There is little on mystings as a whole; my grandmother’s journal is more precise than these volumes written by scholars. I’ve learned a great deal about herbs I now desire to plant in my garden, as well as various theories on the creation of the realms and what many call the “War That Almost Was” between the people of Amaranda and a horde from the monster realm—the very war my father fought in twenty years ago. But nothing mentions binding spells, or goblers, narvals, or even mystiums. Nothing mentions antidotes. None of these authors have traveled into the monster realm, and none, I believe, have ever seen a mysting with their own eyes. All the more reason to, someday, publish my own useful findings.
I do discover a scrying spell in a skinny book, its pages filled with tight, nearly illegible script. I jot it down, though I would need something of the person or being I want to find to activate it, and I’ve nothing of the gobler who bound Maekallus to his demise, and me alongside him. I’m near tears, a headache pulsing down my neck, when a hand grabs my shoulder.
I gasp and jump from my chair, a book on forest phenomena dropping from my lap to the floor.
“Easy, Enna.” Tennith pulls back his hand. He frowns. “You don’t look well.”
“I . . .” I realize I’ve not eaten, though I have dried fish and bread in my sack. Glancing out the window, I determine it must be the end of the afternoon—time to set off, if we want to reach Fendell before the dark swallows us.
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