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.
10
Amara 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.