This book contains varying degrees of the following: Mild language, violence, depictions of death, references to self-harm and suicidal ideation, exploration of trauma and mental illness, discrimination, torture, imprisonment, terminal illness. Please read safely and responsibly.
TETHERED SPIRITS
Copyright © 2021 by T. A. Hernandez
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written consent of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations for the purpose of reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover art and design by T. A. Hernandez
Contents
. Chapter
Map
PART I
1. Amar
2. Aleida
3. Kesari
4. Amar
5. Kesari
6. Aleida
7. Amar
8. Kesari
9. Amar
10. Aleida
11. Amar
12. Kesari
13. Amar
14. Aleida
15. Amar
16. Aleida
PART II
17. Kesari
18. Amar
19. Aleida
20. Kesari
21. Kesari
22. Amar
23. Aleida
24. Kesari
25. Amar
26. Kesari
27. Aleida
28. Kesari
29. Amar
30. Kesari
31. Amar
32. Kesari
33. Aleida
34. Kesari
35. Amar
36. Kesari
PART III
37. Aleida
38. Amar
39. Amar
40. Aleida
41. Kesari
42. Amar
43. Kesari
44. Amar
45. Aleida
46. Amar
47. Kesari
48. Amar
49. Aleida
50. Amar
51. Kesari
52. Aleida
53. Amar
54. Kesari
55. Savir
Glossary
Cast & Notable Figures
Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For my Grammie, who was a
shining flame in my darkest days.
Thank you for helping me find
hope and healing.
1
Amar
What did she want with us?
Amar dipped his quill into the small pot of ink at his side and let his gaze drift across the pages of the journal in his lap. The pale light of dawn and the dying embers of a campfire illuminated his hastily scrawled words, and he read them over again. Even after pouring all his thoughts onto paper, and even though he’d pondered the question ceaselessly in the four days since the altercation, he was no closer to finding answers.
He scowled and swept his shaggy black hair away from his eyes. What had the Visan girl wanted with them? She’d attacked out of nowhere, without provocation, and all he had for clues were the memories of her face and the fight that had followed.
And, of course, the fact that she was a Tarja, which was especially unusual considering there were no natural born Tarja among the Visan people—at least, not as far as Amar knew. She must have formed a Bond then, sharing her life with the spirit of a dead Tarja in order to gain magical power. It wasn’t a common practice, but seemed the only explanation for her magic, given her heritage.
But then, that detail was also an assumption. She looked Visan and wore Visan clothing, but she might have had some Kavoran or Atrean blood as well.
None of that provided any clear motive for her assault, though. She hadn’t even seemed angry that night, just single-minded in her focus. Amar had no idea who she was, and Mitul and Saya hadn’t recognized her, either. But if she didn’t have some kind of personal vendetta against any of them, why had she attacked?
He glanced across the remains of the campfire. Mitul and Saya lay on the ground a few paces apart from each other, their breaths slow and even in sleep. He should probably wake them. The dull light of morning was already seeping into the sky behind the greenery of the forest, and Saya would be impatient to get moving.
A fond warmth spread through Amar’s chest as he watched the young warrior sleep. If not for her, he might have been taken captive that night. Their assailant had cornered him in a cave where they’d taken shelter from the rain, trapping him inside some sort of magical barrier. Mitul had never been much of a fighter, and it was only because of Saya’s quick reaction to the attack that Amar had been able to break free. Together, they’d driven away the Visan girl, but it had been a hard fight. They were lucky no one had been hurt—or killed.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He picked up his quill again and set it to the page.
I have to protect them.
After all, neither of them would even be here if not for him.
Maybe that was it. He frowned at the line above the words he’d just written.
What did she want with us?
Us. What if it wasn’t about all of them, though? What if it was only about him? What if the Visan girl, like Saya, had only tracked them down because of what Amar was?
It sounded a little egotistical…but maybe not. Saya had tracked him down after hearing about his unusual condition—something she thought might be useful, once they learned more about it. What if the Visan girl had the same idea? She had gone after Amar first that night, trapping him in that barrier like she was trying to take him prisoner.
What did she want with us? Amar jotted down two more words. With me?
Across the campfire, there was a shuffling in the grass as Saya stirred and sat up. Amar corked his bottle of ink and stored it, the quill, and the journal back inside his pack.
Saya looked up at the rosy dawn sky, then turned her golden-eyed gaze on him. “You didn’t wake me to take my watch.”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t tired.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Amar put some more kindling on the glowing embers. He coaxed the fire back to a low blaze while Saya shook Mitul awake.
“Morning already?” Mitul said, sitting up. He yawned and twisted his neck until it cracked, then combed his fingers through his long graying hair and beard. The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened as he smiled at Amar. “Sleep well?”
