He shoved Amara back down.
“Stop!” Cilla shouted. “I—I command you to—”
“Do you know how many people saw you? How much trouble we’re in?”
Amara beat her hands on the table. She tried to shove it out of the way. Her boots stamped the floor until she lost her balance and her feet skidded away. The bowl rim pushed into her throat. She dangled at the edge of the table, scrambling for footing—
The pressure on the back of her head disappeared. She fell down, the bowl dropping over with the weight of her. The water spilled out. Amara collapsed by the side of the table, onto her side. She spit out water. Gasped for air. She kicked at the floor, trying to get away, under the table, where Jorn couldn’t reach her.
Air. What had happened? Was he done?
“Maart!” Cilla shouted. “Don’t—”
His bedroll was empty. The noise must’ve woken him.
Amara pressed her hands flat on the floor to steady herself, breaths surging in and out. Her eyes acted strangely, but she could still see Maart and Jorn. Fighting. Maart was screaming, shapeless noise and nothing more. He threw Jorn into the wall. One fist pulled back.
Jorn muttered a word. The air glowed, and Maart winced, but it took only a second. Muscles tightened in his arm. The punch hit Jorn square in the nose. Jorn growled, ducking low. He rammed into Maart, shoulder against hipbone, and knocked him onto the floor. He straddled Maart. Two hands gripped his hair. Jorn pulled Maart’s head up. Crashed it down.
That ended it.
Just that quickly—just that quietly—Maart stopped moving. Jorn climbed off. He was panting.
Why was Maart not moving? Amara stared.
“Maart?” Cilla made a strangled sound. She dove next to his body, fumbling to press her hand to his throat. Her expression didn’t change. Her breaths came shorter. “You. He’s. He’s.”
That was not good.
“I didn’t.” Jorn leaned against the table. He stood too close. Amara crawled farther against the wall, pressing every part of herself against it. She couldn’t hide further. Maybe Jorn couldn’t see her from where he stood. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
Amara was still kicking at the floor to get away. She hugged herself and stared and stared and stared.
“I wanted to stop him,” Cilla whispered, and it was like Maart was talking to Amara all over again, sitting across from her in that dimly lit inn room and signing should’ves. He should’ve fought Jorn. That was what he’d said. He should’ve fought Jorn to save her.
They buried him.
In the south, in Eligon, people cut holes in the ice and lowered their dead into the water for the fish to eat. The Elig ate the fish. The fish ate them. That was fair; that was right. They cleaned corpses’ houses or melted the surrounding snow, and drowned their dead as soon as they could, keeping their lands pure and the spirits happy.
There was a reason few Elig traveled to the dead-stained north of the Continent and Dunelands.
In the Dit regions of the Continent, they stored their dead in mountain caves. They shut off the entrances with stone. You could walk those trails, see those stones, and remember the dead lifted high above the world. They made exceptions for mages. They lay them on mountain platforms for the sun and the birds. Mages were favored; it was only right their bodies be returned to the spirits for them to use as they pleased.
In the Alinean Islands they had only dangerous volcanoes and no snow. They burned their dead and used the ashes to bless the next-born descendant.
Amara didn’t know what the Jélis did with their dead. Or what the people from the northern continents did. She didn’t know much about them at all. Maybe she should. Maybe she would like their methods better. Maybe they would be better than sticking Maart into the ground to rot. Worms would eat him or scavengers would dig him up. People would walk over this spot for years to come, not knowing who lay underneath their feet. One day kids would play in these woods and they’d find his ribs and they’d laugh and use them to scare one another, or to spar, or they’d shrug and toss them away and continue their games.
None of that was right.
But: “We bury him,” Jorn had said curtly. Blood crusted underneath his nose, where Maart had hit him. Amara thought Maart had done more damage than that. She wished he had. “We’re leaving in the morning. A ship is coming to pick us up. Cilla drew too much attention.”
No one argued.
Cilla stood to one side because she wasn’t allowed near the shovels in case something went wrong. Jorn and Amara worked. They dug deep. They lifted Maart’s body in. They put the earth back. Jorn beat the spot with the back of his shovel to make the displaced dirt stand out less, and Amara felt every thump.
“Do you want to say something?” Jorn asked. Then he grunted, “I’ll give you a minute.”
He leaned against a tree, far enough away that he probably wouldn’t be able to recognize Amara’s signs if he tried.
He’d catch them if they ran, anyway.
Amara stared at the earth.
Maart had wanted them to run. If she’d said yes—
“I wanted to stop him,” Cilla said, urgently now. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve helped. I should’ve …”
“You would’ve gotten hurt,” Amara signed. “I know.”
“I was scared. I’m sorry,” Cilla repeated. She stepped closer.
Amara stared at the earth.
“I overheard Jorn the other day.” Her hands moved choppily. She could explain it all now. Maart wouldn’t have told Cilla anything; he’d have stitched Amara’s bandages into place and wished she’d let Cilla’s curse take its course. He’d have pressed his lips to her forehead and painted marks on her skin.
Amara stared at the earth.
She’d wanted to mark the grave with stones the Dit way. Jorn hadn’t let her. It would take too long to carry in the stones. There were none this deep in the forest, so deep Jorn had lifted the detection spells so Cilla and Amara could pass.
They should’ve gone deeper.
Maybe this was better. Deeper into the trees would have meant carrying Maart even longer, and she’d have been dirty all over. She couldn’t melt herself like the Elig melted snow. Maybe she wouldn’t have minded touching him longer. The body was still Maart. He’d still looked like Maart. He’d still had those curls of his, those pretty, long curls. He’d been too pale but he’d still had his freckles. He’d still had his lips. He’d still had his flat nose and his flat eyes and he’d still been beautiful. Amara didn’t feel dirty now, and she’d helped carry him out here, pressing his dead body against hers while she could.
If she were really Elig, she’d feel dirty.
“That can’t be right,” Cilla said once Amara explained about Ruudde and the glass. “Jorn has always protected us. I mean—despite everything he’s done, he did protect us.” Her voice choked up. “I don’t mean …”
“Protected you,” Amara said distantly.
“I don’t know what to …”
Amara crouched. She grabbed a twig from between a pair of mushrooms and pressed it to her skin. She pushed and pushed, then yanked the twig away. A dry scratch remained on her arm, surface skin flittering loose. It hurt. The skin turned light. Then it faded.
“Look. He’s here.” Amara showed her healed skin. “Did you enjoy this burial, Nolan? Anything I can do to improve it? Did you enjoy getting drowned? Did you enjoy—watching Maart—” She shouldn’t say his name anymore. You weren’t allowed to call the dead. And she was shouting with big gestures that Jorn might see even from so far off. She shouldn’t do that, either. She wasn’t allowed to be angry. Her fingers fluttered in the air, creating words that weren’t even words anymore, until Cilla reached out to still them.