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 direction, 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.”