The Thing About Weres

Tears welled, then spilled in a thin hot rivulet down my cheek. And that’s when I understood—profoundly so—that my choices were gone. The time for clicking my ruby slippers and wishing for home had passed. I wasn’t going to detach from Threall, any more than I was going to place the Old Mage’s soul ball beside me on the moss.

Not unless he let me.

I was going to sit cross-legged, arms quivering, holding a mage’s soul ball for eternity.

I’m sorry, Lexi. A stream of blue myst wandered past us, curious to meet its cousin smoke. It wreathed upward, toward the heated pungent air where flames danced, and for a moment it was hard to tell the two apart as dark energy swallowed blue. A second passed, and then another, before the myst pulled itself free from the poisonous air. It darted for the hawthorns, and sank into them, in a long thin spiral of fright, seeking sanctuary with the green.

Would that running could be so easy.

Smoke in my nostrils; the taste of failure in my mouth. The irony hadn’t escaped me. No matter how long I stayed captive here, I’d never be able to hurt the Black Mage’s soul—I was another mage’s “nalera,” which I was starting to firmly believe was a synonym for one custom-ordered, superbound mystwalker.

Well done, fool.

The ever-vigilant breeze stirred the trees and blew a stream of thin air across the pitted ground, and with each sweep of its breath, it kept cleaning the battlefield; rolling a piece of moss, catching a fragment of torn vellum, sweeping it all toward the abyss beyond the tree of fire.

I want to go home.

The air suddenly thinned, as if it was being sucked into someone’s lungs, and then a honeysuckle wind tore down the clearing to buffet the smoking, blazing ruin of his citadel with the implacable intention of a housekeeper set on finishing the job. Soil parted with a groan. A flash of dark root tangle as the black walnut rolled onto its side. It held, poised for one fragile second, trembling on the brink of an abyss, then with a moan that sounded almost human, it plummeted over the edge of the world.

Maybe he’ll die when his tree dies.

Please, Goddess.

A moment of peace.

Then I heard the Old Mage speak. “Stand, nalera.”

And I did.

Forgive me, Trowbridge.

Chapter Twenty-five

The hem of Mad-one’s tattered dress snagged itself on a thin silver maple branch. It stretched to follow her, but of course it couldn’t. Though the Mystwalker had summoned up enough magic to fly, she did so without her heretofore skill. Both her altitude and horsepower were unimpressive and she kept getting hooked up on irritations such as leggy shrubs that presumed to grow into bigger things.

Sad little sapling.

Fireballs had gone astray in the wild woods, and with them had come much splintering of aged wood, and searing of young bark. Mad-one’s hem gave with a rip and the silver branch snapped back. It swayed, its leaves shivering a rebuke.

“Ah!” said Mad-one, who had paused. “Over there!”

She pointed deeper into the wild.

Why we were trudging through the wild woods, I hadn’t quite figured out—the Mystwalker didn’t appear to be setting a course so much as following a clue. Every so often she’d strive for some more elevation, where she’d bob, feet trailing, her gaze sweeping the tops of the trees.

I hated those moments because that’s when I felt the intrusion of the Old Mage’s curiosity the most strongly. He was defter at it than the Black Mage, but every so often—when he wasn’t absorbed puzzling over some secret that vaguely vexed him—I could sense him trying to pry up the lid of my treasure box. What scared me was how often he’d managed to inch it open in the last five minutes. Sooner or later all my pretties would be exposed for his perusal.

Part of me wondered why I was still fighting it. The battle was lost.

Couldn’t help it. I fought because that’s what I do.

“I can see the glow,” said Mad-one. “’Tis not far.”

Then to my absolute horror, my mouth hinged open and the old wizard spoke, using my larynx, my tongue, and my lips to sound his words. “Her light is very strong.”

“Yes,” replied the Mystwalker. “But the glow of her cyreath is not that of a DeLorer.”

Is that why we were traveling through these woods? To meet my soul ball? The mage was already squatting in my thoughts, ordering my vocal cords to work at his whim. A little de trop, no?

For the fifth time, I asked, “What is a nalera?”

As the mage considered whether to reply, I searched inside the edges of his control and discovered it strung like a net of spun magic over my self-will. Could I lift it? I tried. Too heavy. Could I slip under it? His rebuke was sharp— “Stop!” he shouted. I cringed, and hurried away from its edges.

My heart slammed in my chest as I waited for what came next.

“Shhh, child.”

I flinched as phantom fingers stroked my cheek. The caress was just like Mum’s when Lexi had drifted off before me, and I was too frightened of sleep, worried that maybe I’d be pulled into a dream, into Threall—

“Stop trying to steal my memories,” I said hollowly.

“You are beset,” he replied.

Another stroke. This time, a rough pat—Dad’s.

“Don’t touch me like that,” I said through my teeth.

“You are sad. Does this not comfort you?”

Being stroked like a pet?

“Calm yourself,” he said mildly enough. “You will become accustomed to my presence soon.”

“Says the puppeteer to his dummy as he walks to the incinerator.”

I sensed his exasperation through my palms.

“To answer your original question, I must first explain that mages are born but rarely, thus the prospect of a mage’s fade is frightening to the Court,” he said with that faux paternal air that I so distrusted. “Jalo, King of the first Court, appealed to the stars, requesting that the life of his mage be extended. His plea was granted, and since that day, each mystwalker has been born with the kernel of desire to become the nalera to their wizard—the single mystwalker chosen among many to win the great honor of sharing the citadel of their soul with their mage.”

Honor, my ass. However, it explained something that had been bothering me. “My Fae was just following her instincts.”

“Yes,” he said.

But Mad-one glanced over her shoulder at me, and I knew that reply was not the complete truth.

“You want to explain why we’re taking this field trip?” I picked my way over the crumbling carcass of a long-dead elm.

“For the binding to be complete, my cyreath must be placed in the boughs of your citadel.”

Oh sweet heavens. His soul ball hanging close to my soul ball.

“Not close,” he said, reading my thoughts. “Our cyreaths must merge and become one.”

“There!” said Mad-one as a flash of crimson briefly illuminated the sky, followed by a longer flare of frightened green.

The trees grew sparse, thinned, and then we reached the edge of a very small clearing.

“By all the stars in the heavens,” the Mystwalker said, appalled.