Otherbound

by Corinne Duyvis

  “No,” Amara said. “You’re wrong. Maybe they replaced her with another child …”

  “I knew that girl from birth. She had the royal mark on her chest and a mole on her chin. I don’t know what the stable servant or that mage you were with told you—I don’t know who you think you know—but the younger princess is dead.”

  Amara’s mind stuttered and reeled and ground to a halt.

  “Well,” a familiar voice said from behind Amara. Ruudde. “This is unfortunate.”

  Three people stood at the end of the cell wing. Ruudde was in the back, looking older than Amara remembered and draped with more gemstones than ever. A marshal led the group, a short Jélisse man who kept one hand on Cilla’s neck and pushed her forward.

  Cilla stared at Amara. Her eyes shone wetly. She’d seen their signs.

  Cilla wasn’t the princess.

  ow?” Cilla shouted. She gripped the bars of her cell. “Tell me how!”

  “Maybe later,” Ruudde said. “Lorres, thank you for your assistance. You can leave Amara to me. Gacco, keep an eye on the girl. Remember: a single drop of blood …”

  Nolan stared through Amara’s eyes at Cilla in that cell.

  “Got it.” Gacco adjusted his marshal helmet. Tufts of woolly hair spilled from underneath. He took a spot on the bench opposite Cilla’s cell—

  —they must’ve found Cilla at the harbor. Nolan wrote furiously in the new journal. Every word they said. Every name they mentioned. Every odd expression or look of surprise. He needed to stop himself from freaking out, and this was the only tried-and-true way he knew to do so.

  So far, he’d confirmed two things: One, Ruudde hadn’t wanted them to know the truth about Cilla. Two, Ruudde didn’t want her harmed.

  At least Cilla hadn’t known she wasn’t the princess. At least she hadn’t lied to Amara. The how of faking the tattoo was easy. Control of the palace meant control of its mages and ink. But why?

  Nolan chewed his pen until the plastic cracked—

  “—Amara?” Ruudde jerked his head. “Come.”

  “I know you’re working with Jorn!” Cilla shouted. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  “Just keep yourself alive while I talk to your friends, all right?”

  Friends. Plural.

  Ruudde gripped Amara’s neck the same way Gacco had done to Cilla and shoved her down the hall. Amara saw a flash of Lorres, mid-sign, then he was gone. She tried to keep up with Ruudde’s pace even as Cilla shouted behind them. Though not tall, he took firm steps, directing her around the corner of the cell block. In this wing, the floor tiles smoothed, and the walls turned light, like a whole other world.

  Leaving Cilla behind.

  With his free hand, Ruudde opened the door to a room—a bedroom, it looked like, with an open bed instead of one recessed into the wall. Luxury guest quarters. They hadn’t been used in a while. Dust covered the windowsills, cobwebs dangled from the corners, and cocoons clung to the far wall.

  Ruudde shut and locked the door. He pulled the storm cover over the window just as Amara was calculating the distance between her and the glass.

  “Kid, if you’re thinking of escaping—don’t. I can heal faster than you, and you’ve never known the first thing about magic. So sit. Let’s talk.” Ruudde dropped onto the unmade guest bed and motioned at the single chair in the room.

  Amara took a step toward it but made no attempt to sit. “Cilla isn’t the princess,” she said. Signing the words herself made them feel no more true.

  The real Cilla had died in the coup, just as everyone thought. The Cilla Amara knew shouldn’t even be using the name.

  Which name, then?

  “Nope. The girl you know is just a regular girl,” Ruudde said. “And it’s not you I want to talk to, Amara. Sit the hell down.”

  “You want to talk to …”

  “To whoever’s in there, yes.” Ruudde looked flatly across the room. “You’ll only irritate me if you keep me waiting.”

  Nolan felt Amara’s hesitation, her questions; she wondered why he hadn’t already taken over. Then she remembered—he wasn’t supposed to unless she invited him. It’s all right, she thought. The distaste that ran through her told Nolan it wasn’t. At least not in any way that counted. Do it.

  Taking over came more easily every time. He simply focused on moving, and Amara’s mind faded out of reach.

  Ruudde smiled, pleased. “I’ve waited so long to talk to you. What do I call you?”

