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 helpful 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.”