Otherbound (19 page)

“Amara, you need to stop—” Cilla cut herself off as Jorn entered. He must've gone to talk to Ruudde again. If Amara died, they'd have to find someone else to protect Cilla. No wonder they'd been worried about the blackouts. They didn't want Nolan to have control. If he chose to go away, Amara was useless.

Was he here right now? She should scratch open her skin and see. If she healed, he was there, snug behind her eyes. If she bled, she was alone.

Jorn stopped in the doorway and looked Amara over flatly. “You're healed.”

And you know why!
Amara said nothing. She nodded.

She was not a mage.

Of course she wasn't a mage. Her healing had never been as solid as other mages'. She'd never done a spell. Never detected any magic. She thought she might have a chance to learn more, finally, but—

She was not a mage.

She was just some unlucky girl. The spirits didn't favor
her. Nolan did. He needed her body in one piece—of course he'd heal her. He'd seemed surprised; she could tell from the way he'd stumbled around in her body, from the way her hands hadn't signed right, but he'd still been the one in control. On some level, he must've known.

Jorn had known, too. All these years.

“Good.” Jorn's voice said as little as his face did. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Amara said. “Hungry. Do we have any rootpatties left? Have you all eaten? We should wake Maart.” She signed normally, didn't she? Would Jorn buy it?

“The spirits must've changed their minds.” Cilla's smile wavered. “Those cuts on her face started to heal suddenly. She woke up a minute later.”

Amara's hairs pricked upright against her bandages. Jorn never looked at Amara this long, and he
never
looked at her while Cilla spoke. You gave the princess your undivided attention.

“What do you think happened?” Jorn pushed the door behind him shut and headed to the table across the room, which was empty aside from some unwashed plates and a water bowl.

“I don't know,” Amara said. She tried not to rub her bandages, but they were tight, and the dried blood itched like mad when she signed. “I apologize. I did what I could to—”

“You're back,” he stated.

“Yes. I'm back now. It won't happen again.” As though she could do anything to stop Nolan.

“Come here,” Jorn said. “Both of you.”

“Is something wrong?” Cilla asked. She stayed on her chair—Maart's chair—by Amara's bedroll even as Amara climbed to her feet.

“Both of you,” Jorn repeated. She saw muscles moving in his jaw, clenching and unclenching, and she knew that look. She wanted to run back and hide under the blankets and press herself against the wall, as far away as possible. She wanted to escape to every last spirit-abandoned nook of the planet.

She didn't want to see that look.

She kept walking toward him. Hollow steps. Trembling hands.

Behind her, she heard Cilla getting up from the chair. Cilla walked more slowly. She could get away with it. Jorn would never punish her. Still, Amara wanted to scream at her to
Hurry up
and
He'll just get angrier
and
Stop asking questions!

“She saved my life at the market,” Cilla said icily.

“You knew you were having blackouts.” It wasn't just the muscles in Jorn's face tensing up now, but the ones in his neck, too, and the tendons in his hands as he crushed them into fists. “It wasn't safe for you to be alone with Cilla.”

Amara stopped a footlength away. “I'm sorry, I—” she said, but she shouldn't be talking. Her hands still shook. She hated herself for walking over to him when he told her to. Hated herself for apologizing.

“But this isn't about that.” Jorn gripped the back of Amara's
head. His fist squeezed together bundles of her hair. She yelped. “This is about that mage attacking Cilla. This is about Cilla being
stupid
enough to show her tattoo after that.”

“It was an Alinean pub!” Cilla said. “Amara needed—”

Amara didn't hear the rest. Jorn slammed her facedown into the water bowl. Water splashed out onto her hands as she grabbed the table to steady herself, and then it was up her nose and in her mouth. Her nose slammed into the bottom of the bowl. Something crunched. A mouthful of water went down her lungs. Her fists beat the table.