  “N-OO-L-U-N.” He sat in the chair, sending a puff of dust billowing.

  “Nolan,” Ruudde repeated. He pronounced it correctly, even better than Cilla had. “Where are you from?”

  “E-A-R-D,” Nolan spelled. The unsurprised look on Ruudde’s face confirmed Nolan’s suspicions. If Ruudde wasn’t from Earth himself, he knew someone who was. “Which world are you from?”

  Ruudde cocked his head. A beaded lock of hair dropped from behind his ear to dangle by his face. “Apparently you kids know more than you’ve been letting on. Yes, I’m like you. I enjoy Ruudde’s body, but it’s not my own.”

  “Mages don’t heal,” Nolan said, something between a question and a statement. He itched for a pen to write all this down.

  “Well, they can, given enough time and energy, but it most certainly causes backlash. For the likes of us, not so much, eh?”

  “Are all ministers possessed? How can we travel like this?”

  “How do mages receive their power? Spirits?” His tone was mocking. “We’re born this way. I suppose we’re just special.” He propped his elbows onto his knees. “No, not all ministers are ‘possessed,’ but most are. The others don’t have a clue. I found this body a long time ago. Ruudde was already the minister of the greater Bedam area—and a mage. I’d always wanted to try a mage. I already knew I healed every body I was in, but when I started doing heavy spells without paying any kind of physical toll, I realized the possibilities. I located other travelers and found mage bodies for them to use. You know the rest. You know we have power. Magical, political, financial. Name your price.”

  Nolan let the information sink in. If they could choose which people to possess, they had far more control than he did, medication or no medication. So what could they need him for?

  “My price?”

  “People want Cilla dead. You know that. And, no, those mages are not working for us. We want to keep Cilla alive—or the girl we call Cilla, anyway—but she’s too easy a target if we keep her in a static location like the palace.”

  Nolan had already suspected the mages who chased Cilla and the possessed ministers weren’t allied. But … “You were one of those mages to curse her. What changed?”

  “Ahh. You think I cursed her, then changed my mind? Interesting theory.”

  Nolan didn’t know what to make of Ruudde’s amusement. He’d found Cilla so quickly that he must have been able to trace her. They’d removed all possible anchors; that left only the curse.

  “Let’s get back to my point: Cilla needs to stay on the run, and she needs to do it with a healer who will keep her safe. I don’t know what made Amara come to Bedam, and I don’t care. Make her return to Jorn. Bully her, take over permanently, do whatever you like. In return, name your price. Money. Mansions. Truly excellent food. Women, men, whatever the Jélis call those others. As long as you keep Cilla alive, we’ll arrange it.”

  “I’m not taking Amara back to Jorn,” Nolan said. “He tortured her.”

  “That bad?” Ruudde looked as if he genuinely regretted hearing it. “We told him not to … Look, we can fix that. He’ll be harmless.”

  “I’m not taking over! It’s her damn body.”

  “You seem to feel at home in it, though. It could be yours easily. How long’s it been now?” Ruudde raised an eyebrow, then plucked at his topscarf, which was wrapped to dip at his chest and reveal a triangle of olive skin with a glowing tattoo in the center. “I’ve gotten used to being Ruudde over the years. Some of my colleagues even pr
efer their new bodies. You might find you like Amara’s, too.” He gazed at Nolan steadily. “Consider this alternative, Nolan: If you like Amara so much, we’ll hurt her. We can hurt Cilla, too. You don’t want to know all the things we can do without spilling blood.”

  The way Ruudde looked at Nolan didn’t match his threats. He sounded interested. Open to suggestions.

  Nolan tried to see beyond the body to the person in control, just as everyone had done to him and Amara. Ruudde—or whatever his real name was—had controlled this body for over a decade. Had its owner been stuck there all that time? He’d be nothing but trapped thoughts, watching his body paraded around. Executing people. Having sex. Abusing magic and wrecking his country.

  And Ruudde wanted Nolan to lock Amara up the same way.

  “If you don’t cooperate, we’ll make do. It’d be easier if you were on our side, though. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I’ve learned how. Don’t make me, will you?”

