The Will and the Wilds

by Holmberg, Charlie N.

  Emptiness echoes inside me. My dwindling soul?

  “Scroud was powerful because of that.” Maekallus points to my bracelet. “It bends the will of those around you. He built up an army with it.” He cringes. “Even I bowed to its power once.”

  When I don’t answer, he continues, “You’ve heard of the War That Almost Was. Scroud’s first attempt to claim a piece of the mortal realm. Foolish, but none of us could deny him. Not with that.” He spits the last word. “He wanted my kind for scouts. And we couldn’t say no. The second his army grew too numerous and he got distracted, I ran for it. Then your mortals drove him back, and someone took his precious amulet away from him. His war barely started before it ended.” Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “He’s spent the last two decades looking for it. He’s held on to some of his recruits. The goblers, for instance. He must be poking holes all over the mortal realm, looking for it.”

  He regards me with something between disdain and awe. I, of course, was not the one to take it, but surely he is piecing together who did.

  I stand, my legs sore, my dress bloody. I wipe my hands clean on the skirt. Beneath my loose bandage, my palm bears a pale scar. “But I . . . I never . . .”

  My mouth closes. My mind is slow, but the memories come. Maekallus agreeing to my meager price so easily. The apothecary relinquishing information. Tennith escorting me to Caisgard. My father allowing me to go. Maekallus returning my book so promptly. The grinlers running away, their meal uneaten.

  My gaze drops to Maekallus’s chest. Had I not, in my heart, called out to him as the grinlers surrounded me?

  “I willed you here.” The words are but a breath. I broke the limits of his mortal cage.

  He touches the spot on his chest where the spell buries into his flesh.

  It makes sense. Even with half a mind, my father should not have permitted me to go to Caisgard in the company of an unmarried bachelor. And knowing Maekallus as I do now, I know he never would have consented to help me for mere coin. And he . . . he’s seen this stone before. It bent him to another’s will then, just as it does now.

  Did the stone also compel him to fight so brutally, or did he want to defend me?

  “Mystings have searched for it for years,” he continues. “Somehow that gobler traced it here, and when he didn’t come back, his friends came looking. I wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  He presses his lips together.

  “What, Maekallus?”

  “If they’re Scroud’s henchman, we’re in more trouble than we thought. He might not have the stone anymore, but his influence is . . . substantial.”

  While I’m somewhat comforted by the use of the word we, I shiver. “They’ve not returned.” Besides Maekallus, the only mystings who have witnessed my ownership of the stone are dead.

  Maekallus frowns. “No. Not yet.” He perks up suddenly and looks at me as though I’m a stranger. Like he’s realized something.

  I realize it, too. “Maekallus, I could will you back to your realm.”

  Surprise opens his features. So that hadn’t been his thought. What, then?

  “Perhaps.” A whisper.

  I palm the stone. Hold it to my chest. Close my eyes. Descend, Maekallus. Return to the monster realm. Go. Return. Leave this place.

  Nothing happens.

  I open my eyes. “Perhaps we need a circle . . .”

  “No,” he replies darkly, looking away. “The stone only controls the will of living creatures. It will not work.”

  “Then how did I will you outside that glade?”

  He grumbles. “You willed me, not the spell.” Wiping a hand down his face, he adds, “It never did affect me, when we were in opposite realms. Scroud usually stayed in the Deep, planning. I could breathe in the mortal realm. But if I didn’t carry out his commands, I’d feel it the moment I returned.”

  Which would explain why Scroud couldn’t just force the human generals to surrender from the safety of the monster realm. How far did the stone’s influence reach? Enough to persuade a small army, but perhaps not enough to also cull a second army into submission. “We could try—”

  “And we will fail!” he barks.

  I teeter back from the power of his anger as though he’d struck me. His eyes blaze. I want nothing more than to be away from that stare.

  I’m still holding the Will Stone.

  The realization barely registers before Maekallus flies backward from the forest as if shoved by a great gust of wind. His arms and legs shoot out as he sails away, narrowly missing a branch, following the line of the thread connected to him. I gasp and watch him fly away until the trees mask his path.

