The Will and the Wilds

by Holmberg, Charlie N.

  I want to be whole again.

  I want my soul back—all of it. He owes it to me for saving him, for giving him more time.

  And yet the thought of Maekallus’s yellow eyes and pointed tail and equine hooves makes this endless pain inside me hurt more, enough that I grit my teeth and hold my breath, willing it to pass. It does, a little. Only a little.

  Do I lose the man Maekallus has become by retrieving my own soul? The man who bathed in my tears, who held me as I fell asleep, who kept the nightmares away?

  Does that man even exist?

  I look down at my hand, the palm glistening with rain. All this time he could have broken that bargain. Why now? It’s almost finished. I’ve almost no soul left, if Attaby is to be believed. So why now?

  What changed?

  I turn, looking through the arrows of rain back up my trodden path. I’m unsure about so many things, except one.

  There can be no happy ending for us.

  CHAPTER 23

  Mystings should never be trusted. Ever.

  I’m wet and quivering when I break through the trees. My house looks darker, drabber, in the rain. I stop when I see Tennith walking away from it, a thin cloak draped over his shoulders.

  I watch him, wondering if I should call out, but I’m cold and exhausted and broken, and what would I say to him?

  For a moment, I let myself imagine. What if I had kissed Tennith but not Maekallus? Tennith would have approached me later, asking why, and perhaps I would have told him the truth, at least in part. Would he have been flattered? Would he have been bold enough to pursue me, despite the lack of gain?

  Is he trying to pursue me now?

  My heart flips in a tight, painful way. I’m silent at the forest edge. The rain should nullify the sound of my breathing, but Tennith glances my way and sees me. A moment passes, one I can’t interpret, before he changes direction and strides toward me.

  “Enna? Are you all right?”

  I wonder what my face looks like for him to ask, or perhaps he’s merely reacting to my winter coat or the fact that I’m strolling about the wildwood in the middle of the storm. I clear my throat to lend strength to my voice. “Well enough.”

  “And your father?”

  I start toward my home. My legs are sore and heavy. “He is doing better, thank you.”

  “Let me help you inside.”

  I don’t protest. I step into my home as Tennith holds the door for me. I ache to keep my coat on, but it’s drenched and so am I, so I peel it off and lay it near the fire, which Tennith builds without prompting. Kind of him. He’s always been so kind. So perfect. So human.

  I slip into my bedroom, sitting on my bed for a moment to rest my legs. I want to sleep, yet I feel that my body will refuse me again. After several long minutes, I force myself up and peel my dress and underthings from my body and shake water from my hair. I dress in gray—it suits me today—and go to my father’s room. He’s awake, which eases a tension I didn’t know I carried.

  “Oh, Enna. A book, would you?”

  “Would you like to sit in your chair, Papa?”

  “Ah . . . not yet.” He offers me a sad smile.

  I retrieve a book from my own shelf, a fairy tale of a scullery maid who wins the heart of a prince. I wonder, briefly, what the story would be like if the prince were a mysting.

  All copies would be burned in the town square, surely.

  I hand him the book. “I’ll be right back, Papa. Tennith is visiting.”

  “Oh, he is? Nice boy.”

  I return to the front room, where the fire is blazing. Nice boy. He is. A nice, mortal boy with a nice farm and a nice face. I let myself daydream again, just for a moment. Imagine waking to that face every morning. Imagine falling asleep in his arms.

  Would he ever kiss me the way Maekallus did?

  I shake the thought from my mind. Tennith stands near the hearth, perhaps thinking it impolite to take a chair.

  “Can I get you something to eat or drink? Tea?”

  He shakes his head. “You look ready to sleep on your feet, Enna. I don’t need anything.”

  I sit in Papa’s chair to spare myself the energy of standing. “My father is well. He had a hard turn, but he’s mending. Reading now. He’s too weak to come out, if you’ll forgive him.”

  “In all honesty, Enna, I came to see you.” He frowns. “You don’t look well. Have you caught your father’s illness? I could send my sister to care for you—”

  I shake my head. “Trouble sleeping is all. Some rest will see me fit.”

