Otherbound

by Corinne Duyvis

  “Ask him about it, not me, all right?”

  Nolan heard Pat thump back into the couch pillows. “I think he’s having seizures again,” she said then. “This morning it took, like, five minutes to wake him up. He was super weird after.”

  Mom sighed. “We’ll talk to him.”

  aptain Olym had six servants on the farm, and two of them prepared dinner: roasted duck and spiced patties of roots, carrots, and onions. The servants ate elsewhere. “She stays with me,” Cilla had said about Amara.

  “Ah,” Olym said. “Of course. The others would notice the length of her hair.”

  “That, too,” Cilla said.

  As they wolfed down their evening meals, Amara couldn’t keep her eyes off Cilla, for so many reasons: to stare at those fennel-tinged lips; because Nolan might still possess her at any moment; because the duck contained bones that might injure her. Amara should’ve checked. Jorn would’ve hit her for her negligence.

  “You have a lovely farm,” Cilla said eventually. “Do you have regular staff? I understand it’s unusual to have servants in permanent employment outside of palaces.”

  The distant sound of the servants across the house buzzed in the background—laughter, the clinking of their plates. Which room were they in? Olym had started to escort Amara there before Cilla stopped her. I need this one. I like this one. Forget the others.

  “It is. Well, it used to be. Consider it the ministers’ approach to problem-solving.” Olym smiled wryly.

  Amara kept her eyes trained on her plate.

  “I used to run the farm with my family and some farm-hands,” Olym continued. “I had a partner, two children. My younger daughter is apprenticing with the millwright. My partner and older daughter died in a flood.” Bitterness laced every word. “Three floods in ten years in Roerte alone. Two dune fires that lasted for days. And the ministers still claim it’s not the fault of their magic.”

  “I’m sorry for your losses,” Cilla said.

  “And I for yours. I wouldn’t have accepted the ministers’ charity normally,” Olym said, probably feeling the need to explain, “but after my workers left for Bedam to find a place on trading ships, and after the damage the third flood did to my farm …

  “My partner came from a sailing family. His mother sold me a ship so I can at least support the farm financially. The work still needs to be done, though. My father helps, but the two of us aren’t enough. Ruudde offered magic or servants as aid. Magic! I refused. It’d only cause more floods.” Olym took another patty from the central dish.

  “I understand.” Cilla glanced at Amara with an apology in her eyes.

  Acknowledging that look meant accepting or rejecting it, and Amara didn’t want to do either. She continued to cut her patties into pieces, smaller and smaller, then mixing them into the sauce to make them easier to eat. She needed Maart here. He should sit beside her, his leg touching hers in understanding, his freckled cheeks scrunching up.

  He would be so happy to know she’d run.

  “The ministers force us all into situations we don’t want to be in.” Cilla’s voice took on a harsh edge. “I hope to change what I can.”

  “Even their airtrains cause problems!” Olym said. “The numediks work well—the ministers are smart, I’ll give them that—and at least the trains are non-magical, but they scare the wildlife. It’s causing all sorts of trouble …”

  She went into detail, discussing how the trains worked and how they affected deer and boar and undergrowth, beaming at every interested nod of Cilla’s, and Amara ate stubbornly on.

  The next morning, Olym expected Amara to attend to Cilla’s bath while she and her servants worked to repair the storm’s damage to the farm. Amara heated bathwater, crouching by lit coals with Cilla hovering over her.

  “Do you want other help?” Amara pulled herself up by the tub. If Cilla finished quickly, Amara would have a chance to clean up, as well, before they returned to the ship.

  Cilla eyed the tub as if steeling herself. “No. What I want is …” A short laugh escaped her. “Actually, I’m afraid to say what I want, because you might give it to me. Why are you pretending nothing happened?”

  Amara hesitated. What was it Cilla refused to say she wanted? For Amara to treat Cilla as she’d treated Maart? She hunted for an answer Cilla would accept and ended up settling on, “I didn’t kiss you because you wanted me to.”

  “Then why are you so damn distant?”

