Otherbound (15 page)

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.