The sky grows more orange as the sun sets behind me. I slip between two trees and around the thick bushes of blackberries, always keeping the scrying spell in sight. My breaths come heavier, my joints resistant. Keep going, I urge myself. This is the only way to free Maekallus. The one way to retrieve my soul.
Movement to my right startles me. I stop and stoop, listening, waiting for a deer to walk by. But it’s no deer that emerges from the brush.
It’s an orjan.
CHAPTER 26
A vuldor-tusk knife is made by collecting a tusk from the lower jaw of a vuldor, hollowing it out, and filling it with mystium blood, which is usually sealed inside with a bronze or copper hilt, as these mortal metals are harmless to mystings.
It is not Scroud. His hair is too light, too short. His horns too crooked. But he is large, far broader and taller than I am—larger, even, than Maekallus.
This is all I have time to think before the mysting’s black eyes find me.
It doesn’t roar or laugh. It’s eerily silent as it darts forward, impossibly swift, the only sound it makes the parting of wild grass at its feet.
The beast has almost reached me when my mind cries, Stop!
My hand tingles around the Will Stone. I falter backward, putting space between the monster and myself. It’s frozen, a puppet held up by hundreds of invisible strings.
My heartbeat is thunder. My throat burns, and my mouth is dry. The Will Stone is so cold, warning me of so many mystings that I had not heard its whisper about this one. Gripping its burning shape in my hand, I croak, “Sleep,” and the orjan falls heavily to the earth, blue lids hiding its black eyes.
I’m shaking. I close my mouth, working it to get something to swallow. Remembering my canteen, I fumble with it, unwilling to release the stone, and drink. All the while I watch the orjan. His chest rises and falls as if caught in the depths of a dream.
“Forget,” I mutter, stepping around him. The fresh vigor of fear fuels me when I run, putting space between the creature and myself. I acted too slowly. I must be quicker next time.
I pray Scroud is not nearby and does not sense the signature of his lost keepsake.
The sun is setting too quickly, and the new energy in my blood gradually dies. I push myself forward, forward—
The path of the scrying spell suddenly shifts, and the Will Stone whispers of a new mysting. A gobler.
I pause, staring at the glimmering white magic dusting my knees. It straightens, then curves southward.
The gobler, Grapf, is here at last.
I pick up my feet, following the light, my thoughts a whirlwind. If he is already here, I will not have to brave the portal ring and whatever mystings may guard it. I wonder what his purpose is in the mortal realm. His chill begins to fade from the stone—he’s moving faster than I am, distancing himself. He must not sense his predecessor’s print on my arm. Tonight, I am not his intended target. But he is mine.
Stay, I think, squeezing the Will Stone. It tingles softly against my skin. When I sense its power has worked, I beg it for energy to move. It heeds me only a little. Strength trickles into my legs, and soon I am weaving through the wild grass and trees, trying my hardest to be quiet. To come up on the gobler carefully, in case something happens against my expectations. The glimmering path holds true, no longer shifting in accordance with Grapf’s movements. My legs burn. My lungs are on fire. My dress sticks to my skin as the sun dips behind the horizon, changing the sky from pink to violet to blue.
My body forces me to stop. I am not quiet as I gasp for air. My legs shake with exertion. I lick my lips and taste salt. I cannot go any farther, and change my plan accordingly.
I think of the corruption devouring Maekallus and force myself to stand tall. My knuckles ache from squeezing the Will Stone. It whispers, Gobler. The handprint on my left arm tingles as if to confirm the theory. I use the stone to search for other mystings, but none are close.
“Grapf!” I shout into the wood. His name does not sound the same on my lips as it does on Maekallus’s, but it is close enough. Shoulders heaving with each breath, I take a step forward, and another. Stumble on the uneven floor. “Grapf!” Come to me.
The scrying spell shimmers. The edges of the wildwood are darkening as night creeps into the sky. Hair sticks to my forehead. I don’t swipe it away.
Footsteps. Heavy, strong steps. Nearing.
I pause, fighting against my fatigue. Fighting my mind to stay alert. Urging myself to pretend my soul is intact.
He emerges from the trees. A gobler. I know it is him, for the scrying spell dances across his belly, then winks out as if it never were, its purpose fulfilled. I should be afraid to see him, my enemy, but my body is too spent to know fear.
He’s large for a gobler. That is to say, he’s about the height of an average human, a hand’s length taller than I am. He is wide, his rolls of blubber thick. His head is five times the size of my own, bluish in color, hairless. His gaze dips to my arm, sensing the mark left by his compatriot.
His large eyes are glassy and blue. A curved dagger hangs on his belt. It looks almost like ivory and has strange, ugly etchings along its length. Its hilt is short and wrapped in leather.
He looks me up and down and asks, in my own tongue, “What mortal dares speak my name?”
I grip the stone in my hand. “Quiet.”
He is.
“Turn east.”
He does, stiff and doll-like.
“Take the tusk dagger from your belt and drop it on the ground.”
He does. My arm shakes from the tingling of the Will Stone. My palm is slick with perspiration. “Step back. Again. Again.”
He backs away from the dagger. I stare at it. My salvation, Maekallus’s, lying right there in the clover.
And I comprehend how incredible the power in my left hand is. It takes my short breaths away from me for a moment. Long enough that Grapf turns his head to look at me.
“Face east!” I shout. His face snaps eastward, and I cringe at my volume.
“Are you alone? Answer me.”
“Yes, for now.”
“What is your task?”
“To find the Will Stone. To investigate the mortal hub to the west.”
Fendell. My stomach knots.
I can make him sleep, just like the orjan. Make him forget, too. But this creature has been the ultimate cause of my grief. He’s proven himself intelligent. He’s working for a mysting who would use the stone to dominate my own people.
“Return whence you came and . . . kill Scroud.”
The Will Stone does not react. Why? Is such a thing not possible? Fear makes itself known to me then, tracing my spine with the touch of ice.
I could order the gobler to kill himself, or, simply, to die. Yet I hesitate to do so. Perhaps I’m too soft a mortal. Perhaps it’s because I’ve never before taken a sentient life. Or maybe the explanation lies with Maekallus, who has made me look at mystings differently.