  The stone drops from my fingers. “Maekallus?”

  Only a magpie answers back.

  I am a coward, for I don’t follow Maekallus into the glade.

  I gather my things and run back home, until my body is weary and ready to sick up from the exercise. I collapse inside the kitchen. I must have fallen asleep right there on the stonework, for I wake with a crick in my neck, and the side of my face is cold.

  I hear the creaking of the cellar doors—Papa coming up from the mushrooms.

  Pushing my basket aside, I pick myself up and grab the metal bathing tub, half hobbling as I pull it into my room. I fill it with two pitchers of unwarmed water before stripping off my bloody dress and scrubbing myself until my teeth chatter.

  The bracelet hangs from my wrist. I palm the stone. How often have I used this unknowingly? When my father told me about the descent circle, was it because I willed the information out of him? Surely I hadn’t willed Tennith to kiss me . . . No, I had been prepared for him to decline. But I may have willed him not to speak to me about it, on the way to and from Caisgard.

  Could I not also will the townsfolk to treat us kindly? Force Lunus Mather to give me fair prices? Will animals into waiting snares?

  Persuade, with just a thought, a headmaster to permit my acceptance into a college?

  For a moment my spirits lift, until something leaden and dark pushes down on them. What would my father think, knowing I’d forced his hand with the supernatural? Or Tennith, or . . . anyone? What must Maekallus think, for surely he must have pieced together what I’d already unknowingly done.

  What if someone wielded the stone’s power against me, bending my will to theirs and forcing me to do what was against my nature?

  I almost take the bracelet off. I don’t want to affect others in such a horrible, absolute way, especially not my father, who could not have realized the power he had bestowed on me when he first placed the bracelet around my wrist.

  But then I think of the grinlers, of the hunger in their eyes, and I leave the bracelet be.

  I let myself be normal—as normal as can be—for a little while. I don’t wish to see Maekallus. He saved my life, yes, and in turn I saved his. But I need to be with my father right now. I need to be . . . away from Maekallus’s revelation and the confusion his presence stirs in me.

  My father is happy to have me around. I play fell the king with him, and to my sorrow, I also forget my strategy. Memory just . . . doesn’t hold as easily as it should, and the explanation is clear. It’s a long game, and it pleases me that Papa wins.

  I fear the following day, when we must return to the market, but while my soul is in pieces, my mind is still sharp, and I manage just fine, though I change my usual path to avoid Tennith. I’m not sure what I’d say to him, and my moments of listlessness and blankness have me on edge. Occasionally, pain spikes in that deepness where my soul resides. I can’t remember the recipe for my grandmother’s meat pie, and I allow my too-tired body more naps than I should. But if I look past all of that, I’m well enough.

  My father, however, is not. He starts to cough and look a little pale, so I put him to bed and make him vegetable broth and tea. It revitalizes him for a time, but when he goes to our vegetable garden to pull weeds, he sickens again, and I order him to spend the rest of the day in bed. I try to
will him better, but it seems illness is not something that can be coerced.

  With my father abed, I’m left to stew in my own thoughts. I wonder about the grinlers and how far the Will Stone’s power stretches. Nearly a dozen grinlers heeded my command, but they have limited intelligence. Would such a tactic work on greater mystings, like Maekallus? Like this Scroud? Could I not simply will him and his goblers to leave me be, should they return?

  I write all my thoughts into my notes, filling page after page with questions and theories. I had willed Maekallus out of the glade to rescue me. Did he sacrifice himself to help me merely because the stone bid him to do so? Or perhaps he was persuaded by the fact that I am the one keeping him alive. Us alive.

  Does it matter, his motivation? Why do I even care?

  I wonder if I could will another creature to come to me. The gobler in the wildwood, the one who set the spell on Maekallus. Could I force him to break the spell, or will that interworld barrier prevent it, just as it banned Maekallus from descending to the monster realm?