  “Because what if I anger you?” Amara wanted to turn away, to keep her hands still, but they burst into movement. “I’m not your pet. I’m not different. I’m a servant like all those who don’t get to sit at your table. And for a servant, kissing you is dangerous, talking to you is dangerous, and not doing either is dangerous, too. And seeing you unhappy? Like now? That terrifies me. Because it’s my fault.” She jabbed at herself with angry fingers. She ought to stop talking. She really ought to stop. “That means—that means if you’re looking for someone to blame, or if you change your mind—”

  “I’m not going to change my mind,” Cilla insisted.

  “But you could!” No turning back. Her hands moved too fast and jerkily. She was shouting. “You can’t dangle an axe over someone’s head and promise you won’t drop it and then everything is fine!”

  Cilla stood by the bathtub. She’d already dropped her topscarf. Her chest was heaving, her nostrils flaring. “I see. You’re right.” Her mouth opened and shut again. Her eyes gleamed. “I’m sorry about … did you want me to do anything about the servants?”

  “It’s just—you didn’t even notice them.”

  Cilla nodded stiffly.

  “I did want to kiss you,” Amara said, suddenly deflated.

  “But it’s not that simple.” Cilla echoed Amara’s earlier words. “I’m sorry.”

  Amara’s hands stayed by her sides.

  “I’m trying.” It looked as if Cilla would say more. Instead, she bowed her head and slowly pulled at her winterwear’s lacing. Amara whirled toward the window before she saw anything she shouldn’t. Her hearing was harder to tune out. Cilla’s wear hit the ground with a flutter, and her feet went from padding on smooth tiles to hugging the fox skin by the tub. Next came the clear sloshing of the water.

  Amara stared at the curtains in front of her and unwillingly imagined ample skin, muscles and flesh and spine forming glistening dips and creases. Amara wondered what Cilla’s skin felt like in the water. If she would smile—cocky or pleased or self-conscious, because Amara loved all those smiles—if Amara turned and leaned in to kiss her again … This time, Cilla wouldn’t taste like fennel. She’d taste like duck and spiced rootpatties and soapsuds.

  Amara quietly shook her head, then pulled the window curtains aside a few fingerwidths to look out at the farm. Yesterday, all she’d seen of the servant house was a few squares of rain-diluted light. Now, in the clear dawn, she saw that the house was bigger than she’d thought, though one corner had sunk into the ground. Servants ran in and out, humming and gesturing animatedly. She should join them in their songs and their work; at least that, she knew. They were more her people than the girl in the bathtub behind her. She even recognized the tune two servants were humming, though she hadn’t heard it in years.

  And, yes, of course, Cilla was trying. Amara ought to be nicer. She ought to apologize. But she didn’t know how much of that was what she wanted to do and how much of it was what she should do. When those two worked in unison, how could she trust herself?

  She couldn’t sort out what she’d felt for Cilla before, with Jorn’s words in her ears and Maart’s lips on her forehead, and she couldn’t now, either. Not until Maart’s death felt real, not in the midst of all this.

  It had only been a day.

  Amara almost turned when Cilla spoke again. “I know how you feel, you know.”

  Amara nailed her feet to the ground and studied the silos alongside the barn.

  “It scares me just as much when you’re angry at me,�
� Cilla said. Water splashed. “It might mean that the next time someone hits me, you’ll stand by and watch. And I know standing by is exactly what I’ve always done, but I—I don’t—” An audible swallow. “I don’t want to die.”

  Amara knew she was right. With Jorn gone, Cilla relied on Amara more than the other way around. It didn’t feel like it, though, not with Amara’s bones and her mind and her everything still telling her that Cilla was in charge and not Amara. Like a stain she couldn’t scrub clean.

  “And no,” Cilla went on, “I didn’t kiss you because I rely on you. I kissed you because I covet you.”

  The hunger in her voice heated Amara’s skin.

  She was still contemplating an answer when her hands moved of their own accord. Nolan. “I didn’t want to interrupt—I’m sorry. I didn’t know when I’d find you alone again. Listen: N-UU-M-E-DD-I-K-S.” Nolan made her spell. “That’s not a Dit word, is it?”

