Tethered Spirits

by T. A. Hernandez

  When they’d gone, Saya turned to Amar with a curious tilt of her head. “You backed me up.”

  He shoved his pistol into its holster with a noncommittal grunt, avoiding her gaze.

  “Why?” Saya pressed.

  “To get it over with,” he muttered. “Come on. Let’s keep moving, or we’re never going to reach this inn.”

  He and Mitul led the way in the direction the woman had directed them, and Kesari fell into stride beside Saya. “That was really brave, what you did back there.”

  Saya shook her head. “It was stupid. I could have gotten us all into serious trouble. If you and Lucian hadn’t stepped in at the end, I’m not sure what would have happened.”

  “Why did you do it, then?”

  “Because it infuriates me, the way they treat them.”

  “Who? The Visans?”

  She nodded. “It’s not right. And it’s like that guard said—if they had their way, those same restrictions would be imposed on my people. Sometimes it seems like it’s only a matter of time before that happens.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Saya frowned. “Kavorans put themselves above everyone else. They think everything in Erythyr is theirs for the taking, and they don’t care what they destroy or whose lives they ruin in the process.”

  Kesari’s eyes swept over the red marks painted on Saya’s tawny skin, the determined set of her jaw, and the fierceness in her amber eyes.

  Whatever magic is affecting you could help save my people.

  The words she’d spoken to Amar at Tamaya’s house echoed through Kesari’s mind, and the pieces began to fall into place.

  “Your haseph—you want your people to become immortal?”

  Saya shrugged. “Maybe. Some of them.”

  “Why?”

  “The Kavorans outnumber us. Their armies are bigger and stronger. They think they can take whatever they want because no one has been strong enough to stop them. It’s what they did to the Visans, and it’s what they’ll do to us when they tire of the current arrangement.” The planes of her face were sharp in the stark light from a nearby window. “But if our warriors were immortal, if we could rise from death to fight in battle again, the Kavorans’ advantage in power and numbers wouldn’t matter.”

  Kesari nodded but said nothing. It wasn’t an unreasonable plan, and had she been in Saya’s position, she might have come to the same conclusions. But when she looked ahead at Amar, an immortal man trying to rid himself of that curse, she couldn’t stop the shiver that rippled across her skin.

  13

  Amar

  Mitul eventually led them all to an inn called the Saffron Fox. As promised, it was the kind of establishment which catered to those who wanted good food and entertainment in addition to a place to lay their heads. Low tables and cushions for sitting filled the building’s ground floor, with a space set up along one wall for performers. A woman and her trained dragon were performing when they arrived, and the audience’s applause followed them up the stairs to the two rooms they’d rented for the night.

  The rooms themselves were small but comfortable. Mitul and Amar took one while Saya, Kesari, and Lucian took the other. No sooner had they set their belongings inside than Mitul pulled his saraj from its case. He softly plucked at the strings, occasionally turning the knobs at the end of the instrument’s neck to adjust its tune. “I’m going to go down and see if I can earn us a bit of money for the rest of our journey. You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like. Your kanjira should still be in your pack.”

  Amar had seen the small handheld drum among his other belongings, but he’d barely touched it, let alone attempted to play it. He wasn’t about to start now. “No thanks.”

  “Oh, come on, it might be fun.”

  There was that same warm familiarity again. Like they were friends. Like they were family. Amar crossed his arms. “You’re the musician, not me. Go on and play, since that’s all you’ve been able to talk about today. Just leave me alone.”

  Some of the warmth left Mitul’s eyes. “All right then,” he said, turning to the door. “I will.”

  He walked out, and Amar pushed down the nagging feeling that started to rise from the pit of his stomach. He had nothing to feel guilty for. Mitul meant well, but he was trying too hard to force whatever connection they’d supposedly once had. They didn’t need to go everywhere and do everything together. In fact, some time apart might do them good.

  Amar turned to his pack and opened the clasp at the top. He dug through its contents until he found his coin pouch. He needed a new tunic to replace the one that had been ruined in his fight with the Visan girl. More importantly, he needed a stiff drink.

  His fingers brushed against the cloth-wrapped bundle at the bottom of the pack. His kanjira, the one Mitul had wanted him to play. He pulled it out but didn’t unwrap it, instead setting it on the bed. He placed his journal alongside it, then unsheathed his sword and laid it out across the thin mattress.

  A frown pulled at his lips. He’d read his journal from cover to cover and had been through his belongings dozens of times over the last week, hoping something might help him remember the man he used to be. But of course, nothing came. Nothing certain, anyway. But with these three items, there was always a vague sense that were important somehow. Like he’d be sad to lose them.

  With the journal and the kanjira, that feeling made sense. The journal connected him to who he was and what he wanted. It was proof that he hadn’t simply lost his mind and that there was some truth to what the others had told him of his past. And in that past, he had once made a living playing music on the streets with Mitul. The drum would have been a significant part of his life at one point, and even if he couldn’t remember the details, there seemed to be a lingering attachment to the instrument.

