Otherbound

10

Amara had to tell Maart what she’d heard.

Maart was gathering water, and Amara had asked Jorn for permission to wash her clothes, which were crusted from blood where the arrows had hit her. “Just stay near enough that I can call you,” he’d said, and she’d bolted outside, down the road leading into the woods. Under torn branches and dirt and leaves everywhere she looked, tree roots had burst through, displacing slabs of stone. She couldn’t tell how much of the mess was from the storm and how much from neglect. No one took this path, Jorn had said, not now that Teschel was one of the few islands with an airtrain.

Amara jogged around a fallen tree blocking the path. Enough earth clung to the roots to fill half the granary. The storm had been brief but intense, as backlash always was.

A punishment from the spirits, some people said, for abusing their power. Others said the spirits simply put the world back in balance after mages knocked it down and drained it dry.

The end result was the same: storms and quakes and a hundred things more. If those were punishments, all the smaller, immediate instances of backlash—water frothing, flames flickering, bugs spasming, and plants wilting—must be warnings. The ministers didn’t care to listen.

“Mar?” she called aloud once near the creek. Despite the post-storm chill, sweat pricked at the base of her skull and pooled by her hip, where her sidesling rested. Overturned earth warned her of boar, and when bushes nearby rustled, she tensed, relaxing only when a tall shape stepped out.

“We need to talk,” she signed.

Maart lowered the buckets he’d been filling to the ground and ran his fingers over her arm, spreading a tingly-hot feeling. He kissed her forehead, then stepped back. They needed room to sign. “About your blackouts?”

She told him what she’d overheard. What it meant. “We have to find out what they’re doing,” she said, her hands fluttering. “How long they’ve been working together. We have to tell Cilla.”

“Cilla is your priority?” The way he signed the name bordered on revulsion even as his face stayed stony.

“I didn’t say that.”

“It doesn’t matter what Jorn’s doing or why. All right?”

She shook her head and looked past him at the forest—leaves dripping with rain, the sky still dark overhead. Early winterbugs scurried in solid clouds between the trees. Storm-damaged mushrooms the size of Amara’s head bulged from the ground and bark.

“You can’t stay for her,” he signed.

“We’ve talked about this.” She stepped away. Her boots sank in the mud. “It’s not about putting her on the throne. There’s nowhere we can go.”

“Is that all it is?”

“Just say it,” Amara said. Then she wouldn’t be the one to bring it up. She could deny it and be done with it.

“I see how Cilla looks at you.”

How—how Cilla looked at her? She breathed deeply, the warm scent of moss filling her nostrils, and moved her hands carefully. “How’s that?”

“Why?” Maart asked. “Does it matter to you?”

“Don’t be like this. Don’t play games.”

He twisted his lips into a smile. “We used to talk about her. We used to hate her.”

“It’s not that simple. Before you came, Cilla and I played games together. The servant before you was older; Cilla was the only person close to my age I knew. The only friend I had.”

“And now?”

“Now I have you. Is that what you want to hear? Now I understand that Cilla and I can’t be friends.”

“Do you want to be?”

“It would not end well,” Amara said.

“But do you want it to?” Normally at this point Maart grew frustrated. Now, his signs only became smaller, turning his question into a plea.

“I care about you. All right?” Amara stepped in and pressed her lips to his. They lingered in the kiss, staving away the chill, which rolled back in the moment they separated. Amara wanted to wrap her arms around herself, rub away that goose-flesh, but couldn’t while they still talked. “That’s what I want,” she said once there was enough room between them. It was true. She wanted Maart. She wanted his teasing and his wide grins and his full lips and the way he’d squirm and laugh when she trailed kisses along his hipbone.

She didn’t want these endless arguments.

“I want you, too.” Maart pressed his forehead to hers, and she bowed her head to see his signing, pressed close and awkward between their bodies. “You and me, away from them. That’s all I want.”

Amara wished she could say the same thing back.

Leaves rustled. She jolted away, turning toward the noise. Jorn stood near an oak, one hand on its wet bark. If he’d seen her and Maart together, he didn’t show it. “Amara. I felt an intrusion. It’s probably just a mage dealing with damage from the backlash, but we should be sure. Go check.”

