Tethered Spirits

by T. A. Hernandez

  The older man, Mitul, would be the easiest to talk to. Amar clearly wasn’t the friendly type, and the Sularan woman, Saya, was even more intimidating with her tall frame and muscular physique. But Mitul had a kind, honest face and smiled easily. It wasn’t much to base her judgment on, but she had to start somewhere. She slowed her pace until she fell back beside him, allowing Amar and Saya to take the lead.

  She opened with a polite, easy question. “How long have you been playing…” She nodded to the instrument slung across his back. “I’m sorry, I forget what it’s called.”

  “The saraj,” Mitul replied. “I’ve played it since I was a boy. Almost as long as I can remember.”

  “That’s a long time. You must be good.”

  “Good enough to earn an honest living, which is all I really need.”

  Kesari eyed the instrument curiously. It looked complicated with all its strings and frets. “I always thought it would be fun to play music, but I never learned.”

  “What kind of instruments are most popular in Atrea?” Mitul asked. “That’s where you’re from, isn’t it?”

  Her smile began to slip a little, but she recovered, adopting her most cheerful, friendly voice. “That’s right. How could you tell?”

  “Your accent,” Mitul said. “You speak Kavoran well for a foreigner, though.”

  “My mother’s Kavoran. I learned some from her before I came here.”

  “I see. Did she come with you?”

  A chill bloomed inside Kesari’s chest. What was she supposed to say to that?

  “I’m sorry,” Mitul said at the lull in the conversation. “I don’t mean to pry. You just seem young to be out on your own, so far from home.”

  “I’m sixteen,” she said, as though that were a perfectly normal explanation. Her high, nervous voice sounded pitifully childish. This wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go. She was supposed to be the one asking questions, not the other way around. She needed to get things back on track.

  “Why do you need Tamaya’s help?” she asked. If she had to guess, it was something to do with the haseph markings painted on Saya’s face, but the woman hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left Tarsi.

  Mitul began to stammer a response, but Amar cut him off. “Who says we need her help?”

  Kesari shrugged. “Why else would you be going to see her?”

  “That’s our business.” Amar’s voice was low and harsh. “We paid you to show us the way, not to ask questions.”

  “There’s no need to be rude,” Mitul said, casting an apologetic look at Kesari. “I’m sorry. His manners could use some work, but he’s right. It’s probably best if we keep that to ourselves. You’re a nice girl, and I’m sure you’re perfectly trustworthy, but…”

  “But we don’t owe you an explanation,” Amar finished sharply.

  Well, that was an interesting response. What was making him so guarded? She glanced down at the lantern hanging from her coat. Two dark voids in the center of the flame stared back at her. No doubt Lucian had several thoughts about their new companions, but for now, it was best he stayed in the lantern, away from gawking stares and the questions and judgments that always followed.

  Kesari raised her hands in a placating gesture. “I only asked because Tamaya tends to be picky about the work she’ll take on from outsiders. She turns most people away at the door. If you’re looking for help with some common problem that could be solved by any ordinary Tarja, you’re wasting your time.”

  “So we’ve heard,” Mitul said, adjusting the strap of his saraj over one shoulder. “But our problem is a very unique one. We’ve talked to other Tarja—a lot of them—and no one has been able to figure it out yet.”

  A smile pulled at Kesari’s lips, but she did her best to conceal it. “Good. That’s good. A magical mystery—she’ll like that.” And if she was the one to bring this magical mystery right to Tamaya’s doorstep, the old Tarja would surely owe her a favor.

  They crossed a narrow bridge at a spring that met with the road, Kesari taking the lead once more to guide the others onto a rocky trail along a jagged hillside. They walked single file, Amar following directly behind Kesari, then Mitul and Saya bringing up the rear. The colorful sunset had faded to a dusky gray, and Kesari unhooked the lantern from her coat to light the path ahead.

  “How is it that the fire in your lantern is so bright and yet never seems to burn out?” Amar asked, his voice laced with the same mistrust he’d regarded her with all afternoon.