  Nolan shook his head fiercely to chase away Ruudde’s words. “Why do you even want Cilla alive? Who are those mages who’ve been trying to kill her? The knifewielder? Why did Jorn lie about all this?”

  “So many questions.”

  “Why lie about Cilla being the princess? At least tell me her real name.”

  “That was a neat trick, wasn’t it? Great motivation for her to stay protected, out of sight, and not ask questions.” Ruudde kicked off his boots and dragged his feet onto the bed, sitting cross-legged. “Think, Nolan. What’ll it be?”

  Nolan couldn’t make Amara go back. Even if Jorn changed, she’d still need to distract the curse. She’d still have her every thought listened in on; she’d still be trapped.

  Nolan would be trapped, too. Alongside Amara, he’d endure the same pain as before, and this time Jorn wouldn’t give him permission to pull back to his own world and write through the hurt. Something might happen to Amara in those few seconds he was gone. Nolan wouldn’t be able to bear not staying now that he knew, anyway.

  Forget the pills; he wouldn’t need them anymore.

  He let his head dangle, staring at Amara’s boots, torn and stained from the storm and seas. He saw her fingernails. They were finally growing back properly.

  “She decides,” Nolan said.

  He drew back—

  —and there, at his desk, he wrapped his arms around himself and tried not to vomit. The sun heated his room even through drawn curtains. Sweat sat at his hairline in tiny, hot beads. The air smelled musty.

  He couldn’t betray Amara. But which option betrayed her more? She had to decide—

  —but she didn’t.

  Amara simply stood from her chair, and Nolan felt her fury fill every part of her. It pushed and pulsed at the edges until it threatened to spill.

  “She’s not in control, Nolan,” Ruudde said. “How many mushrooms are you on? Anything Amara decides, you can overrule. Her, we can control. You’re the wild card.”

  Amara stood mere footlengths in front of him, but Ruudde looked past her, at that boy in another world who ruined everything just by being.

  Amara had thought of Cilla that way, once.

  “I’ll give you some time to consider my offer,” Ruudde said. “Let’s find a place to keep Amara.”

  mara got a cell just like Cilla’s. They moved in a mattress, a pot, a privacy screen. They cut her hair to her ears in an uneven bob that left her neck cold and bare.

  She was a servant.

  They spoiled her, though. They escorted her to a bath and gave her clean clothes and brand-new horse-fuzz boots. She got a thick blanket and fresh meals. The servant who brought her lunch looked old, as if he should have been barenecked years ago. Was Ruudde keeping servants even as adults, like the Andans or some Elig clans did?

  Of course he was. He had no reason to care about Alinean laws. About any of this world’s laws.

  Down the hall, Amara heard Cilla receiving the same treatment. For whatever reason, Ruudde wanted Cilla healthy and in one piece, but why spoil Amara? Maybe it was his way of showing good will. Of saying, If you go back to Jorn, we’ll treat you right.

  Only she didn’t know if he was saying it to her or to Nolan.

  Unlike Cilla, Amara wasn’t kept under constant watch. They’d probably have offered her the guest quarters if not for the risk of escape. As it was, they seemed moments away from gifting her a painting or two to brighten up her cell. They needed her. No, they needed Nolan. Amara was just—a vessel. Something to lug around and damage and repair and then damage all over again. If she broke beyond fixing, no problem. They could replace her.

  It was a very convenient arrangement.

  Sitting on her mattress after her first lunch, she took the privacy screen, tinted paper drawn over slats, and cracked one of the slats over her knee.

  She turned her arm, exposing lighter, fragile skin. She slashed the wood across. It healed. She slashed again. She watched the skin pale, then split and redden, and watched it pull together and fix itself and leave nothing but blood and splinters coating intact skin. She slashed again.

  You can feel this, can’t you?

  Slash. Heal.

  Does it hurt? Then go. Go away.

  Slash, heal.

  Your. Damn. Fault. Everything.

  Slash. Slash.

  Get out of my body!

  It didn’t heal. She watched the cuts, her arm trembling. Her hand balled into a fist. It hurt. She hadn’t realized before. The pain welled up, spread, burned, rooted deep under her skin. The cuts kept bleeding. A steady trickle. She wiped it away and more blood dripped out.