“Cilla—” Amara started to sign.

“Maart and I will look after her. If there’s danger, I’ll take them into the woods.” He pointed to the path. “Come back the second you know more.”

This wasn’t right. They each had their tasks, and this wasn’t hers.

“You said Cilla should avoid forests in emergencies,” she said. “There’s a beach nearby. It’s safer.” She should listen, not dumbly sign objections—but this was about Cilla. This was her task.

“That’s stupid.” Jorn sniffed. “With open ground like the beach, hired mages would have a field day shooting at her. And they’d have the full Gray Sea at their bidding for power. No. We’ll go inland.”

If Cilla ran, the branches would tear open her skin within seconds. Why would Jorn change his mind?

“I have to go back to Cilla. I’ve already lowered the boundary spell. Go!” Jorn shoved her toward the road.

She wasn’t supposed to leave Cilla.

It had to be the blackouts. Jorn no longer trusted her.

Before Jorn could see her dawdling, Amara tossed her sidesling at Maart and took off, boots slapping muddy leaves. The forest smelled of moldy mushrooms and wet soil, mixed with pine and the occasional, almost-gone scent of chrysanths, bursts of white flowers fighting to be seen in the few sunlit gaps between trees. The layer of leaves under her feet—deep reds and burned yellows and faded browns—was so thick and moist that she almost slipped. She dashed around trees, slowing only when she reached the road. Her boots were too loud on the stones. She stopped, silent, listening. They’d never had mages tracking them so soon after moving. They’d only been on Teschel since last night.

She didn’t hear anything. She moved farther in the direction Jorn had indicated, but she stayed close to the side of the road, ready to dive to safety—then she did hear something, a woman’s voice, to her left. Amara peered through the trees. After a second, she saw movement. A flash of thick curls. Dit? “—give me—” the woman murmured.

Amara came closer, careful to avoid branches. Leaves were harder to dodge. At least they were wet, less noisy than usual when they crumpled underfoot. If the woman heard her, she didn’t seem to care.

“I have to help. Please forgive me.”

Peering past a tree, Amara spotted the woman. She was leaning forward, both hands on a slab of polished stone held up by blocks of rock on each side. Underneath the rock lay a small, still pond, perhaps the size of a table.

A temple. An old one, judging by the dirt-brown moss creeping across the rocks, but a temple nonetheless.

The Dit mage stood still, as if listening. Amara pressed her hands to her hair to keep it from wafting out past the tree. The wind had picked up again. The woman wasn’t listening for her, though. Jorn had told her this, years ago. Mages would draw on the spirits for spells, then read their response in the rustling of trees, the rush of water rubbing against the shore.

Amara had almost forgotten that the topic of magic hadn’t always been off-limits.

She tried to listen, too. All she heard was the wind.

The mage pulled her hands brusquely off the rock and turned back to the path. Behind her tree, Amara stood as still as the dead, listening as the woman’s footsteps broke into a run, moving away from the granary.

The mage wasn’t after Cilla. Backlash cleanup, just as Jorn had said. Amara should go back and tell him. But … she’d been searching for a plan. She could ask this mage—a stranger, someone who wouldn’t tell Jorn—about the blackouts.

Amara ran. For the next minute she followed the woman through the woods, diving behind this tree and that, until a pair of silver rails sitting on raised earth abruptly bisected the road.

A moment later, Amara smelled something burning. Carefully, she moved closer to the rails. The trees thinned, robbing her of cover. The smell strengthened. Her own hands had stunk the same way yesterday.

She shivered. The sensation ran down her spine again and again. She pressed clammy hands together and made herself step through the trees so she could see down the rails in both directions.

The airtrain stood a stone’s throw away, gleaming metal except for a massive black stain on one side. That explained why it had stopped. Amara saw movement through the windows. She sneaked closer, until the voices drifting through the windows formed words.

“Lightning,” someone was whispering. “Lightning.”