  Amara waited until he left her. “No,” she said, almost relieved at the intrusion. “According to Captain Olym, it’s a term the ministers coined to describe the air-pressure system for the airtrains.”

  “Listen: my language has the same word. P-N-EU-M-A-D-I-K-S. It’s pronounced similarly, and it means exactly the same thing. Pressurized air.”

  Cilla’s voice came sharply from behind Amara. “Is he back?”

  Amara made a quarter turn so Cilla could see her hands and explanation, but she kept her eyes averted. Water spattered against the sides of the tub as Cilla moved. Amara smelled coals and flower-scented soap. “It’s the same word?” she asked. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

  It dawned on Amara at the same time Nolan signed. “I’ve been thinking about it all night. Numediks”—he had to spell it again; if a sign for the word existed, none of them knew it—“are a recent invention here, right? We knew the concept long before you did. Someone must’ve brought the technology here. If the ministers coined the term when they built the air-trains, at least one of them is like me. Either they’re from your world and visited mine, or they’re from my world and brought that knowledge to yours.”

  Of course Nolan couldn’t be the only one.

  “I think it’s the latter, and I think it’s more than just one minister,” Nolan continued. “The Dit mage mentioned she’d heard of ministers inviting spirits in. She was wrong about my being a spirit. She might be wrong about them, too. If people like me traveled here, their healing could just be a side effect, nothing to do with the spirits at all.”

  When she could, Amara nodded slowly. With their healing, people like Nolan would be powerful no matter what, and the possibility of combining that healing with a minister’s influence and a mage’s magic might be too tempting for them to resist. That magic would be infinite: their healing meant they’d never need to recover from their spells.

  “So it is possible to choose bodies?” Cilla asked.

  “I don’t know,” Nolan said before Amara realized he’d taken over again. “It must be. I need pills to control when I travel. If other people don’t have that limitation, who knows what they could do?” He seemed to hesitate. “I thought you ought to know. I’ll go now.”

  Amara flexed her hands, making her skin her own again.

  “So what does this mean?” Cilla asked, hesitant.

  Amara shut her eyes. She stank of old sweat, and the sun shone brightly as though yesterday’s storm had never happened, and the servants hummed on and on as they worked. It made the day taste falsely of summer.

  Did this change anything? Whose side were these ministers on?

  “I don’t know.”

  Overnight, several of the ship’s passengers had chosen to travel by land, but Olym had picked up a handful of new ones in town. The sea didn’t calm down until the afternoon, and they were halfway to Bedam when the storm returned so hard and suddenly that there was no chance of it being anything but backlash. Within minutes clouds crept into the sky; by the time the first passenger commented, Captain Olym was herding everyone but crew belowdecks.

  Stay here! Amara told Nolan, and repeated it until she was sure he got the message.

  Waves beat against the hull, splashed up the sides, pushed in through cracks despite the storm covers over the side-scuttles—although maybe that wasn’t the sea but the rain. There was no way to distinguish between them. Amara and Cilla crept into a corner away from the crowd. At least a dozen people huddled by tables and chairs in Captain Olym’s sitting room, amid cabinets and gas lamps and that map of the Dunelands’ islands against the wall. Amara noted every creak of wood, every time a passenger moved closer.

  The companionway opened. They saw a tilted view of the world outside, dark as the night—then lit up with lightning so bright it left them blinded.

  “Lights out!” Captain Olym shouted through the cries of the wind. “Backlash might affect them. Last thing we need now’s a fire!” A wave rocked the ship sideways. Captain Olym grabbed the doorpost as her feet slipped over wood as slick as oil. Water spilled from the deck down the steps. She slammed the companionway shut.

  They had just one crew member belowdecks, an Alinean boy maybe a year older than Amara, who was supposed to keep an eye on the passengers. He stumbled from one corner to the other to extinguish the lamps.

  “At least we have enough water to put out a fire, right?” a passenger bellowed.

  Nervous laughter broke off when something slammed into the aft wall. People jumped back as though waiting for the wall to burst.