Her feet kicked at the floor as she tried to yank away, to swing her head free, but Jorn kept her pinned down. His other hand had to be steadying the bowl or she'd be able to move it, and she couldn't breathe. Couldn't breathe. The pain in her nose was fading. Nolan was here. She'd survive, but—she couldn't breathe. She needed to scream or spit or gasp lungfuls of air. She needed to keep her mouth shut. Needed to stop herself from inhaling.

She'd drowned before.

But none of those times had been with Jorn pressing her down and the water only fingerwidths high and she could feel cool air on water-spattered cheeks but couldn't reach and—

Cilla's shriek went through everything—through the bowl and Amara's panic both.

“Keep watching!” Jorn shouted.

Hair tore from Amara's skull as Jorn yanked her back up.
“Breathe,” he told her, and she sputtered and gasped and spat out water. Air—air—she needed— “You'll be fine. But Cilla needs to learn. We had the perfect excuse to avoid attention thanks to that idiot jeweler's spell blowing up, and she ruined it.”

He shoved Amara back down.

“Stop!” Cilla shouted. “I—I command you to—”

“Do you know how many people saw you? How much trouble we're in?”

Amara beat her hands on the table. She tried to shove it out of the way. Her boots stamped the floor until she lost her balance and her feet skidded away. The bowl rim pushed into her throat. She dangled at the edge of the table, scrambling for footing—

The pressure on the back of her head disappeared. She fell down, the bowl dropping over with the weight of her. The water spilled out. Amara collapsed by the side of the table, onto her side. She spit out water. Gasped for air. She kicked at the floor, trying to get away, under the table, where Jorn couldn't reach her.

Air. What had happened? Was he done?

“Maart!” Cilla shouted. “Don't—”

His bedroll was empty. The noise must've woken him.

Amara pressed her hands flat on the floor to steady herself, breaths surging in and out. Her eyes acted strangely, but she could still see Maart and Jorn. Fighting. Maart was screaming, shapeless noise and nothing more. He threw Jorn into the wall. One fist pulled back.

Jorn muttered a word. The air glowed, and Maart winced,
but it took only a second. Muscles tightened in his arm. The punch hit Jorn square in the nose. Jorn growled, ducking low. He rammed into Maart, shoulder against hipbone, and knocked him onto the floor. He straddled Maart. Two hands gripped his hair. Jorn pulled Maart's head up. Crashed it down.

That ended it.

Just that quickly—just that quietly—Maart stopped moving. Jorn climbed off. He was panting.

Why was Maart not moving? Amara stared.

“Maart?” Cilla made a strangled sound. She dove next to his body, fumbling to press her hand to his throat. Her expression didn't change. Her breaths came shorter. “You. He's. He's.”

That was not good.

“I didn't.” Jorn leaned against the table. He stood too close. Amara crawled farther against the wall, pressing every part of herself against it. She couldn't hide further. Maybe Jorn couldn't see her from where he stood. “I didn't mean to do
that
.”

Amara was still kicking at the floor to get away. She hugged herself and stared and stared and stared.

“I wanted to stop him,” Cilla whispered, and it was like Maart was talking to Amara all over again, sitting across from her in that dimly lit inn room and signing
should've
s. He should've fought Jorn. That was what he'd said. He should've fought Jorn to save her.

They buried him.

In the south, in Eligon, people cut holes in the ice and lowered their dead into the water for the fish to eat. The Elig ate the fish. The fish ate them. That was fair; that was right. They cleaned corpses' houses or melted the surrounding snow, and drowned their dead as soon as they could, keeping their lands pure and the spirits happy.

There was a reason few Elig traveled to the dead-stained north of the Continent and Dunelands.

In the Dit regions of the Continent, they stored their dead in mountain caves. They shut off the entrances with stone. You could walk those trails, see those stones, and remember the dead lifted high above the world. They made exceptions for mages. They lay them on mountain platforms for the sun and the birds. Mages were favored; it was only right their bodies be returned to the spirits for them to use as they pleased.

