Otherbound (10 page)

“Safe,” she repeated. It had to be an odd choice of words. “And you feel them coming?”

“Yeah. It's called an aura.”

“Cool. I'll definitely check out that Wiki page.” Sarah gave a half-assed salute. “Gotta go, or Suarez will bite my head off.” She jogged off before Nolan could answer. He watched her leave, and only when she disappeared into the girls' bathroom did he realize this was the longest conversation he'd had with a classmate in weeks.

The thought should excite him or bother him—he didn't know which. He felt neither.
That
bothered him. He grimaced, rubbed a hand across his face, and returned to the Dunelands.

“The pills aren't working.” The sooner he stopped wasting his parents' money, the better.

“It's a little early to determine that. This medication can take months to take effect.” Dr. Campbell was used to Nolan by now. He'd told her the same thing a dozen times in the past few years. Next, she'd tell him not to give up hope, that all these medications were different and who knew what he'd end up responding to, and he'd sit in that plush chair in her office and try not to let his doctor-smiles turn into doctor-grimaces. He'd heard the exact same thing from Dad the day before, and he was tired beyond anything—

—by now the storm was in full swing, thunder tearing through the skies—

“—a positive attitude. You'd be surprised how much difference it makes.”

“Of course.” Smile. Don't forget to smile. “You're right.”

“Any side effects?” Dr. Campbell studied something on her bulky iMac, then wiped at a smudge with her thumb. “We can adjust the dosage if they're bothering you. Your blood levels came back within therapeutic ranges, but there's wiggle room.”

“Headaches. Tired. The usual.”

“Any behavioral changes? Nausea? You've always been prone to that.”

“It's fine.” Nolan hesitated. Yesterday's tryst with the toilet had been his own damn fault, but Dad had said to tell her. “I threw up yesterday. I'm OK now. I just messed up on the dosage, and …” His breath caught.

Sarah Schneider had been right: he'd been in too much of a hurry. Throwing himself into the Dunelands wouldn't do any good. He'd just figured he could finally do something—but he should've paused, should've thought.

Why the blackouts
now
? What had changed?

Two doses too close together.
That
was what had changed.

This time nothing about Nolan's smile was faked. “I think,” he said, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears, high-pitched and unusually fast, “yes, thinking back, maybe I had less seizures after that. After I took the extra dose.” He kept his eyes wide open. He didn't want Amara to yank him
back in now. He studied Dr. Campbell's face for a reaction, something in her eyes, her mouth, to show she believed him.

He had to sound convincing. He licked his too-dry lips. “I might be wrong. I'm probably imagining it. I don't want to …”

“No, this is good, Nolan. This is great! It's the first time we're seeing a difference.”

Nolan had swallowed a pill at lunch, just an hour ago. The moment he stepped out of the doctor's office, a grin growing on his face, he slung his backpack around to his front and hunted for another.

mara 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.