The lantern swings from my wrist, arcing back and forth through the nearly complete darkness of the wildwood. A few crickets chirp nearby—more proof that Maekallus is no longer a threat.
I hate the strange spark of hope the thought gives me. I hate feeling anything beyond contempt for the thief of my soul. I should stay away and let the mortal realm eat at him a little longer. Let it punish him for me. But human decency aside, the longer I wait to free Maekallus, the more of my soul I’ll have to relinquish to keep him alive. And he must live, if I’m to retrieve the fullness of my soul. Neither of us has time to spare.
He’s easy to find, for he’s near the center of the glade, curled around the spot where the thread of the gobler’s spell sucks into the earth. For a moment I think the corruption has already devoured him, and panic rises in a great bubble up my throat. But as I steady the lantern, I see that the smudges and streaks on Maekallus’s exposed skin are mud. He is speckled with black, yes, but it’s not bad.
I step lightly as I near him. A breeze through the leaves muffles the sound of my approach. A wolf howls, but the sound is distant, almost too far to hear. I lift my lantern.
He’s sleeping. He looks more human asleep, save for that ever-shrinking horn. His breathing is unlabored, yet a line creases his brow as if he, too, dreams of the monster realm. I wonder if he dreamed at all, before meeting me.
I look at him too long. Standing there, staring at him, I feel directionless, like I’ve transported somewhere as foreign as the Deep and I’m spinning, spinning, unable to stop. I press my fist, the one holding the Will Stone, into my chest. I feel my ribs pulling apart, opening a bottomless hole in me—
I drop the Will Stone before I can do anything rash. I breathe deeply and grind my teeth. “Maekallus.”
He is not a sound sleeper, for he wakes upon hearing his name. Slowly, his lids heavy, he opens his eyes. They dart from side to side as if he doesn’t recognize where he is.
I wonder what his true name is. The name of the bastard that spawned him.
It doesn’t matter.
His eyes find my lantern first, then my face. He sits up quickly, then presses a hand to his head. “Enna? What—”
I crouch down and hold out the black vial. “The gobler returned and left this. Unless something down there broke the stone’s spell, this belonged to Grapf.”
He blinks at the vial, then looks at me. Too long. The vial! I want to shout. It’s what we’ve been waiting for!
I shake my hand to pull his attention back to it. Straightening, he takes it and turns it over in the light of my lamp. Uncorks it. Lets a bit of the liquid onto his finger.
His face twists. He corks the vial and wipes his hand on wet grass. “I think we have a winner.”
“What is it?”
“Phlegm.”
I frown, but I don’t care what it is. It’s something.
Uncaring for the condition of my dress, I touch my knees to the forest floor and pull the scrying spell from my pocket. “If this spell works, we’ll find him at last.”
“But if he’s in the Deep—”
“I’ll go into the monster realm myself and will him here.”
His eyes harden. “No, you won’t.”
“You can’t,” I bite back. “I will do whatever it takes. I want my soul back, Maekallus.”
He leans back as though I’ve struck him. Good.
His amber gaze shifts to the scrying spell. He takes it from my hand and unfolds it. Snarls. “I can’t read this.”
“You don’t need to.” I snatch it back. I get the feeling that Maekallus wants to do this himself. But why? To spare me? He should have thought of sparing me earlier.
He didn’t have a soul.
I ignore the thought and read through the words. I’m no sorcerer. I’ve never cast a spell in my life, minus the circles that got me into this situation in the first place. I don’t know where the magic comes from—what god, what place, what origin—but I want to make sure I get the spell right. I will myself to get it right, because if this doesn’t work, I’m as good as dead. Both of us are.
The spell is in Horda, a dead language used by people who inhabited Amaranda before we did. Scholars still learn some of their tongue, and I know sorcerers used it. I’m fairly certain I can pronounce the words.
Clutching the vial, I say them. I feel a warmth deep in the hollowest parts of myself, but it fizzles out as I trip over the fifth word. Steeling myself, I try again, building the warmth up, losing it. My fourth try is the one that makes it stick.
Warmth shoots out of my lips, making me gag. A faint white shimmer hangs in the air, like dust caught in sunlight. It’s the width of my thumb, and I watch, entranced, as it springs past the glade, winding east.
I stand up, blood racing, energy renewed. “Do you see it?”
Maekallus searches. “See what?”
Only the caster can see it, then. Something to document later. “A path. To the gobler.” I turn back, almost taking his hand. Then I shiver, remembering how very cold I am, and keep my hands fisted at my sides. “Come.”
We follow the trail a short distance before Maekallus hits an invisible wall. He says nothing, only waits.
You need to actively want my company, he said the first time. I don’t want to want it, but I can’t go alone. Can I?
I shiver and wordlessly will him forward. Maekallus takes another step and inhales like he’s coming up for air after too long underwater. I should find satisfaction in the fact that I’ve made him suffer, however briefly, but I only feel the vastness of my cold and empty being.
I follow the trail, Maekallus half a step behind me, almost close enough to tread on my heels. The shimmering trail is about knee high. Sometimes it shoots through trees or over shallow ravines, forcing me to find my way around in the dark. The eagerness of the discovery keeps me going, but my body starts to fail me, and unnatural fatigue takes over. Maekallus touches my arm, but I slap him away. Moments later, my shaking legs give out beneath me.
I’m so close, I beg them. Please.
Not even the Will Stone will lend me the strength to go on. Maekallus crouches beside me, silent. I turn my head, refusing to look at him. Nod. The movement is small, barely detectable, but Maekallus sees it and slides his arms under my knees and shoulders. Lifts me like I’m nothing. My body acts against my will and curls close to him, savoring the heat of his skin. My heat, for it comes from my soul. In that closeness, I listen to his heartbeat. It’s almost in sync with my own.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my thoughts to die.
Maekallus stops moving. “I can’t see it, Enna.”
I open my eyes and find the glimmer trail to our left. I point, choosing to remain silent rather than speak to him. In part because I believe this punishes him. In part because I don’t know what to say.
He walks with me in his arms for about half a mile before he slows, though I’m still pointing the way and see no obstacles in the path marked by magic. I lift my head to question him, but he shushes me.
It’s then that I realize I’m so cold, so distracted, that I didn’t sense the Will Stone’s warning. I feel its deep freeze now, and I clamp it in my hands. The ice it sends through my body hurts. Mystings. More than one.
Maekallus’s grip on me tightens. He treads more carefully now, ducking to avoid brushing low branches with his shrunken horn. His red hair falls from his shoulder onto my forehead, but I don’t move it aside. I don’t ask the questions bubbling up in me, the most pertinent being How many mystings will the stone control before its power stretches too thin?