“Not with you snoring all night,” Amar replied with mock gruffness.
“Ha! You’re one to talk,” Mitul shot back. “Your snores were as loud as a roaring tiger during my watch. I was relieved to wake you so I didn’t have to listen to it anymore.”
Amar flicked a chunk of bark from the forest floor at him, but it hit Saya instead. She sighed and muttered something under her breath in her native tongue, then stood and began packing up her belongings. Mitul followed suit. Amar, already packed, started to reheat last night’s rice and lentils over the coals for their breakfast.
“Your haseph markings are looking pretty faded,” Mitul said to Saya. “Thought you might want to know before we reach Tarsi.”
“Thanks.” She took a small bone container from her satchel, sat cross-legged in front of the fire, and opened it. Inside was a layer of an earthy red paint roughly the same consisten
cy as clay. Saya wet her fingers with some water from her canteen and dipped them into the pigment, mixing it until she was satisfied. Then she swept her long brown hair behind her shoulders and raised a single index finger to her face. With practiced precision, she traced over the blotchy remnants of the lines already there.
“Better?” she asked, turning her face toward Mitul and Amar. The familiar, deep red markings were stark against her bronze skin—two lines below her right eye, a half-circle curving around her left, and another straight line down the center of her chin.
“Better,” Mitul said. Amar nodded his agreement.
“How much farther is Tarsi, anyway?” Saya asked.
“Not far.” Mitul picked up his saraj and cradled it lovingly in his arms. He began to softly pluck at the seven strings over its rounded body. Rich, fluid notes filled the air as he slid his fingers down the neck of the instrument. “We should be there this afternoon.”
“And how confident are we that this Tamaya will have the information we need?”
“Very,” Mitul said with a grin. “This is the most promising lead we’ve had in a long time. Don’t you think, Amar?”
“I guess.”
“Oh, come on. You have to be more excited about it than that. Good fortune won’t find you on its own unless you send that hope out into the world. Believe in the possibilities!”
Amar only grunted in response. Mitul was always spouting off poetic nonsense like that. It would have been unbearably obnoxious, except that he genuinely meant it. His optimism was usually enough to pull Amar out of his more cynical thoughts, but not today. Today, his stomach was a mess of knotted coils, the same way it always was whenever they met a Tarja from the ever-growing list of names in his journal. Even if he’d shared Mitul’s beliefs about sending hope and positivity into the world, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He didn’t have much hope left to give.
But he couldn’t tell either of his friends that. Not when they both still depended so much on the promises of that hope.
He took the food off the fire and divided it onto three copper plates Saya held out. She took one for herself and carried a second to Mitul. He set down his saraj to eat, and in the silence left without his music, the knots in Amar’s stomach only tightened further. He tried to distract himself with his own breakfast, but his appetite was already gone. After all the dead-end leads they’d already chased down, he wasn’t sure he could take another disappointment.
Still, it wasn’t like he had any better options. He could keep up the chase and hold onto the belief that Tamaya or some other Tarja could tell him what he needed to know, or he could resign himself to an eternity of confusion and struggle and loss.
Faced with such a bleak alternative, he had to keep going, even if he no longer held anything more than the faintest flicker of hope.
They arrived in Tarsi that afternoon, a small but busy city carved out of the forest, where commerce thrived and traders often stopped to barter with local merchants. They immediately went in search of Tamaya, but hours later, they were still no closer to their goal. No one seemed to know where she lived, or if they did, they wouldn’t say. Most people refused to even talk to them, not if they weren’t buying something. As far as Amar was concerned, the answer to such a simple question should have been free.
A headache pulsed between his temples as he led the others to the end of the crowded market street. The shouts of merchants hawking their wares and buyers negotiating for better prices still echoed in his ears, but at least here, the noise was subdued enough that he could hear himself think. It was a sweltering hot day typical of Kavoran summers, and his arms felt heavy as he lifted them to wipe sweat from his brow. The shade of a nearby building offered little respite from the heat, but at least it was something.
“Where to next?” Mitul asked, his voice as chipper as ever.
Amar sighed. They were getting nowhere like this, and as annoyed as he was by the idea of paying for information, maybe that was what was required to get this over with. The trick would be to pay as little as possible.
A trio of laughing boys darted past, and Amar’s hand shot out to grab the last one by the shoulder. Ignoring the uneasy look Mitul gave him, he spun the boy around and fished a single brass jitaara out of his pocket. He held the coin up so it gleamed in the sun. “Want it?”
The boy’s eyes went as round as the coin. He glanced over at his friends, who were watching from a safe distance.
Amar loosened his grip on the boy’s shoulder and rotated the coin in his fingers. “Well?”
After another moment’s hesitation, the boy nodded.
“Good. I’m looking for a Tarja woman. Tamaya Takhar. Can you tell me where she lives?”
