She swallowed the pain. Keeping her chin respectfully raised, she crossed slabs bridging narrow, foul-smelling canals, through alleyways, past a stand showcasing exotic Jélisse birds and felines, and stalls offering snacks from places Amara had never heard of. No one stopped her. Servants visited central Bedam for errands daily.
Finally, the harbor noise reached Amara. Shouts, seagulls, horns. The click-clack of cargo horses’ hooves on cobblestones. Amara dawdled at the edge of the harbor. Ruudde would’ve forbidden detection spells to prevent further mixed-magic blowups, but the number of marshals had doubled since her arrival a few days ago.
From a safe distance, alternating hiding behind groups of people, crates, and warehouses, she squinted at the crates stacked for loading. There were few at this late hour. Most of the crates were marked with their contents or destinations. Amara read the words slowly. Far too slowly. Standing still for that long put her so on edge that every seagull’s squawk made her start.
She repeated Cilla’s lessons in her head, piecing together slashes and dots until they became letters, then formed words. The biggest trading ships would sail to the Alinean Islands and Eligon, maybe even the Interterran Sea for the State of Jélis on the other side of the Continent, but the smaller ships couldn’t go that far. Those had to have Dunelands destinations. None of the crates were labeled ROERTE, though some might stop there on the way. Amara waffled about taking the risk, then spotted another set of crates, already being lifted into a ship: TESCHEL WT WLLW, the letters said.
She hesitated. She’d hoped to find Captain Olym at her farm in Roerte, but the island Teschel might work, too. She could find the bartender who’d helped before.
She memorized the ship—a fluit like Olym’s—and its location.
Then she found a quiet spot by the water a few minutes from the harbor and finally put down the basket she’d been clutching. She rapped numb, pale-skinned knuckles on the pavement. She checked for scrapes and saw nothing. Nolan was here. Do you have time? I’ll need you for several hours.
The thought of cooperating didn’t feel as dirty as it had before. Maybe it ought to, but without Nolan, she had no chance of saving Cilla—which she had to try, even if it still felt like a betrayal of Maart or herself or both. She couldn’t leave Cilla to Ruudde, and she wouldn’t beat herself up for that. The world was bad enough without her help. That one kiss in a storm-soaked world, for all its baggage, was the only good thing to happen to her in a long time.
She remembered what she’d told Cilla: I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay even less.
The lesser of two evils. That was all Amara could hope for. It’d have to be enough.
Nolan took too long to answer. He was here, though, evidenced by her knuckles gleaming orange in the almost-gone sun, the skin fully healed. Finally, her hands spread out, his doing. “Ruudde visited my world,” he said, with slow, deliberate signs. “He threatened my sister.”
She stared. Seagulls wailed, circling the harbor.
So much for that flash of optimism. Nolan would abandon her. He would make her walk back to the palace and nod her head to whatever Ruudde said, and she couldn’t even blame him for it. If Amara had a family, a way out of this mess, she’d take that chance, too.
The thought of returning to her old life still tore her apart.
“He took my pills. I can’t give you long. Find out what you can.” Nolan retreated.
Amara stayed in her crouch. She let his words sink in, breathing in cold, salty air and pushing it out again. Nolan was still on her side. He still thought they had a chance. But a chance of what?
She thought about what Nolan had said. Find out what you can. If Ruudde wanted Cilla safe so badly, Amara could at least use this limited time to find out why.
And that meant returning to Teschel.
Regretfully, Amara looked down at her winterwear and scarf. She couldn’t seem to go long without ruining her clothes.
She dove into the water and swam for the ship.
37
When Pat had found Nolan’s journal, it’d felt like an intrusion, Amara’s world worming its way into places it shouldn’t. Nolan’s life wasn’t much to speak of, but it was his. His parents, his sister, his journals, his pool.
This? This was nothing compared to Pat reading his journals.
The lines were crumbling.
Pat downed one glass of water, then another, and set the glass on the kitchen table with a bang. “What’re you gonna do?” she asked. Her cheeks were still wet.
“Cross my fingers?” Nolan said feebly. “Amara has a plan. The last thing you read in the journal was—”
“They were escaping the island.”
“They succeeded. Partially.” He recapped what had happened—Roerte, the palace, Cilla’s food strike and worse, Amara’s escape. “Pat, I’m sorry. This was never supposed to happen.”
“You can’t go back to your old life. I knew your seizures sucked, but I—I never knew—I mean, that you had to deal with that kind of pain all the time.”
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Nolan repeated.
“I—” She sucked in a rattly breath. “I’m not crying,” she said, her voice muffled.
“I didn’t say you were.” Nolan wanted to offer her another glass of water, a hug, anything to make things better. He wanted to tear even the memory of Ruudde from her body.
“In the journal, you wrote … you said … ‘fuck this life.’”
He’d heard Pat swear before, but in a way that was both offhand and probing, like she was testing the word on her tongue and seeing if anyone would notice, or like Ruudde, spat in anger. Not like this. Quietly. As if she didn’t want to say it at all.
“I didn’t mean it,” Nolan said. He didn’t know if that was a lie. The next part wasn’t: “I didn’t mean you.”
“Never mind. I get it.” She didn’t sound convinced. “But you can’t go back. Not because of me. We’ll tie me up or something. Ruudde can’t hurt me then.” She tried a smirk.
“That’s not funny.”
“You have some time, right? Before he … ?” She went for another sip of water, only to find the glass empty. She rolled her eyes, this time in a way so comfortably Pat instead of Ruudde, so much Farview, Arizona, and not Dunelands, that Nolan wanted to grab her and pull her in safely for the millionth time. He wanted to run.
But running would make no difference to Ruudde. Taking his deal was the smartest plan. The only plan. They’d go back to traveling alongside Jorn and find a way to stop it all from within.
“I’m trying to pretend it’s a TV show,” Pat said. She probably aimed for casual, but she sounded shaky. “Makes it easier to think about it all. ’Cause if this is real—whoa.”
“Whoa,” Nolan agreed. In more ways than one.
He’d always believed Amara wasn’t a hallucination; he’d needed to in order to function. But on some level, in some corner in the back of his mind, he’d always wondered if his parents and neurologist weren’t right. He was epileptic, had hallucinations, end of story.
Unless Pat sitting there all gray-faced and fake-smiling was a hallucination too, though, it was real. Everything Amara had been through—real. Every risk Amara still faced—real.
Ruudde’s threat to his family—real.
And he was going to sit here and wait for Amara to risk her life to fix it?