  “It’s from inside the cargo cabin,” the crew member said, an Alinean accent weaved into his words. “Nothing to be scared of.”

  Cilla crept closer to Amara. They kept cautious eyes on the wall and the passengers.

  “Can we make it to shore?” an older woman asked. “Or will we wait it out?”

  “That’s—um—that’s up to the captain.”

  Amara’s eyes were getting used to the dark, allowing her to see the way the boy shot constant, nervous glances at the companionway.

  “This is ridiculous!” a different woman said. She had to shout to be heard over the stomping of heavy boots on the deck above, endless sheets of rain, and cracks of thunder so loud Amara jumped every time. “First we have to wait all night and morning, and now this? I should’ve been in Bedam yesterday afternoon.”

  “The weather isn’t Captain Olym’s fault, ma’am.” The crew member laughed thinly.

  “You know whose fault it is? Mages!” the first, older woman sniped. Her voice turned soft. “Oh, but I’m sure you agree with me, dear. You Alineans are so sensible.”

  “Politics?” a new voice said. Male, high-pitched. “Let’s not.”

  The older woman sniffed. “It’s basic common sense, isn’t it? The Alinean Islands are in the best shape they’ve ever been, and look at us!”

  “And you know that because you’ve been there, yeah?” the high-pitched guy said.

  “I have,” the crew member said. Thunder rumbled, low and dangerous, and he steadied himself before continuing. “I was raised there.”

  “Really?” the older woman said. “I didn’t think any Alineans were coming here anymore.”

  Cilla followed the conversation intently and kept so still, it was as though she thought any movement might disturb the ship. Amara reached out to take her fingers.

  Cilla started. She looked at their linked hands. A slow smile tugged at her lips.

  For a frozen moment between thunderclaps, Amara wished they could just have this. Hands and smiles and kisses, and never thinking beyond.

  Without the lamps, the temperature dropped. The wind howled its way inside. The heat in Amara’s hand felt good.

  The crew member said, “And you’re right: the Islands are in fantastic shape.”

  “How about we discuss something else?” the politics-averse voice from before said. “Let’s talk nausea. I suspect that will be relevant very soon.”

  Laughter. The ship took a sharp swing sideways. Every-one’s hands shot ou
t for nearby table legs or lamp holders to steady themselves.

  The older woman sniffed. “All the ministers’ fault. And the rest of us suffer for it.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding!” the high-pitched guy said. “My mill is doing better than it has in years! I’ve received personal assistance from the ministers—”

  “—when my father’s brewery was sabotaged last spring, Della himself came to help—”

  “—in the form of magic. Laziness that screws over everyone else!” The crew member was getting into it now.

  “So what’s the death rate in Alinean hospitals, huh?” The miller scoffed. “Why’d you even come here if your islands are so—”

  A deafening slam. The wall creaked and whined. A second slam—wood cracked—and something slid across the floor. The passengers collectively held their breath.

  A crate slammed through from the cargo area on the other side of the wall. Cracked panels kept it in their grip, but the damage was done. A set of cabinets dangled from the aft wall by a single corner, unhinged from the blow. Every wave knocking into the ship sent the cabinets swinging left and right. The crate lurched its way into the cabin a bit at a time, loosening the surrounding wood.

  Amara jumped to her feet, Cilla’s hand still in hers. They ran for the other side of the cabin. Amara pulled Cilla closer. She needed to shield her. This ship, these people, the storm, and the wall—Cilla should never be in a place this dangerous. Never.

  Cilla’s hand slipped from hers.

  Amara spun. The momentum threatened to knock her over, but one leg shot out, steadying herself just in time.

  One cabinet flew past, finally knocked free, and smashed against the opposite wall. Amara shouted Cilla’s name out loud. The name never worked coming from her mouth, just a mix of useless vowels.

  “I’m fine!” Cilla called, and Amara spotted her ducked behind a table. Shards of the cabinet slid across the floor.

  “Hurt?” Amara landed in a crouch beside her. At least there was enough light to see her hands.

  “No! No, I dove out of the way. I’m fine.”