Tethered Spirits

by T. A. Hernandez

  He shook his head. “I have no idea.”

  “Well, what do you think Mahati was referring to?” Saya asked. “What sorts of awful things did your father do?”

  The easier question might have been what sorts of awful things his father hadn’t done. Amar—Darshak—had been aware of this on some level, even as a boy, but it was only looking back now with centuries of experience filtering his view that he could see the full extent of those horrors.

  Images of his childhood flashed through his mind—strong hands lifting him high into the air, his father teaching him the sword, his booming laugh at supper. Hard, dark eyes, but always warm and kind when he looked at Amar.

  Then, other memories. The painting of a warrior king in the palace’s entry hall. A funeral for the older brother he’d lost in one of his father’s battles. Gifts given to him every time the king returned home, stolen from the cities he’d conquered and the people he’d enslaved.

  His stomach roiled.

  “My father was a self-serving monster,” he said at last, looking down at the book in his hands. “Like his father and grandfather before him. Shavhalla prospered only because of the wealth we stole from others. I can’t even begin to number the atrocities my father must have committed.”

  A shiver ran across his skin. If he hadn’t been cursed, would he have ended up following in King Kairav’s footsteps? He liked to believe he was better than that, but he wasn’t sure if he’d always been, or if that had only come after several lifetimes.

  Saya turned from where she’d been examining a tapestry on the wall. “Do you happen to know how Mahati performed the curse?”

  “Some kind of blood magic,” he replied tersely. He’d mentioned that detail already when recounting the memory to them, but he knew what she was getting at. She wanted to know for her haseph.

  “Yes,” she said. “But how?”

  “Does it matter?” As far as he was concerned, forbidden magical practices like that should stay forbidden.

  Before she could respond, Lucian posed another question. “What happened afterward? Any connection to your curse and whatever befell the rest of Shavhalla?”

  “I don’t know. That part’s still blurry.” He looked down at the book in his hands, and an idea occurred to him. He headed for the door, gesturing for his friends to follow. “But I think I know where we can find out more. Come on.”

  The others followed dutifully. If the records room was as well preserved as the rest of the palace, they were sure to learn something worthwhile there. They might even find the answers Saya was looking for, and that might finally convince her that this pursuit of hers was a terrible idea.

  Amar could only hope.

  43

  Kesari

  After their most recent hostile encounters with guards, Kesari and the others were much more cautious about navigating the palace’s hallways. Amar gave Lucian some quick directions, and the Spirit Tarja flew ahead to scout out a safe route to the lowest level of the palace. Once there, Amar led them to a pair of tall wooden doors, which he flung open to reveal an enormous library.

  The exterior walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls. More shelves were arranged in rows throughout the room, along with several tables bearing additional books and various scientific instruments. A few motionless skeletons sat at the tables, as if they’d been there studying when they’d died. Others lay in crumpled heaps on the floor, clothes bundled around their bones.

  Kesari’s jaw dropped as she took it all in. She’d never seen so many books in one place. Before now, she hadn’t imagined there even could be so many books in one place.

  “Welcome to the records room,” Amar said, striding through the doors with his arms outstretched.

  Lucian’s voice was full of awe as he hovered to the nearest shelf. “This is even bigger than the library at my old Tarja academy.”

  “It’s incredible,” Mitul said.

  “Incredibly useless,” Saya muttered. She flung an arm out and swept it across the room. “How are we supposed to find what we need in all this?”

  “Not by complaining about it,” Amar said. He went to the nearest shelf and began scanning the spines of some of the books it held.

  The young warrior’s shoulders slumped. “It’s going to take ages. Some of us don’t know how to read at all, and we certainly can’t read the ancient language of some cursed city that’s been lost for hundreds of years. You’ll have to go through every single book and piece of parchment in this entire room.”

  “If that’s what it takes,” Amar replied, seemingly unbothered by this.

  “Do you even know what you’re looking for?”

  “History. Some written account of when I was cursed and what happened after.”

  Saya waited a few seconds, as if expecting more. When nothing came, she crossed her arms. “Anything else?”

  “What else is there?” He didn’t turn around, but his voice was tense.

  “What about my haseph? I need to know how to replicate your curse, and frankly, I’m not sure you’ll tell me if you come across something useful. You’ve made your feelings on the matter perfectly clear.”

  Amar closed the book he was holding with a snap and raised his gaze to meet hers. The muscles in Saya’s jaw tightened, and Kesari exchanged a nervous glance with Lucian and Mitul. The beginnings of an argument hung in the air like storm clouds.

  “You’re right,” Amar said. “I’m not sure I should help you with this. It’s a terrible idea to bring this curse to your own people, and if you haven’t figured that out after all our time together, that’s further proof of why you shouldn’t do it.”

  “I know the risks,” Saya shot back. “I’ve seen what this curse has done to you. But that’s better than us being destroyed, which is exactly what will happen if the Kavorans continue to come into our homeland and steal our resources. Just because war hasn’t broken out already doesn’t mean it won’t soon, and I’d like us to be ready when that happens.”