  His countenance doesn’t lift. We’re both silent for a long moment. The fire cracks and dances in the hearth. I grit my teeth to suppress their chattering. I’m so cold I want to dive into the flames.

  Tennith breaks the lull. “I wish I understood you, Enna.”

  I wish I understood me, too, I think. I meet his gaze, waiting.

  He sighs. “You’ve been in my thoughts a great deal lately.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. But you have, and I hardly know what to think about you. And then I come here and see you looking miserable, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, and I don’t know what to say to you, either.”

  I roll my lips together. “Papa and I have had some struggles.” I hug myself, clench my jaw. It might make me look angry, but I don’t want to shiver and look a wreck. I don’t want Tennith to feel he must stay and help me, especially when there is so little he can do.

  Only Maekallus can mend my soul, if such a feat is possible.

  Could Tennith mend my heart?

  “I kissed you because I wanted to,” I say, though I speak to the fire, not to him. “Some . . . family issues recently arose that . . . complicated a few things. And I thought that night might be my last chance.”

  A truth embedded in a lie. But vague lies are less harmful than specific ones, aren’t they?

  Tennith is quiet for a long moment. He sighs. “You’re a difficult woman to court, Enna Rydar.”

  I look at him and raise an eyebrow. “Are you trying to court me, Tennith Lovess?” My breathing echoes in my hollow chest. Is it the slenderness of my soul that dampens my excitement? Yet it didn’t stop my heart from tearing in the glade, or extinguish the fire of betrayal and the unyielding chill of sorrow that carried me home.

  I want to cry all over again. Am I so broken I cannot find joy in the potential of a more-than-suitable match? A husband, a family?

  What is a soul if not an extension of the heart?

  Had I unknowingly given even my heart to him?

  The edge of Tennith’s mouth quirks. “If I am, I’m very poor at it.”

  A flame burns within me, something hot with rage and confusion and hurt. I want nothing more than to cast all of this behind me, to forget, to stop being a shell of who I once was. Couldn’t I still have that dreamy life, even if I’ll never be whole again? Am I not human enough to deserve happiness?

  I stand on renewed legs and cross the small front room until I’m standing before Tennith. His eyes glitter with wonder, but he doesn’t shy away from me.

  “Then court me,” I say, defiant.

  His gaze lowers to my mouth, lingers. For a moment I think I’ll have to do this myself, but just before I lean into him, he lowers his mouth to mine.

  It’s just as before, warm, his lips pleasantly rough. I push harder, and his hand comes up to cradle my cheek. I hold my breath from habit, but nothing breaks inside me. I’m filled with the scents of earth and fresh wood. The kiss is warm and sweet, and it makes me feel emptier than the hollow where my broken soul slumbers. I shrink away, parting from him, and I want nothing more than to be alone, to curl around the fire until my dress smokes, and weep. To escape into slumber, even if it’s laced with nightmares. I clutch the Will Stone in my hand—then drop it just as quickly.

  Averting my eyes, I manage, “This may be easier when health has returned to this home.”

  Tennith doesn’t respond at f
irst. When I gather enough courage to meet his eyes, he nods. “Can I . . . get you a blanket? Some water?”

  I force a wan smile. “I will do well enough.”

  He hesitates. “Take care, Enna. I’ll . . . be back.”

  He fastens his cloak around his shoulders and opens the door to the rain, casting me one last unsure look before stepping into it.

  Alone, I let my wasted body collapse to the rug before the hearth. I lie against the hard floor, shivering, until my mind relents and takes my consciousness into the horrors of the monster realm.

  In my dreams, the teeth of a great beast clamp down on my hand.

  I startle awake, blinking red light from my eyes. The Will Stone sits in my open palm, burning cold.

  The fire is down to embers. I drop the stone, not wanting to be any colder than I am. My coat is dry, so I slip it on before hurrying into the hall. It’s dark. In my father’s room, I see through the window that the sky has cleared enough for some stars to peek through.

  “Papa?”

  He slumbers, his book propped open on his chest.

