Otherbound

14

Is Nolan still there?” Maart’s hands formed silhouettes in the dark.

Jorn had long ago crawled into his bedroll, snoring like a grunting boar. Amara eyed him cautiously as she signed, “I assume so.”

Maart shimmied free from his covers and padded over. She edged away to make room, and he lowered himself beside her, staying on the other side of the blanket. He propped himself up on one elbow. It’d slow his signs, but she welcomed the heat of his body through the thin cover, close enough to reach and kiss. Right now, when he eyed her with nothing but curiosity and concern, his lips curved in a smile, she still cherished the hope that things might go back to the way they were before. Silly jokes, sniping about Jorn. Rolling dice together after tasks. Maart always won.

The hope never lasted. He’d changed. She missed laughing and kissing and futilely beating the walls when Jorn got to be too much to bear. That—that had helped. Now there was talk of Cilla, and of running and standing up to Jorn and other stupid fantasies that’d get them killed. It trickled into every conversation, weighed down every glance, until it was easier to keep Maart at a distance or crush him so closely there was no room for anything else.

Not now, she asked him silently. Not now.

She couldn’t ignore all difficult topics, though.

“About the blackouts …” She explained what she’d done, from tracking the mage to leaving her message on the temple, and the corners of Maart’s mouth twitched into an almost-smile. “This is not a smiling matter, you know,” Amara signed.

“I know.” Maart leaned in and kissed her anyway. Once they’d separated, leaving enough space to see each other’s signs, he said, “I thought you’d given up.”

“No.” A smile stirred on her face now, too. “I’m just being smart about it.”

She couldn’t run yet—not without a plan, not without knowing the truth, not while their tattoos remained, not while it meant leaving Cilla to die—but she saw Maart think, One step at a time.

“Tomorrow is market day,” she said. “I need you to pretend you’re sick, so Jorn will send me.”

“Done. Should I start coughing now? Tonight? In the morning?”

She laughed under her breath.

Maart turned more serious, but a different serious than the kind she dreaded. This didn’t come with frowning eyebrows or a hard jawline. This came with a relaxed smile, curious eyes. “No more blackouts, though?” he asked.

“A brief one when …” They had spelled Nolan’s name up to now. She thought for a second, then came up with a sign for him, pushing the tips of three fingers on her left hand into the palm of her right hand, a hard movement, angry. It hurt the tips of her fingers. Maart knew instantly what she meant; she saw it on his face. “… when Nolan took over earlier. It must have been an adjustment. I don’t think it’ll happen again.”

She bit her lip as Maart studied her. He looked at her so differently from the way anyone else did. Warmly. Now, though, she knew what he was looking for.

“I hate that I need to learn to control it in the first place,” she signed. The confession came easily. This was the Maart she knew and loved. “Jorn won’t teach me. I know I’m useless as a mage, but the spirits must smile on me, or I wouldn’t heal—”

“You’re not useless,” Maart interrupted. “Jorn won’t teach you magic because then you could fight back or identify his anchors and run. His magic is the only advantage he has over you.”

“He’s taller, too,” she teased.

“I wish I could help.” Maart brushed his lips over her forehead.

Amara’s own lips parted with wanting, but she pushed Maart’s chest, separating them. “You are helping.” She hesitated. Maart finally seemed to get what she wanted and what she couldn’t yet deal with, and still she had to push him away. “Nolan is watching.”

It wouldn’t be the first time. That only made it worse. Nights should be just her and Maart. Something Cilla couldn’t complicate, something Jorn couldn’t beat down. Now there was this Nolan, watching, and feeling—the thought alone nauseated her. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. This Nolan thing … it’s pretty screwed up.”

“It’s only until I can control him,” she said, but they both knew that meant nothing if she couldn’t find her mage. Maart was older than Amara. If Jorn followed Alinean laws, Maart would complete his duties and be free to leave within a year. Amara had longer to go. And after, when their tattoos were removed and they could walk freely as barenecked servants, they’d have an entire world to discover. What would they mean to each other if not escape?

Amara had chosen to love the Maart of yesterday and today. She couldn’t look beyond that.