In the Alinean Islands they had only dangerous volcanoes and no snow. They burned their dead and used the ashes to bless the next-born descendant.

Amara didn't know what the Jélis did with their dead. Or what the people from the northern continents did. She didn't know much about them at all. Maybe she should. Maybe she would like their methods better. Maybe they would be better than sticking Maart into the ground to rot. Worms would eat him or scavengers would dig him up. People would walk over this spot for years to come, not knowing who lay underneath
their feet. One day kids would play in these woods and they'd find his ribs and they'd laugh and use them to scare one another, or to spar, or they'd shrug and toss them away and continue their games.

None of that was right.

But: “We bury him,” Jorn had said curtly. Blood crusted underneath his nose, where Maart had hit him. Amara thought Maart had done more damage than that. She wished he had. “We're leaving in the morning. A ship is coming to pick us up. Cilla drew too much attention.”

No one argued.

Cilla stood to one side because she wasn't allowed near the shovels in case something went wrong. Jorn and Amara worked. They dug deep. They lifted Maart's body in. They put the earth back. Jorn beat the spot with the back of his shovel to make the displaced dirt stand out less, and Amara felt every thump.

“Do you want to say something?” Jorn asked. Then he grunted, “I'll give you a minute.”

He leaned against a tree, far enough away that he probably wouldn't be able to recognize Amara's signs if he tried.

He'd catch them if they ran, anyway.

Amara stared at the earth.

Maart had wanted them to run. If she'd said yes—

“I wanted to stop him,” Cilla said, urgently now. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've helped. I should've …”

“You would've gotten hurt,” Amara signed. “I know.”

“I was scared. I'm sorry,” Cilla repeated. She stepped closer.

Amara stared at the earth.

“I overheard Jorn the other day.” Her hands moved choppily. She could explain it all now. Maart wouldn't have told Cilla anything; he'd have stitched Amara's bandages into place and wished she'd let Cilla's curse take its course. He'd have pressed his lips to her forehead and painted marks on her skin.

Amara stared at the earth.

She'd wanted to mark the grave with stones the Dit way. Jorn hadn't let her. It would take too long to carry in the stones. There were none this deep in the forest, so deep Jorn had lifted the detection spells so Cilla and Amara could pass.

They should've gone deeper.

Maybe this was better. Deeper into the trees would have meant carrying Maart even longer, and she'd have been dirty all over. She couldn't melt herself like the Elig melted snow. Maybe she wouldn't have minded touching him longer. The body was still Maart. He'd still looked like Maart. He'd still had those curls of his, those pretty, long curls. He'd been too pale but he'd still had his freckles. He'd still had his lips. He'd still had his flat nose and his flat eyes and he'd still been beautiful. Amara didn't feel dirty
now
, and she'd helped carry him out here, pressing his dead body against hers while she could.

If she were really Elig, she'd feel dirty.

“That can't be right,” Cilla said once Amara explained about Ruudde and the glass. “Jorn has always protected us. I
mean—despite everything he's done, he did protect us.” Her voice choked up. “I don't mean …”

“Protected
you
,” Amara said distantly.

“I don't know what to …”

Amara crouched. She grabbed a twig from between a pair of mushrooms and pressed it to her skin. She pushed and pushed, then yanked the twig away. A dry scratch remained on her arm, surface skin flittering loose. It hurt. The skin turned light. Then it faded.

“Look. He's here.” Amara showed her healed skin. “Did you enjoy this burial, Nolan? Anything I can do to improve it? Did you enjoy getting drowned? Did you enjoy—watching Maart—” She shouldn't say his name anymore. You weren't allowed to call the dead. And she was shouting with big gestures that Jorn might see even from so far off. She shouldn't do that, either. She wasn't allowed to be angry. Her fingers fluttered in the air, creating words that weren't even words anymore, until Cilla reached out to still them.