  “Magic.” It wasn’t a lie, though it wasn’t exactly the truth, either.

  “Magic,” Amar repeated. “I’ve never seen magic that could be sustained for so long without a Tarja to maintain it. Unless you’re the one keeping the flame alive.”

  The two black eyes inside the lantern stared back at Kesari, unblinking. She let out a short, forced laugh. “I’m no Tarja. I don’t even know enough about magic to explain how it works.” Another lie—she knew plenty about magic—but lies were so much simpler than the truth.

  They walked in silence for a while, conserving their breath for the laborious hike up the hillside. When they reached a small waterfall at the crest, Kesari paused to catch her breath. The others did the same without protest.

  “How much farther?” Mitul asked.

  Kesari pointed across a swath of tall grass into the forest beyond. “Not far. It’s a little way into these trees.”

  Amar nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

  She’d barely taken three strides when the flame inside her lantern surged bright and hot—a warning from Lucian. Kesari didn’t have time to react. He burst into the night in a flurry of curling flames and crackling sparks.

  A chill settled over her. Lucian had revealed himself, and now there would be questions—the ones she always tried to avoid. She whipped around, taking in the others’ shocked expressions, and opened her mouth to explain.

  What she saw behind them made her stop. A young woman charged up the hill, the rush of the waterfall drowning out the sound of her footsteps. Blue lightning sparked between her palms, and every inch of her was tensed like a predator on the attack.

  She was nearly upon them. Kesari barely had time to shout a warning to the others. “Behind you!”

  4

  Amar

  The flames had a face.

  For a few frozen seconds, that was the only thought in Amar’s head as he stared at the fiery thing that had burst from Kesari’s lantern. It hovered in the empty air a second longer, then rushed between Amar and Mitul, past Saya still behind them.

  It had a face.

  Kesari shouted something, but before Amar could ask what was going on, Saya called his name. “Amar!”

  He whirled around. The fiery being spread out like a wall behind Saya. On the other side, a thin figure skidded to a stop.

  It was her. In the light of the orange flames, stark shadows played across the sharp planes of the Visan girl’s face. On her shoulder, the white dragon Amar assumed to be her Spirit Tarja bared its tiny fangs.

  He gritted his teeth as the same question screamed in his mind. What did she want with them? Why was she so determined for a fight, especially when the odds were stacked against her?

  It didn’t matter. He couldn’t have her endangering him and his friends anymore. He drew his pistol, took aim through the fire, and squeezed off the single shot he always kept loaded in the weapon.

  The white dragon moved in a blur. Rather than hitting the girl, Amar’s shot struck the creature square in the chest, and it jerked back with its wings unfurled. But there was no blood, and it quickly righted itself in the air. He hadn’t hurt it at all.

  It was impossible to hurt something already dead.

  Beside him, Saya nocked an arrow to her bowstring. The Visan girl didn’t give her a chance to shoot. She raised a hand. A stream of water flew from the nearby falls and plunged through the wall of fire. The burst struck Saya, knocking her off balance, and scattered droplets soaked into A
mar’s clothes. Steam billowed around the Visan girl as she dashed through the remaining flames.

  Amar holstered his gun and drew his sword, calling over his shoulder. “Get out of here, Mitul!” Whether Kesari took cover as well was her choice.

  Their opponent was forming a barrier between her palms—the same kind she’d trapped him with four nights ago. Saya loosed an arrow at the iridescent energy taking shape in hands, but the other girl dodged with unnatural speed. Amar closed the distance between them. His sword flew in a series of practiced thrusts and slashes, but she evaded each blow with ease. The barrier in her hands continued to grow.

  The fiery thing from Kesari’s lantern danced around them. What was it, anyway? Some kind of magic, but it seemed alive, its movements following the fight to illuminate the darkness around Amar as though it were helping him of its own free will. But that was impossible, unless…

  She was a Tarja, and not an ordinary one. Like the Visan girl, she was Bonded to a Spirit Tarja, but hers took the form of a flame.