Maart could—did. Meeting his eyes, Amara knew he’d already chosen every version of her.

For a while they stayed there, nothing but the heat of their skin, the feel of their breaths, their whispered grins as Maart’s fingers played across her skin to form newly learned letters. He left too soon, leaving one side of her body cold.

Amara curled up to recapture his heat. Her fingers touched her forehead where he’d kissed her.

Amara checked the airtrain seats for sharp angles, anything Cilla might cut herself on, then stepped aside to allow Cilla and Jorn to sit while she kept an eye on the other passengers.

She’d overlooked two vital things Ruudde had told Jorn: One, that he’d send silver to the Teschel harbor, meaning Jorn ought to pick it up. Two, that Jorn should keep Amara in his sight—and where Amara went, so did Cilla.

Amara’s plan looked worse by the minute, but it was all she had.

At least she got to ride an airtrain. She used to love those. Underfoot, she felt the hissing of pipes squishing together air or letting it escape—she couldn’t tell which—as the train shook into motion. She looked through narrow, sandblasted windows at the island landscape of hills and heather, but she couldn’t enjoy it the way she had in the past.

Amara was still jittery when she stepped onto the boardwalk. She wished for the safety of the granary, or that of a city like Bedam, with canals beside her and gentlemansions towering over her and alleyways barely wide enough to shuffle through sideways. Harbor towns like this felt too open, even with market stands lining the street, even overlooked by dunes and squat houses, the colors washed from the sand stuck in every pore. The windows, too, were coated in a layer of beach dirt that must’ve been brand-new, since yesterday’s storm would’ve washed the glass clean.

The sun hung low in the salt-tinged sky and cast an orange glow. That sun did nothing to stop the wind from blasting chill into the folds of Amara’s topscarf. She ignored it, keeping close to Cilla as she scanned the crowd for her mage. The woman had been sturdy, wide-shouldered, broad-hipped, small-chested, with a bright wrap. Amara saw no trace of her.

Jorn reached into his sidesling for silver. “Amara.” She expected instructions to buy kommer leaves or red carrots or thicker topscarves to take them into winter. “Stay here, and stay close. It’s too crowded for you to buy anything. You’d have to shout to get anyone’s attention.” He made for the nearest stall, with dried fruit and imported bugs, then to a stall too blocked by crowds for Amara to see its wares. Raw voices shouted in a dozen dialects of Alinean and Dit and Jélis, and a snatch of Elig Amara recognized but could no longer translate.

“Hey,” Cilla whispered, nudging her. “That stand Jorn’s at.”

When she made no attempt to elaborate, Amara made a questioning noise. If Cilla wanted to talk, Amara was expected to participate. Did Cilla even realize that?

“What does its sign say?” Cilla asked.

Reluctantly, Amara took her eyes off the crowds and craned her neck. The stall had a sign with two lines of cramped, painted handwriting. She recognized the simple Elig figures on the left row, but nothing beyond that. The other row was in Dit. Amara had known since she was a kid which letters made which sounds—mostly—from needing to fingerspell the occasional name, but reading was different. Words were never spelled the way you’d think when you heard them, and there were a dozen ways to write each letter, slanted or blocky, with an extra elaborate slash or one too few. She could make out the first couple of letters on the stall sign, but the next … Were those two strokes or one?

Jorn walked toward a stand selling fierce-smelling fish. He looked over at them briefly. Amara’s head snapped back. If he’d caught her reading the sign … But, no, he kept moving and indicated for them to follow. Amara guided Cilla through the center of the boardwalk, keeping a close eye on spaces to flee to and on people who risked bumping into Cilla.

She sneaked another look at the earlier stall. “Genuine.” She kept her hands close to her belly to hide them. People whose ears or voices failed them used signs, too, puffing up their cheeks, sweeping their arms wide, even their lips moving along, but there was no mistaking those signs for the subdued movements of servants. “Eligon?” No, that was the wrong word. “Elig?”

Cilla nodded, encouraging. Amara felt like an experiment, something for Cilla to occupy her time with. But that smile on her face was so, so sincere.