Round eyes widened even further, and the boy shook his head.
“Why not?” Amar’s voice came out in a deeper growl than he’d intended, and the boy took half a step back, as if he were afraid.
“I’m so sorry.” Mitul said. He put a hand on Amar’s wrist and shot him a pointed look. Amar shrugged and backed away. If Mitul really thought he could do a better job of getting the information they needed, let him try.
Mitul crouched down so he was eye level with the boy. He held his hand over his shoulder until Amar dropped the coin into it. And then, without even making the boy answer the question, Mitul pressed the money into his tiny palm. Amar swallowed the protests beginning to form in his mouth. Now the kid was going to run off, and they’d have nothing to show for the coin they’d given him.
But the boy only stared at the coin, his mouth hanging open. In a city like Tarsi, it was probably the first time anyone besides his parents had ever done him a kindness without expecting anything in return. His little brows furrowed as he shifted his gaze back to Mitul.
Mitul smiled at him with the same genuine warmth that seemed to charm everyone he’d ever met. “It’s very important that we speak to Tamaya,” he said. “No one else here has been able to assist us, but you look like a responsible, helpful child. Would you please be so kind as to tell us where we can find her?”
Again, the boy glanced at his friends, but they stayed where they were, cautious and silent. At last, he said, “She doesn’t like us talking to outsiders about her.”
“Ah, I see,” Mitul said. “Well, we wouldn’t want to upset her, but it really is very important that we find her. We wouldn’t even have to say it was you who told us. You wouldn’t be in any trouble.”
“I can’t,” said the boy, then sheepishly added, “I don’t even really know where she lives.”
“You don’t know which house is hers?”
He shook his head. “It’s not here. It’s far, I think. In the woods somewhere.”
“That’s very helpful, thank you. Do you know anyone else who could tell us where to find her?”
The boy cocked his head to one side, thinking.
Amar crossed his arms. This was a waste of time. The child clearly didn’t know anything useful. Most likely, he was just trying to come up with a way to get another coin from them. From all Amar had seen, everyone in Tarsi was more concerned with their own prosperity than they were with basic courtesy.
“I know someone!” the boy said, a gap-toothed grin splitting across his face. “Come on, I’ll take you to her.”
He darted away, into the crowded market street. His friends bolted after him, and with a sigh, Amar followed. He kept a close eye on the boy’s yellow cap as he wove between the people crowding around stalls and carrying baskets full of newly purchased goods.
Amar nearly lost him around a corner, but he caught a glimpse of one of the boy’s friends squeezing through a narrow side street and chased after them. He wasn’t sure if Mitul and Saya were even still behind him, but if they couldn’t keep up, he’d find them later.
After a few more quick turns around wood and thatched-roof houses crammed together, the boy and his friends abruptly halted in front of a two-story structure with a sign over the door that marked it as an inn
. A small pen and shelter for animals were attached to the side of the building, and a few goats and several chickens wandered the area. A bent figure crouched underneath the low shelter, gathering eggs from a small coop into the basket at her feet.
“What are we doing here?” Saya asked as she and Mitul came to rest beside Amar.
He shrugged. The boys approached the fence and called to the person inside the pen. “Kesari!”
“Is that you, Pujit?” She twisted around to smile at the children, hazel eyes gleaming in the sun. Black hair hung around her face in thick waves that landed in jagged edges against her shoulders. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen, and her voice carried a faint accent. Atrean, maybe, though she looked as Kavoran as Amar with her inky hair and brown skin a few shades lighter than his own. The heavy frock coat she wore certainly seemed to be of Atrean make, though it was absurd for anyone to be wearing such a garment in this heat.
“I hope you’re not here to distract me again,” the girl went on. “Your mother still hasn’t forgiven me for—” Her gaze shifted to Amar and the others, and she stood up quickly. “Oh, you brought company. I’m so sorry. If you’ll follow me inside, I can fetch the hostess for you.”
Pujit laughed. “They’re not here for a room, Kesari.”
The girl raised an eyebrow and bent to brush the dirt off her knees. A lantern hanging from her coat swung forward as she did so, causing the flames inside to ripple and flutter.
Amar scowled. What kind of person carried a lit lantern in broad daylight?
“They’re looking for Tamaya,” one of the other boys said.
Pujit nodded and flashed the coin Mitul had given him. “And they gave us money. Maybe they’ll give you money, if you help them.”
Amar let out a huff. It always came down to money, and they were running short on it as it was.
“Well in that case, I thank you for bringing them to me,” Kesari said. She reached deep into her pocket and pulled out a small pouch that jangled when she shook it. She plucked out a single brass coin for each boy and handed them over one by one. She ruffled Pujit’s hair as his fingers closed around the money. “Run along, then. Go buy yourselves something yummy.”
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