  I try, but the stone does not tingle, nor does it reveal its secrets to my mind. I document all of this in my book.

  Papa sleeps late the following day. I make him a hearty meal in hopes of improving his stamina and a tonic of aster leaf, which is good for the lungs. My stone is cooler that morning, warning of the approach of a mysting—a rooter—nearby. I will it away, and the stone warms.

  It’s the knowledge of its protection that finally gives me the strength to return to the glade, basket in tow.

  Maekallus has worn an ovular track in the clearing with his pacing. I remember his claim of impending madness and feel guilty for my absence. The black spots blemishing his skin mark the time I’ve spent away. Gripping the stone, I try once more to will him back into the monster realm, but the stone does not heed my request.

  I drop the stone. “I’m sorry.”

  He spins about, finding me amid the trees. I can’t read his expression. Not quite relieved, not quite angry.

  I swallow. “I needed some time to think. I . . . I didn’t mean to trap you here.” I lift my basket as a peace offering. “I brought you food and books.”

  He guffaws. “I told you, I can’t read mortal writings.”

  “I’ll read them to you. I don’t mind.” I step into the glade, over the matted grass and packed dirt of his track. I cross almost to where the binding spell pierces the earth, then set my basket down and sit on a patch of orchard grass. It’s strange, this absurd predicament I’m in. It’s bizarre and morbid and deadly, and yet in this confined space with this impertinent mysting, I feel . . . normal. Not the outcast, not the peculiar woman who lives on the outskirts of town. It’s as if here, I am truly myself.

  And with that thought, the sudden urge to explain boils up my throat.

  I say, “I should tell you—” at the same time Maekallus asks, “Have you been amusing yourself with your newfound power?”

  A frown tugs at my lips. “Of course not.”

  He smirks. “To think of the games you could play with humans—with anyone—with a stone like that.”

  “Then it is a good thing I possess it, and not you.”

  He cocks a brow.

  I pat the grass next to me. “Sit.”

  He doesn’t move. I wait, and he says, “You can will it.”

  “Now that I know I have the ability, I will be more careful not to use it. If you do not wish to sit, I will not make you.”

  He considers this. “I find you odd, Enna.”

  “Most do.” I pat the grass.

  He sighs and crosses the glade, sitting beside me. He smells like the forest, like summer and ancient trees. I offer him the food I brought. He takes it, but doesn’t eat.

  After several seconds of silence, I speak. “My mother was killed by grinlers.” I watch the glimmer of the binding spell where it lifts from the earth, stretching toward the mysting beside me. “It happened in the middle of day, just like . . . then. She was pregnant with me. They killed her, and my father cut me out to save me.”

  I glance to Maekallus. He looks almost . . . sympathetic. But surely no mysting could experience such a sensation. Not toward a mortal.

  But what about a mysting with a soul?

  “Their attack frightened me, but I suppose it helped us in a way,” I continue. “Since now I understand this stone better. If I cannot get you back to your home, at least I can relieve these weeds from your incessant stomping.”

  His lips quirk into a smile. The expression lights something in me, near the ache of my missing soul.

  I look away. It is not attraction. Any such feelings I harbor for Maekallus merely spring from my desire to learn more about his kind, from my yearning for the lost bits of my soul. Yet are they bits? I have no idea how much he’s taken, or how much remains inside me.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  I start.

  He eyes me.

  “You’ve never once thanked me for anything.”

  He frowns. Considers.

  I turn back to the binding spell. “I’m not sure what to do next. I tried willing the gobler here, but nothing has happened.”

  Maekallus rubs his jaw. “If I can leave this place,” he gestures to the glade, “I have a friend of sorts who frequents the wildwood. Rooters enjoy mortal forests.”

  Rooters. One of the few generally docile mystings of which I am aware. My grandmother was especially familiar with their kind, which is why I had the courage to track one before. I think of the one I recently sent away. “You’re sure he’s here?”

  “I think I could find him. His name is Attaby. He’s more familiar with magic than I am. It might be a ways.”

