’t think he smiled the last time I came.

  I try not to notice the spots of black dotting the side of his neck and his left hand.

  “Of course I came back.” I pass him and move into the glade, searching for others, but we’re alone. “But I’m afraid the library had nothing of use, except maybe this.”

  I find the spell and hold it out to him. He takes it, looks at it sideways, and hands it back. “I can’t read mortal script. Tell me what it says.”

  “Please,” I add.

  He cocks an eyebrow.

  I sigh. “It’s a scrying spell. A spell of finding. But it will only work if we have something of the gobler’s. I don’t suppose you grabbed anything off him before he vanished?”

  Maekallus wipes a hand down his face. “No.”

  I sigh again. “Then I’ll just hold on to it. Here.” I place the canteen, mutton, and slacks on the ground. “I don’t know how hungry you get, or how thirsty, but I brought these. And the slacks should fit well enough. What you’re wearing is filthy.”

  He eyes the offerings like I’m trying to poison him. After a moment, he says, “What are you trying to gain, Enna?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What are you trying to accomplish here? I won’t die if I don’t eat mortal meat; the fractions of your soul will sustain me.”

  “Are you not hungry?”

  He mulls over that. “As you said, I don’t fully understand your kind. What trick are you playing?”

  I sigh. “It’s no trick. Merely a kindness.” I grab the clean slacks and hold them out. “You don’t need to accept.”

  He eyes my hand, the bandage around it. Hesitant, he accepts the clothing.

  And begins stripping right there.

  I immediately turn my head away, a flush running up the back of my neck. I don’t grasp the reason for it—he’s only a mysting. But a humanoid one. More human than monster, even if he lacks propriety.

  The old, leathery pants fall on a path of clover beside me. Distracting myself, I reach for the flint, steel, and oil in my basket. I say, “There’s one more thing I want to try. A descent circle. My father told me about it, and there’s little to lose in trying.”

  “Your father’s descended to the Deep?”

  There’s interest behind the question, and I know at once I shouldn’t have asked. When I believe it’s safe, I turn to meet his eyes. The slacks are loose on him and ride low. My ears warm. From the misplaced information, nothing more.

  “He knows how to.” But Maekallus’s yellow stare makes my skin burn.

  He strides over, human and equine, and crouches in front of me. “Tell me what you are.”

  “I’m a mortal.”

  “Then what is it you have?” he insists. “Why did the goblers want you? Why does your soul break off in pieces?” He pauses. “And why does your father know what a descent circle is?”

  “You know what it is?” A question to avoid the questions.

  He frowns, stands. “For a mysting. I’m not sure if it works for humans.”

  I stand as well, my stick in hand, and draw a circle just as I had that first time in the wood—an eight-pointed star made of two overlying squares, surrounded by a circle. I add an X to it, the points of the lines just exiting the circle’s boundary.

  “Hmm.” Maekallus’s only response.

&nbs
p; “Might as well try it. I’ll light it—”

  “Blood is a better offering.”

  “—and you’ll stand in the middle and try to descend. Even if the binding spell doesn’t actually break, if you can get inside the monster realm, you won’t have to worry . . .”

  I trail off, watching as a spot of black appears on his bicep and widens like a drop of ink against parchment. Maekallus follows my gaze and frowns, scratching at it.

  “Don’t—”

  He glances at me.

  I swallow. “Touch it. It . . . might make it worse.”

  He drops his hand. Instead of arguing with me about my latest pitiful attempt to break the gobler’s spell, he simply says, “Light it.”

  I wonder if he’s growing used to me, or if he’s merely desperate and tired, like I am.

  I spread the oil over the lines and light it, backing away in time to avoid the brunt of the smoke. When the flames die down, Maekallus walks to the center of the X, careful not to break the lines.

  For a moment, the circle shimmers blue.

  He takes in a deep breath through his nose, loud enough for me to hear over the sizzling of forest grass. “There’s power coming through.” He closes his eyes, tail flicking. I clasp my hands over my breast, praying to whoever and whatever will listen. Please, please help him.

  Us. Help us.

  But the light doesn’t return. Maekallus opens his eyes. I don’t need to ask; the disappointment is evident in the slouching of his body.

  I try, “Perhaps blood—”

  “I don’t think so.” He remains in the circle, studying it. Perhaps looking for mistakes. “A little more power might seep through, but this is not the answer.”

  “You don’t know—”

  “When you douse an oil fire with water and the fire spreads, do you try again with more water, Enna?”

  I pause, wondering not only at his question, but at the way he says my name. It’s different, somehow. “I suppose I’ll trust you on this one.”