  Horrible images stir in my vision, sounds and smells foreign to me. I try to push them away. In the kitchen, I make a small plate of cheese and mushrooms and bread, and I set it on my father’s bedside with a tankard of water. In the kitchen, I swallow a few morsels for myself and drown them in several gulps of mead. It warms my belly and drives some of the cold away.

  Taking a deep breath, I clasp the stone.

  Gobler. And I instantly know which one. The female, from the smaller glade. The one I willed to bring me something of her companion, Grapf.

  My body sings with cool strength, like a dam has burst inside me. Like a portion of my soul has returned. I clutch the stone, trying to see her through its sorcery. I feel her moving through the wildwood to the north. If the gobler has returned as instructed, she’s been successful.

  I fasten a cloak over my winter coat, partially for warmth, partially for the dark color. I no longer fear the gobler or any of the mystings in the wildwood. If anything, they should fear me.

  I slip out through the kitchen door with nothing but the scrap of paper I saved from the Duke of Sands’s library and a lantern. I avoid the wildwood at first, for the ground beyond it is more even and easier to cover in the dark. Soon, however, the forest is inevitable, and I pierce its shadows, shivering under the touch of the Will Stone the entire way.

  The stone’s iciness recedes before I reach the rendezvous. The gobler has retreated, perhaps back to her realm, as instructed. By the time I arrive at the glade, the stone is merely cool again.

  I clutch the stone as I enter the dark place, lifting my light. The shadows of this place, the smell of wetness and mud, the stirring of life in foliage and branches, should frighten me away. But I have the Will Stone. I’ve seen the monster realm. I am not afraid.

  There, perched on the thick root of an aspen, is a tiny vessel, no larger than my pinky finger. It’s made of a strange black glass, almost like obsidian, with a rough cork stopper. I pick it up and hold it to my light. There’s some sort of liquid inside, thick and opaque. Something of Grapf’s.

  I’m cold and weary, but I cannot stop the smile that spreads across my face. Soon, Maekallus will be free, and I’ll have my soul back.

  CHAPTER 24

  Narvals bleed red.

  I hate how my entire being prickles, like pine needles pierce my veins, as I near Maekallus’s glade. I hate that I feel anything toward him, when I could barely muster the strength to smile at Tennith. I hate how uncertain I feel, even with the black vial clutched in one hand and the Will Stone clasped in the other. Once upon a time, I wondered at the extremes bards sang about in their songs. Now I would cut the strings of their mandolins were I to hear them.

  How, with but a portion of a soul, can I feel this way? So full of rage and sorrow and passion. Maekallus consumed the majority of my soul before losing his edge. I can only suppose the difference is that I am a naturally souled being, while he is not. Perhaps I must lose my soul in its entirety before my emotions relent. It almost sounds like a blissful end.

  The lantern swings from my wrist, arcing back and forth through the nearly complete darkness of the wildwood. A few crickets chirp nearby—more proof that Maekallus is no longer a threat.

  I hate the strange spark of hope the thought gives me. I hate feeling anything beyond contempt for the thief of my soul. I should stay away and let the mortal realm eat at him a little longer. Let it punish him for me. But human decency aside, the longer I wait to free Maekallus, the more of my soul I’ll have to relinquish to keep him alive. And he must live, if I’m to retrieve the fullness of my soul. Neither of us has time to spare.

  He’s easy to find, for he’s near the center of the glade, curled around the spot where the thread of the gobler’s spell sucks into the earth. For a moment I think the corruption has already devoured him, and panic rises in a great bubble up my throat. But as I steady the lantern, I see that the smudges and streaks on Maekallus’s exposed skin are mud. He is speckled with black, yes, but it’s not bad.

  I step lightly as I near him. A breeze through the leaves muffles the sound of my approach. A wolf howls, but the sound is distant, almost too far to hear. I lift my lantern.

  He’s sleeping. He looks more human asleep, save for that ever-shrinking horn. His breathing is unlabored, yet a line creases his brow as if he, too, dreams of the monster realm. I wonder if he dreamed at all, before meeting me.

