Otherbound (23 page)

They'd go separately. If the marshals knew about Cilla, they'd also know about the Elig girl with her. If Cilla and Amara traveled side by side, they'd be checked for certain. But under the guise of being crew—there wasn't time to find other clothes, but Cilla had rubbed sand into her scarf to stand out less—they might have a shot at sneaking aboard unnoticed.

The bartender and Amara would board first, with the captain and Cilla following later. She'd have to rely on their loyalty to keep Cilla safe.

Amara didn't like relying on anyone for something this big. She reminded herself not to check on Cilla as she walked alongside the bartender, lugging a sack of supplies. She eyed the marshals instead. Two walked toward the harbor house, which an Alinean girl was just leaving, smoothing her shirt and looking displeased. She was Cilla's age, maybe older. The marshals must've checked her for tattoos.

The harbor air was filled with the scents of fish and salt and wet wood, and no trace of the sun, though the sky was slowly lightening. Their ship was a small fluit moored near the harbor house. The crew loaded crates via pulleys and thick ropes. They'd stop at an island or two, load passengers and cargo, then head for Bedam.

Nearby, a fisher snarled at her crew. Amara jerked at the sound. It wasn't directed at her, but still, she stood out too much. Elig were a rare sight around harbors. She stepped to the right to put the fishing crew between her and the harbor house.

She
meant
to step right. But something glued her feet to the ground.

“Keep moving.” The bartender passed her, looking straight ahead.

Amara pulled at her foot again, then another time. She was stuck. Just as she was about to try to call the bartender back, the cobblestones let her go. She tumbled forward. Her kneecaps almost cracked. Her hands broke her fall, and as she hit the ground, something rippled through her—more than just the impact of bony hands on hard stone.

Her hands pulsed. They lit up like the tattoo on Cilla's chest. She tried to climb to her feet before anyone noticed, but it was too late for that—the glow wasn't just in her hands. It shone through the threads of her winterwear and the folds of her scarf, and she had to squint to keep out the light that flared from the rest of her face.

The ground glowed, too, pooling around her feet and running from there in a thin, smooth line to both sides, from the harbor house to the market, forcing anyone who wanted to board the ships to cross it.

The marshals had gotten a mage to circle the area. Her crossing the line had activated a spell.

Mixed magic.

Panic rose in her throat. The line of light flared, turning the solid white of sunlit metal. The light fanned out, and cobblestones cracked all around it, their polished surfaces breaking open. She heard the
pop-pop-pop
of pebbles launching up and bouncing footlengths away.

Just as quickly, it all died.

Was that it? Was it over? The memory of the lightning at the market bright in her mind, Amara scrambled upright, as if she could escape further effects if she just ran quickly enough—though she couldn't run at all. Her knees throbbed. She cried out the moment she placed her weight on them. They weren't healing. Nolan had left. Right when she needed him. Or—no. The spell she'd crossed must've interacted with his presence. If he didn't count as magic, nothing would. The combination had kicked him out and blown up whatever ward the marshals' mage had put up.

All these years, she'd been scared of crossing wards—and now, all she was left with were screwed-up knees. She might've escaped Jorn years ago and gotten off just as easily. Incongruous laughter bubbled in the back of her throat. If she'd known, maybe—no.

She reeled herself in, locking down her laughter. Running from Jorn didn't mean she could toss out her every last survival instinct. Marshals were headed her way. She gauged
the distance between them. Even if her knees healed right this second, she wouldn't be able to escape on time.

“What the—” one marshal shouted as he stumbled over a cracked rock. “I thought the spell was just supposed to bind 'em!”

“You're enchanted?” The bartender kept his voice low.

Amara nodded. The marshals were seconds away. What about Cilla? No sign of her.

“Act sick,” he said from the corner of his mouth. He took a firm step toward the approaching marshals. “What's going on? Don't tell me you cast a public spell!”

“Sir, we want to speak to the girl.” One marshal, the shortest of the crew, pointed his baton at Amara. She wrapped her hands over her stomach and squirmed as if in pain.

“That girl is my employee,” the bartender said, “and what
she
wants is to go back to the carecenter. Your spell screwed up her healing. She could've died! All of us could've!”

“Sir, we need to—”

“You need to not cast spells willy-nilly where enchanted people risk crossing them! That's such a
minister
thing to do! Don't you have any consideration for the spirits? For basic safety?” the bartender fumed. “I've seen spells mix before. Do you know what happened? It picked up a house. A house! It rose right up off the foundation. Turned on its side, then crashed to the street. There was a family inside.

“That could've happened here. Or worse! Is this a detection spell? It didn't occur to you that a detection spell needs to check whoever crosses it? That its magic would interact with theirs? I'm not even a mage, and I know that! And the backlash—no, forget it. Let's go, Immer. If we get you to the carecenter now, we might be back before the ship departs.”

The bartender played his part well. Many mages took oaths to minimize magic use, but Alinean mages took it further than anyone and suppressed their abilities entirely. They said it was out of respect for the spirits. Alineans also had more mages than anyone else and simply couldn't risk the backlash. Earthquakes and eruptions had already damaged the Alinean Islands enough. They'd tried to institute a similar policy in the Dunelands, which were just as fragile in different ways: low to the ground and close to the water. The policy hadn't taken, though, especially after the ministers took over, and now the sight of magic made most Alineans grit their teeth.