“Furs.” Amara’s hands fell. She looked away, though she wanted to read the rest of the stall descriptions and see how far she’d come. This was the best time to practice. Real-life scenarios, with Cilla by her side to help if she got stuck. She needed to find the mage, though.

And if she did, Cilla would find out exactly what she was doing. What she’d heard. She should explain it now and get it out of the way.

Amara’s mouth dried. She turned to keep her hands out of Jorn’s sight, but the words wouldn’t come. The man who saved your life is working with the man who murdered your family? No.

Cilla mistook her hesitance for something else. “How are you? After what happened?”

Nolan. After Nolan happened.

“Fine,” Amara lied. “May I tell you something?”

“You don’t have to ask. That’s what I meant to say at the carecenter.”

Amara nodded, but knew that couldn’t be the end of it.

“I know what you said,” Cilla went on, “but why can’t it be that simple?”

The more Cilla talked this way, the more on edge Amara felt. It was like being lured into a trap. Every part of her screamed, Unsafe! Unsafe! and the only way out was to do as she ought. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Forgive me.”

“Screw my forgiveness! Pretend I’m not the princess. Pretend I’m anyone.”

That way would lead to trouble. That way would lead to shouts and punishment. “You’re not. You’re my better.”

In the distance, a ship’s horn wailed over the market’s noise, that constant hawking, haggling, laughing, chattering, pushing, shouting, crinkling of wrapping paper, clattering of coins, like walls of sound pressing in from every side. Somehow, amid all that, Cilla’s laugh—a low, soft sound—rang louder than ever. “The world wants to kill me, Amara. Literally. The world.” She pointed at the stones under her feet, and when she looked back at Amara, her eyes shone with admiration. “You’ve saved my life a hundred times. More. To me, you’re my better.”

“When we were little, Jorn made us play games together.” Amara’s hands seemed to move without permission. She shouldn’t be telling Cilla this. It would sound accusatory.

But that was what Cilla wanted, wasn’t it? Honesty? If she meant what she said, maybe Amara could be disrespectful one more time.

“I remember. I wasn’t allowed to play with anyone else.”

“One time I won the game. My palace mage conquered your set. You cried, and Jorn pulled me to my feet and slapped me. The next time we played and I was winning, you told me you’d call Jorn. So I lost that game and every one after.”

“I—Amara, I—” Panic burned in Cilla’s eyes.

Amara hadn’t meant to make Cilla feel guilty. Guilt was useless. Guilt made everything about you.

“We were children.” Amara’s signs softened. The rest of her didn’t. Dried leaves scattered over the ground like footsteps, and she lunged around, scanning for prying eyes. A dozen people passed in the space of a breath, but none paid her any mind. Even the green-clad marshal in the distance, tapping her baton against her leg, faced the other way. Still no Dit mage. “What do you think would happen if we fought now?” Amara asked. “People would believe your claim, not mine. If they saw me talking to you so rudely, they’d hit me. They’d be allowed.” She stopped before she said something—something else—she regretted.

“I wish …” Cilla started, then stopped herself. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I thought we were becoming friends.” Cilla stood straighter, more primly, but the clutched hands by her stomach betrayed her as they always did.

“You were too young when you left your palace. You don’t know how things work.”

“In the carecenter, you said you didn’t hate me. Did you mean it?”

Briefly, Amara entertained the thought of speaking the truth. She said nothing.

Nor did she need to. Just then, Jorn signaled for them to follow him. They moved through the market, smelling grilled duck and fruits and sour cheeses and the rich, hot scent of swampcat leather. Stallkeepers’ shouts mixed with the buzzing laughter of shoppers and beach workers.

In all that chaos, Cilla only swallowed, then swallowed again, her throat moving uncomfortably.

Maybe this was for the best. If Cilla believed Amara hated her, maybe she’d stop asking things of Amara. She’d stop putting Amara in positions where she had no choice but to obey and to hate both herself and Cilla for it.