  Kesari stuck her hands in her pockets and backed away, slipping between two nearby shelves. Lucian followed, and they began perusing the books as their friends’ argument continued.

  “You don’t even understand what you’re talking about,” Amar said.

  “Neither do you. And what gives you the right to decide what’s best for my people?”

  “Forgive me, I didn’t realize you spoke for all of them.”

  “I don’t, but they should have the right to decide for themselves what’s best. How can they choose if they aren’t even given the option?”

  “Why should they have the option?” The pitch of Amar’s voice rose sharply. “Curses, blood magic—it’s forbidden for a reason. It’s too dangerous, and I won’t be responsible for putting that evil back into the world now that it’s gone.”

  “Look,” Mitul jumped in. “I think we’re all a little—”

  Saya cut him off. “I didn’t come all this way with you so you could refuse to help me in the end.”

  “I never agreed to—”

  “How many times have we fought side by side? How many times have I protected you and helped you? Now I’m asking for your help, and you refuse?”

  Their bickering continued, occasionally interrupted by Mitul’s attempts to placate them. Kesari did her best to tune them out as she continued her exploration of the library.

  “Can you make sense of any of this?” she asked Lucian, running her fingers over the strange characters stamped into the spine of a book.

  “There are a few books with Kavoran titles, but so far, none of them look very useful.”

  “So we really could spend days in here trying to find what we need.”

  She stepped over the legs of a skeleton leaning against a bookshelf and worked her way to the back of the room. There stood a section of larger cabinets housing a variety of artifacts and artworks. Kesari opened one of the cupboards to find more than a dozen crowns neatly arranged i
nside, all different shapes and sizes and crafted from various materials. Some were made to encapsulate the top of the head while others were left open. Intricate metal-wrought designs and gleaming jewels adorned most, but others were smooth and simple, carved from stone or wood. She picked up a circlet of polished crystal and set it on her head.

  “How do I look?” she asked, turning to Lucian.

  He grinned. “Fantastic. Although I’m not sure it matches the coat.”’

  Kesari laughed and turned her attention to a stack of paintings leaning against the wall. She began to flip through them. Most reminded her of the figures they’d seen sculpted into the exterior of the palace and throughout the rest of Shavhalla. The colors were vivid, and there wasn’t a single place on the canvas not taken up by some elaborate pattern. A few of the paintings were more realistic—sprawling landscapes of the city and the forest, portraits of nobles, and an unfinished piece depicting…was that Amar’s family?

  She dragged the painting out from behind the rest and rotated it to the proper orientation. Four figures stood around what she could only assume was the Shavhallan throne. The background and the subjects’ faces had all been completed, but their bodies and clothing were unfinished, as if the painter had been interrupted.

  The man seated on the throne looked a lot like the one in the painting upstairs—the one that had sent Amar sprinting to his old room. He seemed a bit younger here, jet black hair devoid of the gray streaks in the other painting. On his head sat a crown of gold with a plume of red and white feathers at its center. A tall woman with long black hair stood beside him, and to either side of them were two young men—their sons. The youngest was still just a boy.

  “Is that Amar?” Lucian said, hovering in front of the older son.

  Kesari examined the painting closer. He did look a lot like Amar, but there was something sharp and more like his father in his facial structure. “I think it’s the older brother.”

  “Ah, right. So that means…” Lucian drifted to the younger boy’s face. “Skies above, it is him.”

  All four of the figures wore crowns, though none of the others’ were quite as extravagant as the king’s. Kesari turned back to the crowns in the cabinet behind her. She picked up one that was almost identical to the one Amar wore in the painting. Looking at it gave her an idea, and she hurried back to the library’s entrance to tell the others.

  Amar and Saya’s argument had devolved into a heavy silence, and Kesari cleared her throat a little to try to get their attention before speaking. “I found something interesting.”

  They turned to look at her, their eyes immediately drifting to the crystal crown still sitting atop her head. Mitul arched one eyebrow and gave her a smile, but Saya and Amar did not look amused.

  “What is it?” Saya asked.

  She led them back to the painting. Amar inhaled a sharp breath when he saw it, and he crouched down to get a better look in Lucian’s firelight.

  “I remember this,” he said. “That’s my mother and father, King Kairav and Queen Anaya.” His fingers traced their faces, then moved to the young men beside them. “My oldest brother, Devran, and then me. I think I was twelve or thirteen when this was painted.”

  “It’s not finished,” Mitul observed.

  “No.” Amar stood up. “After Devran died, my father paid the artist and sent him away. I never saw this again, but I remember my mother asking about it a few times. I think she wanted it for the memories, but for my father, it was too painful. He wouldn’t let her have it.” He stared at the painting for a few more seconds before turning to Kesari. “Thank you for showing me this, but we should get back to searching the rest of the books.”

  “Wait,” she said. “I have an idea about that, actually. A way to make it faster.”

  Saya’s eyes brightened. “How?”

  “You remember the skeletons from last night?”

  “Of course.”

  “They were all just going about their business,” Kesari went on. “Working and shopping and talking to each other, like they were still alive. Some of the ones here in the library might have worked here. They could help us find what we’re looking for.”