So no one would question the bartender's rant. Amara cringed, anyway. You just—you didn't talk back to your betters. Not to ministers, not to marshals. How hadn't they already whipped out their batons?

At least Amara could pass off her wincing as illness. She took a wobbly step toward the bartender. Her knees stung with sped-up healing, signaling Nolan's return. No matter how much she hated that Nolan was in her mind, she could use his
presence. She directed her thoughts at him, telling him what had happened.
Stick around
.

In the distance, a captain blew a whistle and shouted. A fraction of a second later, a collective
no
punctuated the sound of a crate smashing to the stones. The marshals ignored the accident. One grabbed Amara's shoulder. “You match the description of someone we're looking for. Immer, was it?” He watched her mouth.

Just answer. Easy.

Past the marshal, she saw movement—people staring at the crashed cargo, others ignoring it and continuing to work, and, more importantly, the ship's captain and Cilla heading toward the boat at a fast clip. Amara stepped back. The harbor spell would react to Cilla's curse; this time, the curse might be the one to go awry instead. She didn't get the chance to warn her. Cilla walked safely past the boundary that had lit up earlier and that now sat on cracked cobblestones as a burned-out, wiggly line of ashes.

At least that was a stroke of luck: Amara must have knocked the spell out completely.

In a deceptively mild voice, another marshal said, “This ward was supposed to check for mages' ink, like a minister's or servant's tattoo.”
Or a princess's.
“Is there any reason you're not talking, Immer?”

The bartender tsked impatiently. “Yes. Her stomach. The healers don't know what's wrong with her. Besides, you know
Elig. Pathetic snowhounds. Too dumb to ask for water if their hair's on fire.”

“She's not
all
Elig, though.” One marshal eyed her hair, her skin. Northerners never realized just how many clans lived in the Elig south—they figured the only
real
Elig had pale hair and pale skin and pale eyes. Not like Amara, dulled down in every aspect. Light enough to be recognizable, too dark to be genuine.

“Just check her neck already,” the first marshal snapped, and he stepped forward. Another pair of marshals took off in Cilla's direction, and, oh, how had Amara been so
stupid
to think they could leave the island so easily?

Amara breathed deeply.
Protect Cilla. A trip like any other.
She lowered one shoulder, letting the bag of supplies the bartender had given her drop. She caught the strap before it crashed to the stones and swung it against the nearest marshal's shins.

His grip on her shoulder faltered. She tore loose and sprinted toward the ships. The marshals' legs were longer, stronger. She heard their boots hit the stones behind her. If she could reach the water, she stood a chance. Either way, the distraction worked. The marshals near Cilla spun back toward Amara. Just a few steps—

A grunt came from behind her. A second later, pain exploded in the back of her head. A baton. Her vision blackened. She went flying to the stones, hitting them chin-first. Her momentum sent her rolling to the edge. Her vision swam,
spikes of light stabbing through the dark. She urged her body to roll farther. She felt the edges of the stones in her back—saw the blurred outline of a marshal's glove—and sucked in a breath before dropping over the edge of the dock.

The noise of the world abruptly died. The water drew her in whole, filling her nose and mouth. Just like before. At least this time her body didn't panic. Her head felt like it'd split in two, but the pain ebbed. Nolan was sticking around as he'd said he would.

She waited another second or two, trying to stay calm. She closed off her lungs. She didn't need to breathe. No matter how much her body told her she needed to breathe, she didn't, she couldn't, not yet.

Then she kicked. She'd gotten disoriented, but the harbor wall and the ship's hulls were easy reference points. As she swam, she kept her eyes squinted, the dark of the water obscuring everything beyond a footlength or two. Underneath that ship. Around the pillars of the pier. Avoid the crags of wood. Swim past the anchors. Tear the waterweeds from her face.

Three ships farther, her lungs felt as if they'd pop. She went up for a quick breath. This close to the wall, no one saw her. Shouts came from behind her, where she'd dropped into the water.

She ducked back under. The calm came more easily this time. Her head no longer hurt. No one grabbed fistfuls of hair and forced her still. It was just her. And Nolan.

Amara swam toward the last ship and went to the aft, as far away from the harbor wall as possible. She came up for air a second time. The world rolled back in, voices and shouts, carts racketing along uneven stones, rope fenders thudding against the wood of the docks.

Cilla's whisper-shout cut through all of it. “Amara!” A silhouette ran toward her, just the bobbing of her head along the ship's railing.

Cilla was aboard safely. Amara's distraction had worked. She brought her hands out of the water, relying on her kicking feet to keep her afloat. “You were waiting?” she asked awkwardly.

Cilla leaned over the railing. Even with the sky turning the murky gray of morning, it had to be hard to see Amara in the water. “I'll get rope,” Cilla signed back.

“No. They might check the ships for me.” Amara tried to make her signs bigger, easier to see in the dark. “I'll cling to the hull. Pull me up when you've left the harbor.” The lights on the boat allowed her to see traces of Cilla's face, enough to notice her hesitance.

“Be safe,” Cilla signed.

Amara sucked in another breath and dove.

o
lan
!”