Otherbound (32 page)

“Talk to me, kid.”

Amara was waiting for Nolan to take over. She expected him to push her to the back of her mind and step forward. He supposed he deserved that. He'd taken over at the farm in Roerte. He did it whenever he went to sleep or woke up, to warn her, like he'd promised, and he felt her despair every time. He'd felt it two days ago, in the form of wood stabbing her arms.

“This world has magic. It could destroy us if we're not careful …” Ruudde extended his hands. Tiny lightning bolts twined between his fingers, creeping up his arms like electricity, and he kept them a fraction of an inch away from his skin, just barely touching, just barely safe. “But it's
magic
. From bedtime stories and fairy tales. What's so good in your own life that you refuse to accept this gift? We could time things better, if you want. If Amara sleeps while you're awake, you'll have both lives.”

It's all right
, Amara thought.
Answer him
.

“How did you keep Cilla alive right after she was cursed?” Nolan asked. He'd keep his movements to a minimum. In and out. The more Ruudde pushed him toward taking over, the less
he wanted to. “You discovered Amara by accident, right? You must've seen her in the palace at some point and recognized my presence, or you saw her heal. When you realized she was still in control, not me, you had Jorn take us away.

“The thing is, to realize you needed Amara, you'd need to know about the curse, which meant it activated at least once before you found her. So how did you keep Cilla alive then? She was only a toddler. They injure easily. You either used magic to keep her alive—and you wouldn't have risked that—or you used your own healing.”

Ruudde only watched him. Not a flicker of emotion.

“That's what happened, isn't it? One of you smeared her blood on yourself and endured whatever the curse threw at you, and you cowards decided, oh,
that's
not what you came to this world for!
Pain
wasn't part of the deal!”

His signs sped up. “So you find a little healing girl whose tongue you already cut and you hold her down and smear Cilla's blood on her instead, and when she's done screaming, you tell her that's what life will be like from now on.”

Nolan lifted his chin. “Am I right?”

Ruudde smiled thinly. “Grow up, kid.” He turned to walk away. As he went, he called, “You're running out of time.”

mara was getting used to people passing her cell. Marshals. Servants. Jorn. Ruudde. They glanced at her, checked on Cilla, and tried to talk sense into them both. Amara and Cilla kept their hands still and mouths shut as if waiting for something. Amara didn't know what, though, and suspected Cilla didn't, either.

She spent her days thinking of Maart, mostly.

When Lorres appeared outside her bars on the fourth day and said, “Let's take a walk,” Amara allowed herself a flutter of hope.
This
might be what she'd been waiting for.

“Where?” she asked.

“Central Bedam.”

A marshal tied her hand to Lorres's with rope that left barely enough leeway for them to sign. The marshal and a colleague stuck close as they left the palace, one leading, one following, and Amara's hope dimmed step-by-step. Lorres might be an ally, but that didn't mean he'd help her escape.

“I convinced Ruudde you needed some fresh air,” Lorres said finally. “I'm worried about you.”

They had to pass through a residential neighborhood to
get to the heart of Bedam. The neighborhood had changed since she'd last seen it. The stout houses on either side looked brand-new—the bricks red and white, the shutters deep green, the rooftops gleaming. Even the canal walls were smooth and unbroken. The road they walked on stood out in comparison, the stones cracked and the earth between them freshly stirred, as if the pavement had been hastily removed and put back in.

“Backlash?” Amara asked.

“Right in one. The repairs have been going on for months.”

“Cilla needs fresh air, too, you know. More than me.”

“The girl is …” Lorres hissed air through his teeth as he signed, but in a thoughtful way, not annoyed. “Ruudde wants her in that cell. No exceptions.”

They walked in silence. The canals grew wider, the residences taller and more stately, like proper gentlemansions. The scent of canals and the occasional flash of open sewer where workers were still repairing the pavement mixed with that of fish, sharp and penetrating, as fishers carted their haul through town.

“You're not hungry, are you?” Lorres must've noticed her looking. “They're feeding you? They're looking after you?”

“They're treating me fine.”

“If you want something to eat …” They passed stores closing for the night. A baker was folding his display table, the bread already inside, but he slowed when he saw them pass. Abruptly self-conscious, Amara lowered her hands. She wasn't
used to signing in public. She was used to stepping briskly behind Jorn, her head down, her tattoo covered, her hands close.