  “I . . .”

  He glances my way.

  “How far? My father isn’t well. Not terribly so, but . . .”

  “I don’t know. Not too far. He frequents the wildwood. I may be able to call to him if we draw another one of those circles. There was . . . some . . . power in it.”

  I mull over this for a moment. “I could try to will him to us.”

  Maekallus doesn’t hide his frown as his gaze flicks to the stone hanging from my wrist. He’s sensitive to it, but I would be, too, had it acted like my prison in the past. “If we can’t find him, yes. But believe me, the fewer creatures who know about that thing, the better. Attaby is intelligent. He might be able to figure it out.”

  I nod. “Then we might need provisions. And to see that my father is well.”

  “Can it be done today? I don’t need to eat. You . . .”

  He glances downward. I think he meant to indicate my stomach, but his eyes linger on my breasts. Feeling warm, I cross my arms, and he looks away. “I can leave now.” He thumbs a black spot on the back of his hand.

  The cut on my hand has opened again. I massage the Will Stone. “Let’s go. The worst we’ll get is some exercise, right?” Tennith, stop by the house and check on my father. If this Will Stone can reach you . . . ensure he’s provided for.

  The stone tingles against my fingers.

  Maekallus stands and offers me his hand, another surprising gesture. I take it, and he lifts me to my feet.

  “First, the circle,” he says, and draws a star in the soil.

  CHAPTER 17

  A vuldor is an unintelligent mysting of canine make that lives exclusively in the monster realm. That is to say, neither I nor my source have ever seen its kind on the mortal plane.

  Maekallus stands in the center of a descent circle. Although mystings don’t need a circle to return to the Deep, and the binding spell won’t allow such a circle to work in its intended manner, he’s discovered this rune opens the space between realms just enough to let him suck up a little power. Before his fight with the grinlers, he hadn’t realized how powerless he’s become, how . . . mortalesque. He isn’t as fast or as strong. He can’t remove his horn. And gods below, he’s lost his tail. It’s as though the growing soul inside him clashes with his immortal body, and as compromi
se, his form becomes more and more . . . human.

  Maekallus closes his eyes as the circle lights, drawing upon the energy it emits. He will need the boost to find Attaby.

  “But you don’t mind if we use the basement. Of course you don’t mind.”

  He rears back. The man doesn’t even bother to offer him a bribe. The glint in his eye and the knife beneath his coat is enough.

  Maekallus grits his teeth against the strange . . . what, memory? . . . surfacing in his head.

  Enna’s voice follows it. “Maybe, you are the bastard?”

  So what if he is? He was made from a human. From the murder of one. Thus his humanoid form. He’s always known that. He’d been born a fully formed adult—there are no infant mystings. They don’t generate the way humans do. He isn’t the bastard who died to create him.

  So why is it that, somewhere in a dark pit inside him where the pieces of Enna’s soul nest, he wants her speculation to be true?

  The bit of power snuffs out. Maekallus opens his eyes. Feels the tendrils of energy dancing through his black-mottled fingertips. No. Humans—mortals—are weak. Pathetic. He wants nothing to do with them. He certainly doesn’t wish to be one.

  “Maekallus?”

  He looks up at Enna’s voice. The fragmented soul stirs within him.

  Would it be so terrible, to be like her?

  He knows now why he hadn’t consumed her inner being with that first kiss; the Will Stone explains as much. He’d realized it after the grinlers’ attack, when they stood there in the forest, surrounded by the bodies of the fallen grinlers, Enna covered in his blood. It’s simple.

  She doesn’t want to lose her soul, so she wills it to stay.

  The magic of his kind pulls, and the stone resists. The conflicting forces reached this strange compromise, just like the way his physical form changes to accommodate the newfound soul within.

  Is that the reason why the soul inside him continues to live so fiercely? Because she wills it not to lose its vigor? To stay alive? To possibly, one day, return to her?

  Is this newest piece of soul the reason why, when Enna had fallen into deep slumber after healing him, he’d felt panic entirely his own?