Enna stands. “Tolerant? This is our world. We tolerate them.”
Attaby shakes his head. “Oh no, no. The strong prey on the weak, it has always been so. The setting is just happenstance.”
Enna frowns. Maekallus, biting down on a groan, gets up on one malformed hoof, then the other. Slowly, every muscle in his back pulling and twisting, he stands, albeit hunched over.
“Scroud’s minions,” Attaby continues. “Something around here he wants. I can’t think of another reason for them to brood about in the wildwood, unless it’s a grab for resources.”
Maekallus licks his teeth. Scroud. More mystings in the area. Do they know Enna has the stone? But the gobler who escaped him never made it to her home. Perhaps they have determined to look elsewhere.
“Hmm. May I?” Attaby steps closer to Enna. Places a hand on her shoulder. Maekallus can tell she’s trying not to shrink back.
Since when could he read a mortal like this? Since when has he cared to try?
Attaby stoops low, almost leveling his eyes with Enna’s. He stares long and hard. “Little mortal, you’ve just half a soul left. Be careful how you divide it.”
Enna’s mouth works, forming the word half, but the word has no voice. Her smooth skin drains of color, making her dark hair stark against her cheek.
Attaby looks a moment more. “Ah, yes. I’ve been about these woods many years. I knew your grandmother. Wily woman.” He straightens and drops his rough hand before turning to Maekallus. “I’m sorry. A mystium, a tusk, a death. That’s how those spells work, as I’m sure you know.”
The slivers of soul sink down to his pelvis, cold and desolate.
“I do not think you’ll have time for the first,” the rooter continues, peering from Maekallus to Enna and back. “Mortals have such slow gestations.”
Maekallus rolls his eyes. All the blood returns to Enna’s face at once, turning it redder than his hair.
He’d be lying if he says he hadn’t thought of it, for one reason or another.
“I’m aware.” He grits his teeth against the pain in his chest, stifling the words. “Thank you, for trying.”
Attaby pulls his broad head back. “My, my, a narval with manners. You’re changing, Maekallus. And I don’t just mean the tail.”
Enna glances at him. He doesn’t meet her eyes.
“Another option gone,” she whispers.
Maekallus winces, feeling sore blackness spreading behind his knee, hot and . . . wet. He tries not to cringe. The wet spots are much worse than the dry.
The walk back is slow. The soreness Attaby left through his chest and back is deep and aching. But Enna keeps up with the slow pace. She puts Maekallus’s arm around her shoulders as though she can hold him up. By the time they reach the glade, full night has fallen, and stars peek from the sky. Maekallus has to lead the way; Enna’s eyes can’t pierce the dark like his can.
She moves to her basket, pulling from it a lantern. She makes a few sparks before it lights. “This would be easier if you’d stop injuring yourself.”
“Not every injury is intentional.”
She stares at the light of the lantern, frowning at it. What is she thinking?
He pounds the heel of his hand against his brow. Why did he care?
Changing, the rooter said. This damned soul is reworking the way he looks, the way he thinks. The way he feels. Its vigor is as bright as the day he first tasted it.
Is this how he’d felt before? In his past life? Those memories . . .
“I’ll come back tomorrow. You’ll make it through the night.” It’s almost a question. “I’ll . . . continue willing a wider perimeter for you. So you can move about. But meet me back here in the morning. I don’t have the strength to look for you.”
Now that he has some semblance of freedom, all he wants to do is sleep. His body is wanting more of that, too, these days. He grunts a response.
“Good night, Maekallus.”
And like that, she is gone.
CHAPTER 18
Orjans are humanoid mystings of high intellect. The origin of their creation is unknown.
“Enna?” Papa calls from his bedroom when the wood in the hallway creaks under my feet.
I snuffed my lantern outside, so it’s dark within the house. I poke my head into his room. “Yes, Papa?”
“Where have you been? Are you just getting home?”
My heart aches to hear his worry. “Oh, no, Papa. I’ve been home since before the sunset. Don’t you remember? I just needed to use the outhouse.”
I can’t make out his features in the dark room, but I can imagine his face crinkling, especially around the eyes, as he tries to remember. I hate lying to my father—he has a hard enough time determining what’s real and what’s not without my inventions. My struggle with my own weakening memory makes the betrayal that much sharper.
He must accept the falsehood, for he goes on, “Tennith came by while you were away to check on me. Said he wanted to talk to you, but wouldn’t say why.”
The Will Stone hangs heavy from its chain. Did my unspoken plea make it to him, then? I vow to offer him my utmost gratitude when we next cross paths.
I step into the room and sit on the edge of my father’s bed. Feel his forehead. No fever, but his skin is a little too cool for a man who’s been bundled in blankets on a warm summer night. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“Such should be expected. Can I get you anything?”
His hand finds mine. His thumb brushes my bandage. “No, my dear. Get some rest. I’m sorry to keep you. That nail, on the ladder?”
“Yes.”
“Thought I hammered it in. I’ll check in the morning.”
“You’ll stay in bed.” I pull from his grasp and straighten his blankets. “I want you well. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Thank you, Elefie.”
“Enna, Papa.”
“Mmm.” He rolls onto his side.
I kiss his head and leave for my own room. Sleep takes me without a fight.
I submerge my hand into the cool water of the bucket, watching stains of red and black diffuse through it. I know Maekallus has worsened over the night, more than usual, for my realm seems to be eating this sliver of myself as well.
I pull my hand out, apply a nearly useless salve, and wrap it again. I managed to rise early and finish the chores, though my soiled clothes are soaking in the washtub. Blood is a tricky thing to clean. Fortunately, most of my dresses are dark and don’t show evidence of my adventures in the wildwood. Regardless, I don’t like knowing it’s there.
I hold my hand to my breast and take a deep breath. Maekallus will need me again today. The words of Attaby ring in my head: Little mortal, you’ve just half a soul left. Be careful how you divide it.
Half a soul. What will I lose today by bestowing another kiss on Maekallus? I must redouble my efforts to break his binding. I’m not ready to die.
And I don’t want Maekallus to die, either.
The sentiment lingers in my thoughts as I prepare my basket for another trek through the wildwood. I think of Maekallus carrying me, his arms pocked by corruption, yet still strong and . . . warm. I stroke the wrapping around the unchanged gray mark the gobler left on my forearm. The gobler’s hand was so cold. Maekallus’s touch warms by the day.