I gasp—the Will Stone has gone ice cold against my wrist. I drop my hand from my neck and clasp it.
Maekallus reaches out and wraps his hand around my fist. Bumps ripple across his skin as the chill travels up his arm.
He senses it the same time I do, for our eyes lock. Not with fear, but hope.
“Gobler,” we whisper.
And it’s close.
CHAPTER 19
Narvals have the ability to hide themselves from mortal eyes. They are seen only when they want to be seen.
My body buzzes as if a lightning storm rages within it. My heart is weary from racing from one thing to the next without rest. My father, Tennith, the gobler. Maekallus, whose eyes look so utterly human they make the very marrow in my bones ache. I need to think. I need a dark corner to cradle my head and sort through the last quarter hour of my life, but the Will Stone pulses its bitter chill against my hand—his hand—demanding only one focus.
Freeing us.
“It isn’t far,” I whisper.
Maekallus leans forward, reaches into my basket to draw my silver dagger. He remains slightly hunched, his knees bent, ready for an attack.
“Bring it here.”
I swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. “Be careful. We might not want to kill him immediately.”
He glowers at me, pure mysting. “You can stop me whenever you want.”
“I don’t want to,” I snap. “I’ve no desire to take away your agency.”
He rotates the dagger in his grip, and it strikes me that the silver doesn’t pain him anymore. Or if it does, he doesn’t show it. “Don’t you? With so much power, Enna, you can do almost anything you want. With me, with anyone.”
I glance back to the space between trees where Tennith had been standing only moments ago. He will be safe; his leathers are marked with protective runes, and all the hunters of Fendell know the safest trails to take, none of which delve too deeply into the wildwood. Even Maekallus’s glade it not so far from the tree line. I erase the awkward encounter from my thoughts and focus on the biting chill in my hands.
The Will Stone found the gobler, so surely I can control it. I close my eyes and focus on the stone’s warning. Come here. Do not fight. Come. Obey.
My hands tingle. I open my eyes. The cold is strong enough to make my teeth chatter. I drop the stone and snatch my basket, hugging myself against the side of an old tree. “It’s coming.”
Maekallus remains in the center of the small grove, blade ready.
It doesn’t take long. The gobler’s footsteps, faster than a walk, slower than a run, announce its approach. My breath catches when it comes to the clearing, and I shrink away, fumbling for the stone. Stay where you are. Do not fight!
Maekallus curses, straightens.
My gaze jumps from him to the gobler. “What? What’s happened?”
“Wrong one.” His voice is low and hard. The voice of a stone.
I dare to step away from my guardian tree. “You’re sure?”
He gestures to the docile gobler. “It’s a she, Enna. The one that got me was male.”
I gawk at the gobler before us, obedient and slightly confused, eyes glancing at my left arm, where my sleeve hides the print left by another of her kind. Perhaps my ministrations have only blocked its magicked call from afar. This gobler’s skin is a light gray, her neck buried beneath rolls of fat. Thick arms and legs, pudgy fingers, large watery eyes. I see nothing to mark her female, but Maekallus would be the expert here, not I. Details for my book will come later.
The gobler begins to speak harsh gibberish that sounds like a threat, but with a thought, I will it silent. Do not listen, I add.
I step farther from my tree. Maekallus has lowered my dagger. The mysting remains silent and frozen, held in place by the power of the stone.
Maekallus is thoughtful. He quietly surveys the gobler, his first knuckle tucked under his chin. The tail of his red hair falls down the center of his back, reaching the base of his shoulder blades. It curls at the ends. I rub my warming fingers together, remembering its softness, then curse myself for thinking of such a thing.
“Is it alone?” he asks, not looking at me.
I clutch the stone. It remains cold, but not terribly so, perhaps sensing that the threat has been neutralized. “Yes.”
“We can still use it.”
Without words, I will the gobler to look at me. She does. It unnerves me how easily a wild mysting like this heeds my unspoken command. I keep my left hand, and thus the Will Stone, from her sight.
“Why are you here? Answer me.”
She answers in garbled tones.
Maekallus translates. “To search for the stone.”
My stomach tightens. “Do you know where it is?”
She replies. Maekallus answers, “No. Only that it is close. Here, in the mortal realm, in this wooded country.”
I let out a small breath of relief. Had my father not killed that first gobler, I might not have survived to summon Maekallus. My soul might have already departed for Shava, whole.
Maekallus points my dagger at the mysting. “Do you know the gobler with the vuldor-tusk knife?”
The gobler replies, and as Maekallus lowers the weapon, his eyes widen.
I rush to his side and take his arm. “What? What does she say?”
“She knows him.” His gaze remains locked with the gobler’s. “His name is Grapf.”
I spin toward the gobler, the remainder of my soul—less than half—stirring, warm. “You must bring him here, to us.”
The gobler frowns, speaks. Maekallus says, “He will not come by my bidding.”
“Convince him.”
“He will not be convinced.” Then Maekallus orders, “Kill him.”
The gobler shivers. Speaks. Maekallus’s expression darkens as if the corruption has consumed it.
“Tell me!” I beg.
“She says she will not succeed. She is too weak.”
Tears tickle my eyes, but I blink them back and take a step toward the mysting. “Then bring me something of his.”
“Enna?” Maekallus asks.
I turn to him. “The scrying spell. The one I copied in Caisgard. If this creature can bring us something of Grapf’s—a shred of clothing, a buckle, anything—then we’ll know the instant he comes here. We can find him, and with the Will Stone—”
“We’ll break the spell,” Maekallus murmurs, motionless. His lips press into a hard line. “Command her, Enna. Leave no room for error.”
I consider this for a moment before looking back at the gobler. I wonder if she understands mortal speech, or if the Will Stone makes her believe my will is hers. But that is not pertinent. “You will return to the monster realm, the Deep. You will report your failure in locating the stone. You do not believe it is here after all.”
Maekallus nods his approval.
“You will seek out Grapf’s living space. If it is not near, you will seek out his person. You will subtly collect something of his—slough from his body, clothing, anything that he owns. You will bring that item back to this glade, and leave it by that tree.” I point to the tree where Maekallus cornered me earlier, and hope the light of the lowering sun is red enough to mask my flush.
“She should eliminate herself.”
My belly tightens. The danger is real. If my will wears off in the monster realm, or if someone follows her, she could reveal us—and there’s no denying she’d as soon kill me as not. She has no soul, just like the gobler who marked me, who would have torn me apart had my father not been there. But to will another creature to kill itself? What if I had done something similar with Maekallus? With Attaby?