“Just stay calm,” the Dit mage said. Amara saw the back of her head through the windows now, moving around, then dipping out of sight. “I’ll help you. All right?”

The voice kept whispering. A different voice said, “My father. How’s my father?” When the mage didn’t respond, a sob tore through the man’s words. “The weather was fine before—when—how is he?”

“It wasn’t me,” the mage said. Even from this distance, without seeing her face, Amara felt her irritation. “I haven’t used magic in months. I’m oath-bound. But I’ll get you to the carecenter, all right? Just let me put my hands here … This’ll hurt, but I need to …”

“Your magic will make it worse,” the man said.

“I’ve already prayed. The spirits might allow it. I’ll need a moment. Oh, curse the ministers!”

The breeze carried more of the burning-flesh stink. Amara fought back a gag. She approached, anyway, climbing over a fallen tree, hiding behind another one. If the mage was against the ministers, maybe she’d be safe to talk to. Amara hadn’t been sure. The Dunelands ministers had roots in every corner of the world, but the Dit were their strongest supporters—more out of spite against the Alineans than anything else. Jorn was an exception.

She’d always thought so, anyway.

The Dit mage disappeared from the windows. Amara peeked around the tree. A moment later, the mage stood in the pried-open train doors, stunned, looking exactly at where Amara hid.

“A spirit. You’re a spirit.” The mage stepped from the train. The earth squelched underfoot.

Amara should pull back. Run. Anything but stand here, half-hidden behind a tree, watching that mage with a single eye. If Jorn knew …

The mage went on. “No. You used to be? Were you possessed by one? But there’s still … There’s a presence …”

A presence. Ruudde’s words echoed: Whoever’s causing this will catch on and try again.

“Can we talk?”

A passenger stumbling from the train drew the mage’s attention, but only for a moment, as if afraid Amara would disappear if she looked away for too long.

Amara’s signing would give her away. If the mage didn’t rat her out, the airtrain’s passengers might. This had been a stupid idea, stupid and dangerous.

And that stink of flesh was so, so intense.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, turned, ran, left the mage’s shouts behind, forgot all about stealth and silence. The mage wouldn’t follow—she wouldn’t abandon the injured passengers—but Amara couldn’t slow. The smell stuck to her hands. Stuck to everything.

She only had to return to Jorn and pretend nothing happened, and …

That’d get her nowhere.

She stopped. Took a quarter turn. Stormed through a layer of wet leaves. Thorns and burrs clung to her winterwear. She found the temple within a minute, spotting faded stone that blended perfectly into the colorless, storm-drenched woods; if she hadn’t known it was there, she’d have looked right past it.

She’d always thought that if she prayed at a true temple, perhaps the spirits would forgive Jorn’s magic use and prevent accidents like the airtrain’s. He never prayed, to the point that Amara wondered if he’d ever sworn a mage’s oath in the first place. She’d asked him about it, back when he’d allowed questions, when sometimes he’d even smiled and indulged her. He didn’t pray at temples, he’d explained, because hired mages like the knifewielder might set a trap for him. He didn’t need to pray, besides: temple or no temple, the spirits understood why he called on them so often.

Amara always suspected it was nonsense, but that hadn’t stopped her from hoping that, if the spirits listened no matter what, sketching misshapen buildings in the dirt still stood a chance of catching their attention.

She crouched, steadying herself with one hand on the temple’s stone. She’d never touched a temple before. It felt icy cold. Let this work, she thought. Let the mage come back.

She searched around half-rotted leaves for a chalky piece of stone, and slowly, carefully, drew it against the temple. Even with ink she struggled to mimic Cilla’s letters, let alone with a rock this blunt, but she remembered the basics.

Mage, she wrote blockily, the chalk cold in her hands. Then, Spirit airtrain. Need talk. She’d probably misspelled it. The mage would understand, though, wouldn’t she? Market, she wrote next. Maart had a trip scheduled tomorrow. Market stallkeepers were so busy that you could get away with pointing and never speaking a word.

She’d find a way to go in his stead.

Amara stared at her letters with a mixture of pride and fear.