The baker caught Lorres's eye. He smiled unconvincingly and gestured at his storefront.

“You want anything?” Lorres asked.

Amara shook her head.

“The respect would be better if they meant it, even a little.” Lorres passed the baker with a kind nod.

Amara wondered what Maart would've felt when he was finally treated like a bareneck. Annoyed, probably. He always wanted to be left alone.
You and me
, he'd said,
away from them.

She wished she could've gotten to know that Maart, without their tattoos pushing them together and wedging between them at the same time. She wished she could've gotten to love that Maart.

“They won't tell me what happened.” Lorres walked with measured steps, with a certainty rare to servants. “Or what they want of you. Or what's going on with your friend.”

“I could tell you what I know,” she said, though she didn't think he'd believe her. She wouldn't have, either, if she hadn't seen her own hands dance in front of her. Then there were the marshals—they might not even let her explain. The one in front of them kept looking back, and now he'd stopped walking entirely, watching their conversation.

Lorres kept moving, head held high, ignoring the marshals.
He took a moment to grin appreciatively at a pair of Jélisse performers in a wagon play. “I'd rather you didn't explain. If they don't want me to know … well, they're my employers. I do as I'm bid.”

Amara understood. Knowing what you weren't supposed to could be dangerous.

Lorres tossed a coin at the performers, although, judging by their costume dyes and their wagon's fine woodwork—had to be Alinean-crafted—they didn't look as if they needed it. They spun across the stage in billowing skirts, their hands outstretched and fingers perfectly pointed, lashing out, parrying blows, avoiding faux stabs with dives and flourishes. Amara took her eyes off them only when Lorres raised his hands again.

“Life at the palace has gotten tougher since you've been gone. I don't know why you're in that cell, but you're years from getting barenecked, and somehow they're not reinstating you as a servant. Do you know how many servants would gladly take your place? What Ruudde wants of you—how bad is it?”

“It's bad,” she said quietly.

Lorres turned away from the wagon to face her properly. “Ruudde keeps his promises, and he makes good deals. He's helped me in a lot of ways, Amara.”

“It's bad,” she repeated.

“If you're a mage, they must want to employ you. Mages can demand respect.”

Someone shoved past Amara, and she recoiled at the stench
of beer. “No,” she said. “No, I can't, it's not—” A tiny stab of pain. Her unbound hand shot to the side of her head. In the corner of her eye she saw a stone—barely the size of a fingernail—bounce off the pavement and into the canal. Her hand came back from her head flecked with blood.

Across the canal, children laughed and broke into mocking songs. Servants stood out in a neighborhood as posh as this one, where the spiral patterns of waves and clouds in the pavement weren't painted on but were made of actual colored bricks. A shopkeeper stepped outside to reprimand the children, and they fled, their songs echoing in their wake.

Lorres gingerly touched Amara's scalp. “It's healed already,” he said out loud, and pulled back. “That's amazing.”

“Listen to me.” Amara wiped her fingers clean of blood. “It's. Bad.”

Lorres's eyes flitted to the marshals as if to check with them.

Amara stepped back. “Ruudde sent you to talk to me.” She took another step back, until the rope binding their wrists bit at her skin. “You do as you're bid. Right?”

“Amara, I just don't want you to—”

All around them, the wagon play's audience burst into applause.

“At least when you pried open my mouth, I
knew
you were doing it on their orders. Take me back.” She couldn't sign well with the rope pulled so taut. “I'll start to run. I'll dive into that
canal right now. I know the marshals will catch me. I also know Ruudde won't be happy you let it come that far.”

“See? Demanding respect already.” Lorres smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile.

Amara wished there was even a trace of truth to those words.

“Let's go,” Lorres said, and let her lead the way to her cell.

n Wednesday, Nolan skipped school again to go swimming. His parents couldn't stop him, and he wanted—needed—to get away. Half a week in the palace was driving him mad.

The pool was quiet in the morning, and he crashed through the water with even strokes. He stared through his goggles at the starting blocks. By his side, the steps leading out of the pool flashed past. The lifeguards and Dr. Campbell agreed: he had to stick by the pool's edge.