  Why had she lied?

  A question for another time. He couldn’t let himself be distracted now.

  Too late. His blade slid through empty air, and the Visan girl seized his wrist. His skin burned on contact with hers, and a shock travelled through his entire being. Every muscle tightened in searing pain, limbs so rigid he felt he would shatter.

  As suddenly as the sensation had begun, it was over. His body was like ice, frozen midair in the swirling mist of the Visan girl’s barrier. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Was he really such a fool that he’d let himself be trapped again?

  The fiery Spirit Tarja shot past Amar and straight into the girl’s face. She flinched, giving Saya an opening. An arrow cut across her outer thigh. The girl cried out, and the barrier rippled, weakening. She propelled herself backward with magic before Saya could fire another shot. The maneuver was clumsy compared to the effortless grace she’d shown before.

  This was his chance. Amar strained against the weakened barrier and managed to take a swing at it with his sword. A much slower, weaker swing than he was normally capable of, but it was enough. The barrier dissipated, and he fell. He landed on his feet and launched himself at the retreating girl.

  He was closing in fast. A few more steps, and he could end this.

  Lightning crackled in the girl’s hands as she extended a glowing palm. Amar skidded to a stop and dove to the side. A sparking bolt struck the ground where he'd just been, scorching the grass.

  Recovering his stance, he faced his opponent again. Her breath remained calm and even, but her expression was visibly strained. Blood soaked through her torn pants where Saya’s arrow had grazed flesh.

  “Who are you?” Amar called out between labored breaths. He didn’t expect an answer, but he was tired of playing this game without knowing its purpose. “What do you want with us?”

  “Why don’t you surrender and find out?” she called back in heavily accented Kavoran.

  “Why would we surrender when we have you outnumbered?” Saya challenged. She let another arrow fly.

  Amar darted in for an attack while the girl was distracted. The fire Spirit Tarja hovered overhead, but the white dragon launched itself straight into the flames. Neither one could harm the other, but that didn’t stop them from trying. They flew high into the air, darting around each other in a frantic sort of dance, and the world around Amar went dark except for the glint of his blade and the flickering glow of lightning from the Visan girl’s hands.

  No more games. He’d given her every chance to retreat. If she was going to keep coming after them and putting his friends’ lives in danger, he couldn’t hold back. He had to put a stop to this. Now.

  He quickened the pace of his attacks to an almost reckless fury, but his opponent still matched each movement. Was she even feeling any of this? Judging by the speed and grace of her movements, he doubted it. She was using her magic to strengthen her own body—something that was just as dangerous for her as it was for him. Magic could numb pain, but she wouldn’t be able to heal her wounds until the fight was over, and she couldn’t maintain this pace forever.

  Saya closed in to join the fight, now wielding a set of matching dual daggers. The reach of Amar’s sword gave him an advantage, but with the Visan girl’s concentration now split between two foes, they were wearing her down at last. She switched tactics, using her magic to defend rather than attack.

  Saya and Amar drove their opponent back to the river. Her foot faltered on the rocky bank. Saya seized the opening, slicing at her throat with a dagger. The Visan girl spun away at the last second, colliding with Amar. She grabbed his sword arm, and jagged lines of blue lightning curled around his wrist. As pain shot up his arm, she wrenched his sword from his weakened grasp with magically amplified force.

  She was going to kill him. It was too late to change that. She was too close—too fast and strong—and he was unarmed. Saya wasn’t going to be able to stop her in time.

  The blade slashed across his stomach, tearing through flesh and the organs underneath in a savage sweep.

  Warm, wet blood seeped into his clothes and spread across his skin. Someone screamed his name—Saya, maybe, or Mitul. Pain followed, hot and agonizing in its sharpness. The world swayed and lurched. His body collapsed in what felt like a delayed, lazy motion. He landed on his knees before toppling onto his side. His sword rested in the grass before his eyes, glistening with his own blood.