  Good.

  One day turned into three.

  On the first day, the cuts healed within the hour. Amara didn’t try again.

  On the second day, Jorn arrived on the mainland. He passed her cell on his way to Cilla’s and looked almost surprised to see Amara there. He said one thing and one thing only: “Nolan, is it? I tried to warn you.”

  Amara crawled onto the mattress and waited for Jorn to move out of sight so she could breathe normally again.

  She couldn’t go back to him.

  Down the hall, she heard Jorn talking to Cilla. “Just eat. This helps no one.”

  On the third day, Ruudde stood in front of Amara’s cell and said, “Cilla followed you from the harbor. Did you know that?”

  Amara didn’t respond.

  “I thought she simply wanted your protection, but no. She keeps asking after you. Come.”

  Jorn already stood in front of Cilla’s cell when Amara approached, and the Jélisse marshal—what’d his name been? Gacco?—sat on the same bench as before. Amara had caught glimpses of him when she stood close enough to her bars and twisted her head just right. He rotated guard duties with a couple of other marshals.

  On the other side of the bars, Cilla looked gray. She sat on her mattress, legs crossed and eyes closed. Amara’s hands hovered uselessly in the air. She edged away from Jorn, though she had no illusions about Ruudde being any safer. She just couldn’t stand being so close. Jorn’s breathing was too deep, his skin too warm, his chest so broad she couldn’t hide him from her peripheral vision, and when she looked at him, she saw freckles on a flat nose and thought of Maart.

  “Amara’s here,” Jorn barked.

  Cilla opened her eyes. The skin underneath them was swollen and dark.

  “Your hair,” was the first thing Cilla said.

  Amara tugged at a lock by her ears. Her fingers ran through it too soon. “My neck is much colder,” she signed.

  Cilla’s eyes dropped to rest on Amara’s neck. Cilla had seen her tattoo a million times, but Amara still wanted to turn away or fluff up her topscarf. She felt naked.

  “What do they want with me?” Cilla asked. Her voice came close to cracking.

  “I don’t know.” Amara kept her signs low, though it wouldn’t hide them from Ruudde or Jorn. “They won’t tell me. They want Nolan to keep you alive.”

  “But first they want you to tell m
e to eat.”

  Amara looked at Cilla’s soft wrists, at the fullness of her cheeks. She didn’t look any thinner yet. Amara wondered how long that would last.

  “They sent in Jorn first.” Cilla sounded dreamy. “I almost listened to him, too. I guess it’s hard to quit lifetime habits.”

  “You have to eat.” It felt like a betrayal. Whatever Ruudde and Jorn wanted, she ought to want the opposite—but looking at Cilla like this, she had no choice.

  “Do you know …”

  “No.” Amara swallowed. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know why they need you.”

  “Maybe I’m just that pretty. Do you think that’s it?” A hollow laugh.

  “I don’t want you to die.”

  “No one does, apparently. Big difference from before, isn’t it?” Another laugh. “Maybe I’m not hungry.”

  “At the farm, you said you didn’t want to die.”

  “I didn’t,” Cilla said quietly.

  “We’ll … Ruudde wants us to go back to how things were before. We’d have more freedom. We’d have the ministers’ support. It’d be easier.” Amara couldn’t go back. But maybe—maybe if Cilla made the choice for her—

  No. That wouldn’t be right, either.

  “First you run because of me,” Cilla said, “then you want to go back because of me.”

  “I didn’t run because of you.” Amara wished it were just the two of them, talking like before, but Ruudde and Jorn watched their every movement. They stood close enough for her to smell the sweat on their clothes and hear their every breath, and she felt their eyes on her hands as she spoke. “You simply made my choice easier. I didn’t want to leave, but I wanted to stay even less.”

  “Good.” Cilla’s smile wavered. “Look where it got us.”

  “Yeah.”

  They watched each other from across the length of the cell.

  “Which do you want to do less now?” Cilla asked. “Go back? Or stay like this?”

  Cilla didn’t know about Ruudde’s threats. Staying wasn’t an option. Sooner or later, Nolan would cave, or Ruudde would run out of patience. “It’s not that simple.”