  The idea sounded a lot more ridiculous out loud than it had in her head, but to her great relief, no one laughed.

  Mitul tilted his head to one side. “You want us to ask a bunch of reanimated corpses for help?”

  “Yes?” She blushed and stared down at her feet. “Only if you think it’s worth trying.”

  “That’s assuming they come to life again tonight,” Saya said. “And I’m not sure that’s something we should hope for, after the fight we had with those guards earlier.”

  “It’s a good idea,” Lucian said to Kesari. “We should at least try. Otherwise, we could be here for a very long time.”

  Amar tilted his head. “We could use the help, but they didn’t seem to know we were there last night. How are we supposed to get them to listen to us, if they can hear or see us at all?”

  “The guards we fought certainly knew we were here,” Lucian said, “and maybe some of the skeletons will, too. At least here in the palace.”

  Kesari nodded and held out the same crown Amar was wearing in the painting. He hesitated, then took it gently, like he was afraid it might break in his hands.

  “If they can hear any of us,” she said, “maybe they’ll listen to you. You were their prince, once. We just have to help them remember that.”

  44

  Amar

  Amar stood in his old room, holding up the small mirror he’d found inside the armoire. He’d traded his worn travel attire for a set of red and gold silk robes, also from the armoire, and a pair of finely crafted shoes with toes sweeping up to a delicate point. An embroidered sash draped from his left shoulder and hung over his arm. His hair had been rinsed in the washbasin and brushed back so the thick waves no longer obscured his face.

  “And now, the final piece,” Mitul said, raising the golden crown and setting it carefully atop Amar’s head. It was only the two of them inside the room. Saya, Kesari, and Lucian waited outside and watched for any more guards who might attack, but Mitul had insisted on helping Amar make himself presentable. He’d taken to the task with great enthusiasm, and Amar appreciated the assistance. His head still felt foggy as old memories seeped into his mind, and he wasn’t sure he would have been much use trying to get himself ready on his own.

  “There you are.” Mitul smiled at him in the mirror. “Prince Darshak Kaur of Shavhalla, finally returned home after centuries.”

  Amar tried to smile back, but it felt forced. Mitul saw a prince, but Amar just saw a boy. A boy he hadn’t been for centuries, with eyes too hard and weary for such a young face. He was so much older now than he had been the last time he’d stood here. Seeing himself in a crown and the rich attire of a Shavhallan prince only reminded him more acutely of what he’d lost since then, of all the years he'd spent wandering this world and losing the people he cared about.

  People like Mitul.

  Outside, the sun was already setting, casting golden light and long shadows into the room. If the dead were going to rise again, it wouldn’t be long now, and they would soon put Kesari’s theory to the test.

  “Well, your majesty, what do you think?”

  Amar cringed. “Please don’t call me that. I never wanted…” He stopped himself and let out a sigh. Once, he had wanted to be a prince, a king. But that was a long time ago. “This is all so unexpected.”

  “I can’t even imagine. You’re handling it remarkably well.”

  He grunted. “Am I? Because I feel like I’m on the verge of going mad.” He walked to the window and stared out at the roofs of the buildings surrounding the palace.

  “Talk to me,” Mitul said, coming to stand beside him. “What’s troubling you?”

  Amar took a few moments to sift through the thoughts swirling around his mind. “Ever since I found out I was cursed, I assumed it must have been for something I di
d. But it wasn’t. I know my father was a terrible man who did terrible things, and if anyone deserved vengeance, that girl did. But…” He wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence without sounding like he was discounting Mahati’s suffering.

  “It doesn’t seem fair,” Mitul concluded.

  He shook his head. “Why am I the one who has to atone for something I wasn’t even responsible for?” His voice came out harsher than he’d intended, but didn’t he have some right to be angry? His curse had been intended for his father, and he’d only been swept up in it because Mahati had been out of options. “It’s frustrating, knowing all the pain and misery I’ve endured since then was because of someone else’s choices.”

  “Was it all pain and misery?” Mitul said, and a lopsided smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “We’ve had some good times together, haven’t we?”

  “Of course. But the good parts only make the inevitable losses more bitter.”

  “Or do the losses make the good parts sweeter?”

  Amar groaned. “Are you trying to turn this into some kind of philosophical debate?”

  Mitul laughed. “I wouldn’t dare debate philosophy with a man who’s lived as long as you. But could I get you to consider framing things another way, oh wise and ancient one?”

  He rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin of his own. “Fine. Let’s hear it.”

  “Well, the way I see it, life is full of pain, isn’t it? You know that better than most. And I can see how that would make a man want to keep to himself and push away anyone who tries to get close. After all, loss can’t hurt you if you don’t care about losing anything.”

  “Exactly,” Amar said.

  “But that must be a terribly empty way to live.”

  He didn’t have a response for that. For so long, he’d thought of himself as an outsider. He’d kept himself at a distance from others because, even when he couldn’t remember his previous lifetimes, something inside him knew staying distant was best. Mitul was one of the only people he’d truly grown close to in decades, and that wasn’t so much because of his own choosing as it was because of Mitul’s loyalty. Even so, there had been times when Amar had intentionally pushed his friend away.