He presses the thumb of his opposite hand to the bottom of the mark. Slowly draws it up toward his fingers, erasing the scar as though it were merely a smudge of dirt or line of charcoal. When he pulls his hand away, the line is gone, his palm unscathed.
He’s taken too much. Too much.
Kneeling before the thread of the binding spell, he closes his eyes, relishing the pain inside him, if only for its vigor, and waits for the mortal realm to devour him once and for all.
CHAPTER 22
Tapis root, though scentless, has some sort of aura that protects against the supernatural. I believe this aura to have a small range, but one can never be too careful.
I wake to a dead fire and early morning light. I shiver, colder than I should be. But the nightmares . . . there were none, only dreamless, black sleep. A long breath escapes me, stirring black dust that’s tried to escape the hearth.
Pushing myself up, I groan from a shoulder made sore from pressing against the floor. The edge of the rug slips off my back and hits the floor with a soft whap. I twist around at the sound of it and scan the gray room.
“Maekallus?”
Nothing answers.
Finding my feet, I blink sleep from my eyes. Shudder. Touch my lips. My legs aren’t ready to walk, but I hobble down the hallway anyway, past my room, to where my father lies. I hear the sound of his breathing before I see the rise and fall of his blankets. Praise the gods, there is a sound to hear. And does he breathe easier? Could the worst be over?
I move to his side and press my hand to his forehead. Cool, but not clammy.
A chill sweeps through me. The Will Stone is clamped in my hand, but it remains cool and distant. The charm is not responsible for my chattering teeth. Blearily, I fasten it around my left wrist.
Maekallus. I lick my lips. Last night is a blur, and my memory is dull, but I pick pieces from it. Large, sharp pieces. His human shape surrounded by the fog of the descent circle. His lips moving against mine. The breaking of my soul. The cold.
Stupid, stupid girl.
I hurry to my room, pulling open the bottom drawer of my small wardrobe, where my winter clothes are folded away. I tug my coat free and fasten it around my waist, then rebuild the fire in the front room. I’m so cold, despite the summer sun peeking over the mountains, highlighting a few clouds in the pinking sky. I rub my hands together. The tips of my fingers are numb, and no matter how I work them, I can’t get feeling to return to them.
“Enna?”
I jump at my father’s voice. Run to him, clipping my shoulder on a corner as I go. “Papa?”
He looks so weak and a little ashen. His voice is dry. “Water?”
A cup rests on his bedside table. I wriggle my arm beneath my father’s head, lifting it to help him drink. His own hand steadies the cup. He drinks it dry.
“Thank you,” he rasps.
“Oh, Papa.” I blink away a tear and kiss his forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“Terrible.”
“Not as terrible as you were.”
He coughs, but has the strength to cover his mouth, and nothing comes up—nothing that escapes his lips, at least. He rests back against the pillow.
“Let me get you something to eat.”
“Not broth.”
“Broth won’t upset your stomach.”
“Not broth.”
I smile and leave him for the kitchen. I warm water over the hearth, watching it boil so I can absorb the fire’s warmth into my coat. I make ginger tea and take a heel of bread to his room.
“Enna?” he asks when I’m near the doorway. “Could I have something to—oh, you have it.” He managed a weak turn of the lips. “Clever girl.”
I set the meager meal on the table and adjust my father’s pillows so he can be more upright. “Tiny pieces, followed by tea.”
He smells the tea and wrinkles his nose. He hates ginger, but it’s easy on the stomach. I bully him into taking a sip.
I tear off a half bite of bread, the texture strange to my numb fingers. My father starts to lift his hand, but I’m quicker and plop the piece into his mouth. He chews slowly, swallows slowly, but the food makes it to his stomach.
He sips the tea. I give him another piece of bread.
I freeze when I reach for the teacup.
My hand.
I open my right hand, splaying the fingers, and hold the palm to my face. No mark, not even a pale scar. The skin is unblemished. I run my fingers over it, detecting not so much as a trace of the temperamental wound. As if it never existed.
The bargain.
“Maekallus,” I whisper. Has he freed himself? But . . . how? Even if our plan worked, he’d need the scrying spell to complete the next step.
“Enna?”
I look to my father, barely seeing him. Utter something like an apology and hand him the teacup, spilling some of its contents onto his shirt. He doesn’t seem to notice.
I check my other hand, just to be sure. The Will Stone remains cool to the touch, just as it’s been since Maekallus was bound to the mortal realm.
“What is it?” Papa asks. He tries to sit up, but the effort is too much for him, and he sinks deeper into the pillows.
I shake my head. “I just thought . . . It’s nothing, Papa.”
He hesitates, but nods. I feed him more bread. My movements are stiff, my thoughts tangled in the wildwood, but I give my due diligence until the bread and tea are gone. Until my father’s eyes close once more in slumber.
I slip out through the kitchen door, toward the mysting garden, and scan the forest beyond it. “Maekallus?”
No answer. I don’t know what else I expected.
I lean against the garden fence. Last night, he came to me of his own volition, not because I willed it. But why did he leave? When? Did something happen, something my damaged mind can’t remember?
Empathy for my father surges through my chest. I pull my coat tighter around me, though crickets chirp that the air is warm. I fear to leave my father in case he takes a turn for the worse, but the scar is gone, and I don’t understand what it means. For me or for Maekallus.
I choose my father. I kneel at his bedside, listening to his breathing, waiting for the wetness to return to the sound. It doesn’t. A relief, but in the space between his breaths, Maekallus’s name rings in my ears. I rub my right palm until the skin is nearly raw.
Papa wakes again, and there’s a little more color to his cheeks. I make him a simple mushroom stew, and while he seems strong enough to feed himself, I take the liberty of doing it. I want to. I owe him too much not to take care of him. He is forgetful, sometimes distant, but he has been my caretaker all my life, and I his. My love for him runs deep, especially now that I understand the sacrifice he made to protect me.
We talk for a little bit; I read him a few passages of poetry. But my father is not well, not yet, and he slips into another restful slumber.
I roll the Will Stone between my hands. If Maekallus is near, I could will him to my side and get an explanation, if he even has one. But I know he bristles at being controlled, and the narrow bridge we’re building between us is an unsure one. I don’t dare shake it.
I take my coat and my dagger and trek into the wildwood as quickly as my body will let me. I don’t wish to leave my father alone for long.