  The sword, however, was a mystery. Until today, he couldn’t remember ever having cause to wield it. He’d worn it at his side as a precaution more than anything, and because it brought him some peace of mind, but he hadn’t felt like a swordsman until this evening when he’d stood next to Saya, weapons drawn and ready for battle. He’d been inexplicably calm despite the threat, confident that if a fight came, he would walk away victorious.

  He wrapped his fingers around the hilt. Even now, it felt comfortable in his hand, like it had always belonged there. He didn’t get that same feeling from the pistol, despite it being an arguably superior weapon.

  He held the sword up and examined its design more closely. A lotus flower surrounded by delicate bronze leaves adorned the basket hilt, which showed no signs of age or tarnish. The slightly curved blade was perfectly balanced and honed to razor sharpness at the edge. He stood and tested the feel of it with a few practice swings. It cut through the air with a gentle whoosh, and he grinned. It felt good, familiar, like an extension of his very being.

  Amar cleared his mind and allowed his body to guide him through a series of practiced movements. His muscles remembered the motions even though he couldn’t bring up the memory of learning them. For the first time since he’d awakened in Tamaya’s house, he knew who he was. Not entirely, not in all the important details, but with his sword in his hand, he could sense some of the broader strokes. It was the closest he’d come to feeling like himself.

  He slashed the blade in a wide arc, turning enough to see the doorway. Saya stood there watching him, Kesari right behind her.

  Amar froze with the blade still in the air, heat burning across his face. Then he turned away, shoved the sword back into its sheath, and tossed it onto the bed.

  “I’ve always admired your skill with a blade,” Saya said softly. “You must have had a lot of practice to learn to wield it like that.”

  The compliment stung. He should have remembered that practice, those years of training, but he didn’t. And he didn’t know what to say in response that wasn’t bitter and mean, so instead, he stayed silent.

  “Do you want to come downstairs with us?” Saya asked. “We were going
to get a hot meal and listen to Mitul play. You know how excited he’s been. I’m sure it would mean a lot to him if you were there.”

  Amar’s jaw clenched, and he had a sudden urge to be anywhere else but here. He snatched up his coin pouch and shoved past Saya on his way out the door. Kesari scurried to get out of his way.

  “Where are you going?” Saya called after him.

  “I’ll get my own food,” he replied, and he hurried down the stairs and out the door before she could say anything else.

  “More sohra,” Amar called to the barman from his chair in the corner. He downed his last swallow of the alcoholic beverage and slammed the copper mug onto the table. His head was already buzzing, and his voice had an unnatural thickness to match the clumsiness of his tongue. He’d had more than his fill already, and a wiser man would have stopped a long time ago. But he had absolutely zero interest in being wise and every interest in becoming as blissfully drunk as possible.

  That should be an easy enough feat in an establishment such as this, which wasn’t nearly as clean or as cozy as the Saffron Fox where’d he left his companions. Several of the other patrons exchanged raucous stories while the rest were already passed out on various tables, cushions, and benches around the room. Amar expected to be among the latter before too long. The sooner the better.

  A long belch escaped his throat, and he called out again. “I said, bring me more sohra.”

  The barman wiped his fingers on his tunic and approached the table, emptyhanded. He bent over Amar. “I think you’ve have enough, boy.”

  “Boy?” Amar let out a chuckle. Compared to how old he must be, this man was barely more than a child. “I’m not a boy, I’m an old man. Can’t you see?” He grinned, amused by his own joke. Of course the barman couldn’t see. No one could.

  “Come on, time to go home. You’re much too young to be throwing your life away in a place like this. I’m sure your parents don’t want you out this late. They must be getting worried.”

  At this, Amar broke into boisterous laughter. It came out in loud, guffawing bursts that drew stares from the other customers. Amar howled at the uncomfortable looks on their faces. The whole situation was absurd. He was older than anyone in this room—probably older than anyone in the entire world, for that matter—and here was some stupid barman trying to curtail what he thought was a boy’s reckless drinking and send him home to mommy and daddy.

  He was still laughing as he stood up. The room spun all around him, and he gripped the back of the chair to steady himself. Once his surroundings had stabilized a little, he grabbed his empty mug and began making his way to the kegs lined up against the far wall. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll get it myself.”

  The barman grabbed his arm. “I can’t let you do that.”

  Amar tried to wrench free, but the room lurched with his sudden movement, making his stomach churn. “Let go of me,” he snarled, but the barman’s grip remained firm. Amar raised the mug in his other hand and attempted to hit him over the head with it.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” The barman blocked the slow, off-balance attack easily and grabbed Amar’s wrist with his free hand. There was a brief scuffle in which Amar was too dizzy to really know what was happening, and then he suddenly found himself being thrown out into the street. He had barely enough time to throw his hands out in front of himself to cushion his fall. His palms scraped against the dirt, and his teeth cut through his bottom lip as his chin struck the road. The metallic taste of blood seeped into his mouth.

  Behind him, a door slammed shut. He’d have to find somewhere else to drink now, but he’d seen a couple of other pubs on his way here. It shouldn’t be too hard to find them again.

  With a groan, he pushed himself off the ground. The road seemed to lurch beneath him like a ship in a storm, making his insides roil. Or maybe that was the sohra.

