Cilla was right, this was a stupid idea, a stupid, stupid idea, and they couldn’t even talk properly—a three-way conversation demanded space and risked more eyes on them—
“All right,” the mage said. “I don’t suppose you’ve learned to talk out loud? No? I know a place we can—”
Cilla took over. “No. Someone’s watching us. We can’t leave. Or be seen talking to you.”
With a theatrical sigh, the mage turned to face the nearest stall. She pretended to inspect the fabrics on display, from Dit wraps to intricate Jélisse headscarves. “Alinean girl, can you talk on her behalf?”
“I don’t know what to talk about.” Irritation crept into Cilla’s voice, and Amara signed jerky explanations, about following the mage to the airtrain, the way the mage had seen a presence in Amara that had to mean Nolan. Cilla nodded slowly. She kept facing Amara even when she addressed the woman: “My friend here is a mage. Can you teach her about her magic?”
A laugh escaped the mage. “Depends on how many years she has and how much the spirits like her. She’ll need a mentor like the rest of us. How about you tell me how your friend got that tattoo of hers if she’s a mage? We never select our own to be servants. We’re more useful elsewhere.”
“Her magic manifested late.” Cilla didn’t indulge her further. “You recognized a presence in her, yes? She’s been pulling it in without meaning to.”
“Call that presence what it is: a spirit. Not many mages have the ability to invite ’em in. I’ve seen ministers pull it off, but … She might’ve learned to shut the spirit out already, anyway. Its presence was faint yesterday, and I can’t detect it at all now.”
Nolan was gone? Amara felt a spike of relief that wilted as quickly as it came. She hadn’t felt any rush of magic, not a sliver of control. If she didn’t know how she’d shut him out, who was to say she wouldn’t pull him back in?
“Is this kind of possession common?” Cilla asked, and as they talked, Amara scanned for prying eyes or ears. Voices traveled around corners and through closed doors, and you could never tell who heard. Alineans cut out servants’ tongues so they couldn’t disturb their betters, and mocked those who stooped to using servant signs, but sometimes, rarely, she wondered if servants weren’t better off with those signs.
Then she remembered the servant handler at the palace holding her steady as a palace mage pried open her mouth, and those thoughts turned to ice.
“Not common at all. My mentor on the mainland seeks out people who’ve been used as vessels, and he’s met no more than a dozen. He taught me how to recognize them. It’s similar to detecting spells.” The mage tested the stitching on a wrap so green it hurt Amara’s eyes. “Your friend is a runaway servant, girl. Why should I help her?”
“I thought you were against the ministers.”
“I loathe them. Your people did a far better job. That doesn’t mean I’m after trouble.”
“You have to instruct her.” Cilla stepped forward to underscore her words.
An eyebrow rose, more curious than anything. “And why’s that?”
“You said my people did a—ah!” Her head whipped around. Amara instantly met her eyes out of habit. A second later, she realized Cilla wasn’t looking at her. She was looking past her.
Amara’s head turned. So did the heads of people around her, gasping, backing away at the sight of the abruptly murky sky and lightning slashing down onto—no, that wasn’t right. The lightning slashed up. A stone’s throw down the boardwalk, a hair-thin thread of flame snaked from the ground, crackling high and sharp into the sky. The crowd dashed away. A scream tore through the air.
The rope of fire flung itself into a half circle, coiled, then snapped out.
So did the bargaining and haggling. For a moment, the market was silent. Then the air welled up with whispers, questions, the word magic in a half dozen languages.
Amara didn’t linger on the sight. Her eyes sought out Jorn. He gave a curt jerk of his head—this has nothing to do with us—then turned back to the meat stall he’d been negotiating at.
Not everyone was so blasé. “It’s that damn jeweler!” the mage said. “I told her to warn people about her honesty spell.”
It took a moment for the mage’s meaning to dawn on Amara. Mixed magic. She should’ve known straightaway—something this unnatural couldn’t be backlash. Honesty spells enchanted anyone who passed through them, like Jorn’s boundary detection. If someone with an existing spell came into contact with one …
Determinedly, the mage strode toward where the lightning had been.
“Wait,” Cilla said. She reached out but stopped herself at the last moment, letting her hand hover in midair by the mage’s topscarf. “Wait! You have to understand.”
“Someone is hurt. My oath says to help.”
“It wasn’t my people who did a good job ruling.”
Why would Cilla say … Oh.
Around them, people flocked toward the person whose scream had shriveled into high sobs. Others huddled together, shuffled away, or murmured nervously, as if the lightning might strike a second time. And all Amara could do was stare at Cilla dumbly, thinking No, no, don’t and, at the same time, She’s doing this for me.
The mage barely listened. “Out of my way.”
“Not my people. My parents.” A whisper of a smile flitted over Cilla’s face. “My name is Cilla Annin-Kalhi. Do you know what that means?”
Now, the mage listened. Amara saw recognition dawn in her eyes, saw a hundred expressions appear and fade without settling. She stepped closer. Before Amara realized what she was doing—before Amara could process the threat—the woman slapped Cilla across the cheek.
The slap rang out. Amara’s world stopped. Blurred. Shrank to the corner of Cilla’s lips where the woman’s hand had struck.
“You don’t,” the mage shouted, “get to use—that—name!”
Amara snapped awake. She threw herself forward with a grunt, shoving the mage into the nearest stall, right into a wrap hanging on display. The stall owner protested, but Amara didn’t hear, whirling to face Cilla, who touched her lip and winced. The surrounding skin was already swelling. Cilla’s fingers came back dotted with blood. A sharp red line formed. A drop blossomed and rolled down, dangling from the curve of her lower lip.
“Out of all the names of all the dead in this universe,” the mage said, “you chose to call a toddler? You had to use her entire name?”
“Jorn!” Amara shouted out loud. Forget bystanders realizing what her distorted voice meant. Forget the mage. Forget the magic.
Jorn recognized his name and turned, but he stood too far away to help, trapped by the crowd near the meat stall. The carcasses’ dead eyes stared at Amara from across the market. From the alarm on Jorn’s face, Amara knew he saw the blood. She pointed at the mage and took Cilla’s wrist, pulling her through the market, away from the mage, away from the anxious crowd.
Smooth, hateful cobblestones trembled underneath their feet.
The curse was awake.
15
Nolan’s pen tapped the pages of his workbook. He was going over yesterday’s physics problems a final time before class. Only a few of the seats were filled, and he could hear streams of students rushing past the door to get to their own classes. Down the hall, some kids were fighting, others cheering.