  Footsteps thundered past him, and he caught a glimpse of a retreating figure skidding down the hillside. His vision swam as something wet slipped down his cheek. More blood? He tasted salt. Tears.

  Why was he crying? He wasn’t going to die—not really. He couldn’t die. This probably wasn’t even his worst death. He couldn’t remember, but he was almost certain he’d experienced greater pain than this before, more gruesome deaths, more painful violence.

  A figure knelt on the ground beside him, and Mitul’s face came into focus. His deep brown eyes were brimming with anguish. A new ache filled Amar’s chest as Mitul placed his hands over the wound, trying in vain to stop the bleeding.

  “Can’t you do something?” Mitul pleaded. His voice was muffled, far away.

  Another set of legs came into view. Amar tried to force his gaze upward, but his strength was ebbing, and even that simple movement was exhausting. He only managed to get his eyes high enough to glimpse the bottom of a blue frock coat.

  Kesari. She’d stayed. A fight that wasn’t hers, and she’d stayed anyway. Brave kid, that one.

  Amar closed his eyes. Mitul’s voice spoke again. “You’re a Tarja! You can save him. Please, I can’t lose him.”

  You won’t lose me, Amar wanted to say. I’ll always be here. But he was tired, and the ground, which had been so cold just moments ago, was now warm and soft and welcoming.

  It would be easier if he didn’t fight it.

  He wasn’t sure where that thought had come from, but instinctively, it felt right. This was familiar. He had been here before, done this before, and the outcome was always the same. Why fight it?

  He forced his eyes open one last time and summoned every last shred of energy he had to smile at Mitul. He wasn’t sure whether it worked, or if Mitul even saw it, but that was all he had left to give.

  He closed his eyes again, let the soft warmth of the ground envelop him, and slipped into oblivion.

  5

  Kesari

  "You’re a Tarja! You can save him. Please, I can’t lose him.”

  Mitul’s hands were wet and red. He stared up at Kesari with wide, frantic eyes, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. All she could do was stare at the young man sprawled out on the grass at her feet, watching his blood pool beneath his body and the uneven rise and fall of his chest as he sucked in his last breaths.

  A memory began to flicker at the edges of her consciousness. Kesari squeezed her hands into fists. Not now. Please, not now. But the more she tried to push it away, the str
onger it became, until it was all she could see.

  Like she was right back there.

  A man carries a young woman onto the street. Her eyes are wide, her face streaked with ash, her dress torn and bloody. He lays her on the ground and pleads through sobs. “Stay with me. Please, Susanna, stay.” His hands, clutching hers, are covered in blood.

  The woman sucks in a shuddering gasp, then goes still.

  “How is he?” Saya’s voice broke through the memory. “Is he—”

  “Not yet. But if we don’t get him some help soon…” Mitul looked around. “The Visan woman?”

  Saya knelt next to Amar and placed her hands over Mitul’s, applying pressure to the gaping wound. “Rode off on a horse. I put an arrow in her back, but it didn’t stop her. What do you need? How can I help?”

  An orange glow fell over them as Lucian drew near. He hovered beside Kesari and spoke into her ear, but she couldn’t make out the words, only the fiery crackle beneath his voice. It rose to a roar, and suddenly, everything was on fire.

  People pour from the burning building, coughing, screaming, and clinging to one another. Bodies shove and press against her in their frenzied efforts to escape the flames. The smell of smoke fills her nostrils, suffocating her.

  “Kes?”

  Death. Horrible, painful death, everywhere she looks. And no sign of Rajiv anywhere.

  Her fault. All of it is her fault.

  “Kesari!”

  She blinked until the fire disappeared, and it was only the dying man and his friends in front of her.

  “Don’t just stand there!” Saya yelled. “You’re a Tarja. Do something!”

  Something strong and sharp clamped down on her lungs like the jaws of a wild creature, refusing to let her go. “I can’t.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “Try,” Mitul said. “Please.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Kes.” Lucian’s voice.