I find the spell and hold it out to him. He takes it, looks at it sideways, and hands it back. “I can’t read mortal script. Tell me what it says.”
“Please,” I add.
He cocks an eyebrow.
I sigh. “It’s a scrying spell. A spell of finding. But it will only work if we have something of the gobler’s. I don’t suppose you grabbed anything off him before he vanished?”
Maekallus wipes a hand down his face. “No.”
I sigh again. “Then I’ll just hold on to it. Here.” I place the canteen, mutton, and slacks on the ground. “I don’t know how hungry you get, or how thirsty, but I brought these. And the slacks should fit well enough. What you’re wearing is filthy.”
He eyes the offerings like I’m trying to poison him. After a moment, he says, “What are you trying to gain, Enna?”
“What do you mean?”
“What are you trying to accomplish here? I won’t die if I don’t eat mortal meat; the fractions of your soul will sustain me.”
“Are you not hungry?”
He mulls over that. “As you said, I don’t fully understand your kind. What trick are you playing?”
I sigh. “It’s no trick. Merely a kindness.” I grab the clean slacks and hold them out. “You don’t need to accept.”
He eyes my hand, the bandage around it. Hesitant, he accepts the clothing.
And begins stripping right there.
I immediately turn my head away, a flush running up the back of my neck. I don’t grasp the reason for it—he’s only a mysting. But a humanoid one. More human than monster, even if he lacks propriety.
The old, leathery pants fall on a path of clover beside me. Distracting myself, I reach for the flint, steel, and oil in my basket. I say, “There’s one more thing I want to try. A descent circle. My father told me about it, and there’s little to lose in trying.”
“Your father’s descended to the Deep?”
There’s interest behind the question, and I know at once I shouldn’t have asked. When I believe it’s safe, I turn to meet his eyes. The slacks are loose on him and ride low. My ears warm. From the misplaced information, nothing more.
“He knows how to.” But Maekallus’s yellow stare makes my skin burn.
He strides over, human and equine, and crouches in front of me. “Tell me what you are.”
“I’m a mortal.”
“Then what is it you have?” he insists. “Why did the goblers want you? Why does your soul break off in pieces?” He pauses. “And why does your father know what a descent circle is?”
“You know what it is?” A question to avoid the questions.
He frowns, stands. “For a mysting. I’m not sure if it works for humans.”
I stand as well, my stick in hand, and draw a circle just as I had that first time in the wood—an eight-pointed star made of two overlying squares, surrounded by a circle. I add an X to it, the points of the lines just exiting the circle’s boundary.
“Hmm.” Maekallus’s only response.
“Might as well try it. I’ll light it—”
“Blood is a better offering.”
“—and you’ll stand in the middle and try to descend. Even if the binding spell doesn’t actually break, if you can get inside the monster realm, you won’t have to worry . . .”
I trail off, watching as a spot of black appears on his bicep and widens like a drop of ink against parchment. Maekallus follows my gaze and frowns, scratching at it.
“Don’t—”
He glances at me.
I swallow. “Touch it. It . . . might make it worse.”
He drops his hand. Instead of arguing with me about my latest pitiful attempt to break the gobler’s spell, he simply says, “Light it.”
I wonder if he’s growing used to me, or if he’s merely desperate and tired, like I am.
I spread the oil over the lines and light it, backing away in time to avoid the brunt of the smoke. When the flames die down, Maekallus walks to the center of the X, careful not to break the lines.
For a moment, the circle shimmers blue.
He takes in a deep breath through his nose, loud enough for me to hear over the sizzling of forest grass. “There’s power coming through.” He closes his eyes, tail flicking. I clasp my hands over my breast, praying to whoever and whatever will listen. Please, please help him.
Us. Help us.
But the light doesn’t return. Maekallus opens his eyes. I don’t need to ask; the disappointment is evident in the slouching of his body.
I try, “Perhaps blood—”
“I don’t think so.” He remains in the circle, studying it. Perhaps looking for mistakes. “A little more power might seep through, but this is not the answer.”
“You don’t know—”
“When you douse an oil fire with water and the fire spreads, do you try again with more water, Enna?”
I pause, wondering not only at his question, but at the way he says my name. It’s different, somehow. “I suppose I’ll trust you on this one.”
His expression perks.
“Does my trust surprise you? We’re bound in this, Maekallus.”
He doesn’t answer, only steps out of the circle and walks to the edge of the glade, looking out into the forest. I wait for him to . . . I don’t know. Do or say anything, but he doesn’t. I lick my lips and try, “Are you hungry?”
He turns enough to eye the lamb. It’s such a human gesture, made more so by his human expression. My mind wanders to the growing page on narvals in my book.
“Maekallus.”
His gaze meets mine.
“Did you ever consider that, maybe, you are the bastard?”
He turns toward me and folds his arms. “I’ve been called many things.”
“No, I mean . . . your birth. Your creation. The lore is that narvals form from the blood of bastards. But what if your origins were human? What if . . .”—I hardly dare to say it—“you were once human?”
He almost doesn’t react. Almost. His body remains motionless, arms folded, brow lax. But I see it in his eyes: a spark, a loathing, a hope. Somehow, all at once. He looks away, back to the forest, for a long moment before he says, “Do humans suffer boredom?”
The question takes me aback. “Pardon?”
He drops his arms, but forms a fist with one hand—one bloodied hand—and hits the trunk of a tree with it. “This realm is driving me half mad. I’d almost rather it consume me.”
I laugh.
I don’t know why. It isn’t funny. It’s rather pathetic, really. But I laugh, because our demises shine on the horizon, and Maekallus complains that the situation is too dull.
I suppose it would be, trapped in the same spot of forest for days on end.
But I laugh anyway. It feels so strange, so foreign, so good, and I realize I can’t remember the last time I laughed.
Maekallus growls.
“I’m sorry.” I hold myself, placing my hand over my ribs. “I’m sorry. It just . . . I . . .” I don’t have an explanation. Despite the laughter, I’m saddened by the realization that I’ve gone so long without it.
I can tell by the scrunched look on the narval’s face that he doesn’t understand me. It’s no use explaining.
I cross toward him, purposefully scuffing the descent circle as I go—I don’t want any unfortunate hunter or lost child to drop into the monster realm, should they wander this way. I unwrap my hand as I do so, tearing free a length of bandage that is still clean. I didn’t think to bring extra bandages with me today. I won’t make that mistake again.