  Someone grabbed him by the arm and tried to help him stand. Amar started to look up to see who it was, but nausea chose that very moment to overcome him. He doubled over, spewing all the contents of his stomach onto the person’s sandal-clad feet.

  An exasperated sigh preceded a familiar voice. “And I just took a bath.”

  Amar glowered up at Mitul. “If you didn’t want to get dirty, you should have stayed—” He wretched again, barely managing to direct his expulsions onto a bare patch of ground. He didn’t know whether to be appalled or impressed that his stomach could hold so much.

  “There,” Mitul said soothingly. “Get it all out.”

  Couldn’t the man leave him alone? Amar wanted to shout at him but couldn’t manage more than a croak in his current state. He put his hands on his knees for support as his body shuddered. Finally, he gave one last dry heave, spit the sour taste of sick and alcohol onto the ground, and straightened.

  “We should get you to bed.” Mitul put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Come on.”

  Amar pulled away. “I don’t want to go to bed.” He hated the way his own voice sounded, like a child whining about his parent’s perfectly reasonable request.

  “Enough of this, Amar.” Mitul’s voice was firmer now. “You’ve clearly had enough to drink already. Sleep it off. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “No I won’t!” He took another step back and let all the resentment and anger that had sent him out drinking in the first place come spilling out. “I’ll never feel better—not while you’re around. You act like you’re my older brother or something, but I don’t know you. I don’t know any of you. Whatever responsibility you think you think you owe me, you don’t. And I don’t owe you anything, either.”

  “Amar, you know that’s not true. I do know you. Right now, I know you better than you know yourself, and I—”

  “Stop!” Why wouldn’t he just stop? Why did he have to keep reminding Amar of everything he was missing, of how damaged he was? “I don’t have to listen to you. You’re nobody. You’re a sad, lonely man desperate for a friend who doesn’t even want you. Do you understand me? I don’t want you.”

  Mitul opened his mouth, took half a step toward Amar, and then stopped. He said nothing, only gave him a woeful look like an old dog that had been kicked. Fiery hatred blazed inside Amar. He ought to knock that pitiful look right off the man’s face.

  He clenched his fist and threw a punch. Mitul ducked aside with surprising speed, or maybe that was the sohra, too. The blow missed, and Amar stumbled. He barely managed to right himself, his insides burning even hotter than before, eager for a fight. But he wasn’t going to get it. Not when he was so drunk and sick he could barely stand. This could wait until tomorrow.

  Or not. He didn’t want to ever see Mitul again.

  “Don’t follow me,” he growled, shoving his shoulder into the other man’s as he passed.

  To his great surprise and bitter relief, Mitul didn’t.

  14

  Aleida

  For days, Aleida had kept a dogged pace, rising early to start her travels each morning and only stopping at night when her feet refused to carry her another step. Amar and his friends must have been doing the same, because she hadn’t caught up to them. Or, more worrisome, perhaps they’d managed to acquire mounts.

  The idea consumed her with every step she took, as did her frustration with losing her own horse. Twice, she had come infuriatingly close to catching her quarry and failed. If he got too far ahead now, would she ever find him again, and would it be in time to save Tyrus?

  Time. It slipped through her fingers like dry beach sand, escaping her grasp no matter what she did. The ever-present weight of losing precious hours and days seemed to crush her from the inside out, but there was nothing she could do. Nothing except press forward, ignoring her body’s tired protests.

  They were only a day’s travel from Valmandi now, and shortly after dark, Valkyra began her usual arguments for Aleida to rest. “You’ve barely had the energy to eat these last few nights,” she said. “Let’s get a nice hot meal in you, something fresh to help you
recover your strength. You can stay here and make the fire while I hunt.”

  A hot meal did sound wonderful, and it wasn’t like she could go much farther anyway. So she simply nodded and found a decent spot off the road to make camp. Valkyra flew away into the trees, and Aleida set about making a fire. With the help of her magic, it didn’t take long. She found a comfortable place to sit, kicked off her boots, and dug into her pack until her fingers found the flat leather case tucked under her spare clothes.

  She pulled it out and untied the cord that held it shut. Inside lay a stack of loose papers bound between more leather, a tiny bottle of dark ink, a few quill pens, and several sticks of charcoal wrapped in cloth. She inched a little closer to the fire, took out a stick of charcoal and a sketch she’d started weeks ago, and examined her prior work.

  The lines of the sketch were so light she could barely make them out, but that had been the entire point. Until two weeks ago, she’d never laid eyes on the man who couldn’t die and had only had Valkyra’s descriptions of him to go on. Those descriptions had been vague at best, and the features she’d sketched were equally indistinct. But now, a detailed image of Amar was seared into her memory.

  She closed her eyes and conjured up the way he’d looked at her the night they fought beside the waterfall. There had been such a burning intensity in his eyes, enhanced by the fiery glow of the Spirit Tarja who accompanied him. She could still see the tension in his knit brows when he’d yelled at her. What do you want with us?

  Did he really not know? Did he really not understand the gift he had, and how fiercely she and others might be willing to fight to gain even a lesser version of that gift?