Jorn walked toward a stand selling fierce-smelling fish. He looked over at them briefly. Amara’s head snapped back. If he’d caught her reading the sign … But, no, he kept moving and indicated for them to follow. Amara guided Cilla through the center of the boardwalk, keeping a close eye on spaces to flee to and on people who risked bumping into Cilla.
She sneaked another look at the earlier stall. “Genuine.” She kept her hands close to her belly to hide them. People whose ears or voices failed them used signs, too, puffing up their cheeks, sweeping their arms wide, even their lips moving along, but there was no mistaking those signs for the subdued movements of servants. “Eligon?” No, that was the wrong word. “Elig?”
Cilla nodded, encouraging. Amara felt like an experiment, something for Cilla to occupy her time with. But that smile on her face was so, so sincere.
“Furs.” Amara’s hands fell. She looked away, though she wanted to read the rest of the stall descriptions and see how far she’d come. This was the best time to practice. Real-life scenarios, with Cilla by her side to help if she got stuck. She needed to find the mage, though.
And if she did, Cilla would find out exactly what she was doing. What she’d heard. She should explain it now and get it out of the way.
Amara’s mouth dried. She turned to keep her hands out of Jorn’s sight, but the words wouldn’t come. The man who saved your life is working with the man who murdered your family? No.
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.