A boy appeared, speaking in odd-sounding Alinean. When that got no response, he said in more natural Dit, “Rootstocks?” He raised a rattan basket stacked with roots and leaves and seeds, a heady mix of sweet and mint. “I have kalisse, fennel, ginger, aniseeds—cinnamon sticks? Mint leaves?”

Amara didn’t let him continue. She stepped forward, squared her shoulders, and gave a jerk of her head—a simultaneous no and scram!

She rarely saw this kind of pestering. If you pressured customers too much, the market overseers banned you. The Alinean founders had valued good business, and those values lingered. Their love of trading had made them settle in the Dunelands in the first place, the perfect midway point between the Alinean Islands, the Continent, and the Elig south.

The boy might not have learned those lessons yet, but he knew how to take a hint. He sped off, swerving around a vegetable crate, then a firm-looking woman. Amara’s lips formed an O.

It was the Dit mage—unmistakably her, from the braids in her curls to the way she stood, legs wide, traditional-looking Dit scarf reaching all the way to her thighs. This time, she wore copper rings in one nostril. The metal sparkled in the late-afternoon sun.

“Y’know, I was worried I’d missed you,” the mage said.

Amara stepped closer to Cilla. Her message on the temple had worked. This was her chance, and—she didn’t know where to begin. She didn’t dare raise her hands and announce herself for what she was.

“Excuse me?” Cilla said warily.

“Listen, I want to talk, as well. I haven’t seen anyone like you in a long time. But … it’s … different now, isn’t it?”

Amara’s fingers itched with unspoken words. She should back out. Turn and run. Jorn would never have to find out.

And she’d never be rid of Nolan.

She pushed her hair aside, cupping her tattoo to hide it from everyone but the mage.

“Amara!” Cilla looked toward Jorn and back, and that half-second glance sent Amara’s heart thudding too loudly. She’d defied Jorn before. She’d talked behind his back, she’d sneaked out with Maart, she’d learned to read. But she’d never done anything of this magnitude.

Cilla was right, this was a stupid idea, a stupid, stupid idea, and they couldn’t even talk properly—a three-way conversation demanded space and risked more eyes on them—

“All right,” the mage said. “I don’t suppose you’ve learned to talk out loud? No? I know a place we can—”

Cilla took over. “No. Someone’s watching us. We can’t leave. Or be seen talking to you.”

With a theatrical sigh, the mage turned to face the nearest stall. She pretended to inspect the fabrics on display, from Dit wraps to intricate Jélisse headscarves. “Alinean girl, can you talk on her behalf?”

“I don’t know what to talk about.” Irritation crept into Cilla’s voice, and Amara signed jerky explanations, about following the mage to the airtrain, the way the mage had seen a presence in Amara that had to mean Nolan. Cilla nodded slowly. She kept facing Amara even when she addressed the woman: “My friend here is a mage. Can you teach her about her magic?”

A laugh escaped the mage. “Depends on how many years she has and how much the spirits like her. She’ll need a mentor like the rest of us. How about you tell me how your friend got that tattoo of hers if she’s a mage? We never select our own to be servants. We’re more useful elsewhere.”

“Her magic manifested late.” Cilla didn’t indulge her further. “You recognized a presence in her, yes? She’s been pulling it in without meaning to.”

“Call that presence what it is: a spirit. Not many mages have the ability to invite ’em in. I’ve seen ministers pull it off, but … She might’ve learned to shut the spirit out already, anyway. Its presence was faint yesterday, and I can’t detect it at all now.”

Nolan was gone? Amara felt a spike of relief that wilted as quickly as it came. She hadn’t felt any rush of magic, not a sliver of control. If she didn’t know how she’d shut him out, who was to say she wouldn’t pull him back in?

“Is this kind of possession common?” Cilla asked, and as they talked, Amara scanned for prying eyes or ears. Voices traveled around corners and through closed doors, and you could never tell who heard. Alineans cut out servants’ tongues so they couldn’t disturb their betters, and mocked those who stooped to using servant signs, but sometimes, rarely, she wondered if servants weren’t better off with those signs.

Then she remembered the servant handler at the palace holding her steady as a palace mage pried open her mouth, and those thoughts turned to ice.