  I look at him too long. Standing there, staring at him, I feel directionless, like I’ve transported somewhere as foreign as the Deep and I’m spinning, spinning, unable to stop. I press my fist, the one holding the Will Stone, into my chest. I feel my ribs pulling apart, opening a bottomless hole in me—

  I drop the Will Stone before I can do anything rash. I breathe deeply and grind my teeth. “Maekallus.”

  He is not a sound sleeper, for he wakes upon hearing his name. Slowly, his lids heavy, he opens his eyes. They dart from side to side as if he doesn’t recognize where he is.

  I wonder what his true name is. The name of the bastard that spawned him.

  It doesn’t matter.

  His eyes find my lantern first, then my face. He sits up quickly, then presses a hand to his head. “Enna? What—”

  I crouch down and hold out the black vial. “The gobler returned and left this. Unless something down there broke the stone’s spell, this belonged to Grapf.”

  He blinks at the vial, then looks at me. Too long. The vial! I want to shout. It’s what we’ve been waiting for!

  I shake my hand to pull his attention back to it. Straightening, he takes it and turns it over in the light of my lamp. Uncorks it. Lets a bit of the liquid onto his finger.

  His face twists. He corks the vial and wipes his hand on wet grass. “I think we have a winner.”

  “What is it?”

  “Phlegm.”

  I frown, but I don’t care what it is. It’s something.

  Uncaring for the condition of my dress, I touch my knees to the forest floor and pull the scrying spell from my pocket. “If this spell works, we’ll find him at last.”

  “But if he’s in the Deep—”

  “I’ll go into the monster realm myself and will him here.”

  His eyes harden. “No, you won’t.”

  “You can’t,” I bite back. “I will do whatever it takes. I want my soul back, Maekallus.”

  He leans back as though I’ve struck him. Good.

  His amber gaze shifts to the scrying spell. He takes it from my hand and unfolds it. Snarls. “I can’t read this.”

  “You don’t need to.” I snatch it back. I get the feeling that Maekallus wants to do this himself. But why? To spare me? He should have thought of sparing me earlier.

  He didn’t have a soul.

  I ignore the thought and read through the words. I’m no sorcerer. I’ve never cast a spell in my life, minus the circles that got me into this situation
in the first place. I don’t know where the magic comes from—what god, what place, what origin—but I want to make sure I get the spell right. I will myself to get it right, because if this doesn’t work, I’m as good as dead. Both of us are.

  The spell is in Horda, a dead language used by people who inhabited Amaranda before we did. Scholars still learn some of their tongue, and I know sorcerers used it. I’m fairly certain I can pronounce the words.

  Clutching the vial, I say them. I feel a warmth deep in the hollowest parts of myself, but it fizzles out as I trip over the fifth word. Steeling myself, I try again, building the warmth up, losing it. My fourth try is the one that makes it stick.

  Warmth shoots out of my lips, making me gag. A faint white shimmer hangs in the air, like dust caught in sunlight. It’s the width of my thumb, and I watch, entranced, as it springs past the glade, winding east.

  I stand up, blood racing, energy renewed. “Do you see it?”

  Maekallus searches. “See what?”

  Only the caster can see it, then. Something to document later. “A path. To the gobler.” I turn back, almost taking his hand. Then I shiver, remembering how very cold I am, and keep my hands fisted at my sides. “Come.”

  We follow the trail a short distance before Maekallus hits an invisible wall. He says nothing, only waits.

  You need to actively want my company, he said the first time. I don’t want to want it, but I can’t go alone. Can I?

  I shiver and wordlessly will him forward. Maekallus takes another step and inhales like he’s coming up for air after too long underwater. I should find satisfaction in the fact that I’ve made him suffer, however briefly, but I only feel the vastness of my cold and empty being.

  I follow the trail, Maekallus half a step behind me, almost close enough to tread on my heels. The shimmering trail is about knee high. Sometimes it shoots through trees or over shallow ravines, forcing me to find my way around in the dark. The eagerness of the discovery keeps me going, but my body starts to fail me, and unnatural fatigue takes over. Maekallus touches my arm, but I slap him away. Moments later, my shaking legs give out beneath me.