“Not common at all. My mentor on the mainland seeks out people who’ve been used as vessels, and he’s met no more than a dozen. He taught me how to recognize them. It’s similar to detecting spells.” The mage tested the stitching on a wrap so green it hurt Amara’s eyes. “Your friend is a runaway servant, girl. Why should I help her?”

“I thought you were against the ministers.”

“I loathe them. Your people did a far better job. That doesn’t mean I’m after trouble.”

“You have to instruct her.” Cilla stepped forward to underscore her words.

An eyebrow rose, more curious than anything. “And why’s that?”

“You said my people did a—ah!” Her head whipped around. Amara instantly met her eyes out of habit. A second later, she realized Cilla wasn’t looking at her. She was looking past her.

Amara’s head turned. So did the heads of people around her, gasping, backing away at the sight of the abruptly murky sky and lightning slashing down onto—no, that wasn’t right. The lightning slashed up. A stone’s throw down the boardwalk, a hair-thin thread of flame snaked from the ground, crackling high and sharp into the sky. The crowd dashed away. A scream tore through the air.

The rope of fire flung itself into a half circle, coiled, then snapped out.

So did the bargaining and haggling. For a moment, the market was silent. Then the air welled up with whispers, questions, the word magic in a half dozen languages.

Amara didn’t linger on the sight. Her eyes sought out Jorn. He gave a curt jerk of his head—this has nothing to do with us—then turned back to the meat stall he’d been negotiating at.

Not everyone was so blasé. “It’s that damn jeweler!” the mage said. “I told her to warn people about her honesty spell.”

It took a moment for the mage’s meaning to dawn on Amara. Mixed magic. She should’ve known straightaway—something this unnatural couldn’t be backlash. Honesty spells enchanted anyone who passed through them, like Jorn’s boundary detection. If someone with an existing spell came into contact with one …

Determinedly, the mage strode toward where the lightning had been.

“Wait,” Cilla said. She reached out but stopped herself at the last moment, letting her hand hover in midair by the mage’s topscarf. “Wait! You have to understand.”

“Someone is hurt. My oath says to help.”

“It wasn’t my people who did a good job ruling.”

Why would Cilla say … Oh.

Around them, people flocked toward the person whose scream had shriveled into high sobs. Others huddled together, shuffled away, or murmured nervously, as if the lightning might strike a second time. And all Amara could do was stare at Cilla dumbly, thinking No, no, don’t and, at the same time, She’s doing this for me.

The mage barely listened. “Out of my way.”

“Not my people. My parents.” A whisper of a smile flitted over Cilla’s face. “My name is Cilla Annin-Kalhi. Do you know what that means?”

Now, the mage listened. Amara saw recognition dawn in her eyes, saw a hundred expressions appear and fade without settling. She stepped closer. Before Amara realized what she was doing—before Amara could process the threat—the woman slapped Cilla across the cheek.

The slap rang out. Amara’s world stopped. Blurred. Shrank to the corner of Cilla’s lips where the woman’s hand had struck.

“You don’t,” the mage shouted, “get to use—that—name!”

Amara snapped awake. She threw herself forward with a grunt, shoving the mage into the nearest stall, right into a wrap hanging on display. The stall owner protested, but Amara didn’t hear, whirling to face Cilla, who touched her lip and winced. The surrounding skin was already swelling. Cilla’s fingers came back dotted with blood. A sharp red line formed. A drop blossomed and rolled down, dangling from the curve of her lower lip.

“Out of all the names of all the dead in this universe,” the mage said, “you chose to call a toddler? You had to use her entire name?”

“Jorn!” Amara shouted out loud. Forget bystanders realizing what her distorted voice meant. Forget the mage. Forget the magic.

Jorn recognized his name and turned, but he stood too far away to help, trapped by the crowd near the meat stall. The carcasses’ dead eyes stared at Amara from across the market. From the alarm on Jorn’s face, Amara knew he saw the blood. She pointed at the mage and took Cilla’s wrist, pulling her through the market, away from the mage, away from the anxious crowd.

Smooth, hateful cobblestones trembled underneath their feet.

The curse was awake.