Otherbound

by Corinne Duyvis

  A knock. Nolan made a sound. The door swung open. “Are you really OK?” Dad asked without preamble.

  “Sorry if I ruined the movie.” Nolan shut a recent journal, where he’d practiced Dit letters.

  “No one expected the seizures to stop completely. If you’re disappointed, that’s all right. If you’re feeling guilty …” Dad’s bushy eyebrows knitted together. “You don’t owe us anything.”

  “I didn’t have a seizure.” Nolan didn’t attempt a smile. He couldn’t. “Can I be alone?”

  Dad looked at him for too long. Nolan wished he’d leave. Dad hadn’t known Maart, and Nolan didn’t know what else to say. He already felt bad for telling Dad to leave when he only wanted to help. They all just wanted to help, since they thought he was lonely or shy or insecure, but—it was none of that.

  There wasn’t any him to feel insecure about.

  “Get some rest,” Dad said.

  Nolan only nodded.

  “You OK?” Pat stood in his doorway, gloveless and in her PJs—an overlong shirt with a band he didn’t know plastered on the front.

  “You should be asleep.” Pause. “Yes. Thanks. Mom and Dad already checked.” Nolan was sliding his notebooks back into his cabinet one by one. He’d dated them, so it was just a matter of deciphering his old, clunky handwriting to determine the order. “Twice.”

  “Only twice?” Pat plopped onto his bed, watching his journals like she itched to get her hands on them.

  She probably meant it as a joke, but he couldn’t deal with it. With her. Not now. “They shouldn’t worry so much.”

  Pat mimicked the vulnerable look they’d been practicing for her play. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just having seizures every two seconds. Woe! Be still, my aching heart!” She paused to contain a grin. “But I’m fine. Really. Why are you so worried? I don’t understand! BRB, writing angsty poetry.”

  Nolan slapped the cabinet shut and reached for the key.

  “BRB, locking cabinet full of angsty poetry.” Pat grinned a second time. “You like their attention—admit it.”

  “I don’t,” he said tightly.

  Pat’s laughter finally faded.

  They were silent for a moment, and Pat said, sounding awkward, “It’s just … you go swimming three times a week and they act like it’s the Olympics. I snatch up the lead in a play and Dad ruffles my hair. Mom’s too busy to volunteer, but she trips all over herself to help with your homework.”

  “Do you think I like any of that?” Nolan rubbed his face. Could he do this? Forget about Maart, get sucked into his own drama? Live life. Fantasize about Sarah Schneider. Bicker with Pat now that she finally felt comfortable enough to waltz into his room and tease him. Amara’s grief didn’t have to be his, did it?

  “It looks like you do.”

  Even as screwed up as he was, he saw that this wasn’t about him. “Pat, they’re just letting you be independent. They don’t think you want the attention. Why don’t you tell them you do?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She looked embarrassed. “That’d be pathetic. And needy. And pathetic. Whatever. It’s way late. Mom’ll kill you if you don’t sleep soon. I just wanted to ask—I had this idea—like, what if I played that ER scene completely flat? On purpose?”

  “Sorry.” Nolan shook his head. “I … tonight’s not a good time.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “You sure you’re OK?” She climbed to her feet.

  “Absolutely.”

  “So why not tonight?” When Nolan didn’t respond, she said, “You’re lying, aren’t you?”

  He clamped his mouth shut. Anything he said would just hurt her.

  When Pat stomped into the hallway, he took his current notebook—the only one he hadn’t locked away—and settled in at his desk. He’d be there a while.

  he first things Amara saw when she woke were her hands. They said one simple thing: “I’m sorry.”

  Nolan was back.

  Her hands dropped. She tried to fight. It didn’t work. Her body slipped from her bedroll. Her hands wrapped her topscarf around her body—and they did every twist and fold right, too, because of course Nolan would’ve felt her do it countless times. She stood, blinking against the moonlight coming in from the windows. Morning would come within hours.

  She knew she needed Nolan—Jorn would discard her if she stopped healing—but did that mean he had to claim her body in the middle of the night? She needed sleep. A few hours to herself before life went on. Quiet and dreams and darkness and nothing at all.

  Her feet padded quietly. Pebbles pricked her skin. She thought she’d gotten rid of all those for Cilla’s safety, leaving only harmless webs and spiders’ egg sacs tucked into shadows.

  Nolan didn’t steer her gaze toward Maart’s bedroll, still messed up and untouched. Amara would’ve. Her thoughts were there, even if her eyes weren’t.

  Her hands found a sidesling. Nolan packed a fresh winter-wear, then an extra topscarf. Maart’s. She felt the fabric slide through her fingers, its embroidered edges, a clumsily repaired seam, and she wanted to shout. Not with her hands. With her voice. As loud as she could.

  Nolan silently stole food and coins. The sidesling went around her waist. Her boots went on last. “You can’t stay here,” Nolan said once they stood by the exit. Moonlight lit her fingers, slanting in through the windows. “Not after what Jorn did to …”

  At least he had the decency to stop.

  What would she call Maart from now on? What name would settle into her hands and mind? The boy she loved. The boy who hummed. The boy who won every game they played. The boy who teased and laughed and kissed letters onto her skin. The boy whose words she stilled. The boy who didn’t understand. The boy who wanted to understand.

  The boy who tried to save her. The boy she might’ve chosen every version of, if she’d had the chance. The boy she failed. The servant who came before … whoever came next.

  No, she wouldn’t use that word. He wouldn’t want to be remembered that way. The servant before Maart probably hadn’t, either, but Jorn had called her that before Amara had thought of a name of her own. It’d stuck. Whatever else happened, Amara wouldn’t do that to Maart.

  “I don’t want to control you,” Nolan said. “I thought I did, but I don’t. I didn’t know it was all my fault. I promise. I’m sorry.”

  Her hands signed that—I—pointing at her own chest, but that wasn’t right.

  “Tell me you’ll run.” The doors were within reach. “Tell me you’ll go on your own.”

  Nolan was like Maart. They thought everything was simple. They thought Jorn wouldn’t find her. That people would help someone who spoke her servant signs. That bartenders wouldn’t let her bleed out because of the ink scratched into her neck.

  Amara used to wonder why Maart thought they could run. Maybe his palace had been better than hers, his minister friendlier. She’d wondered a hundred times and could think of only one thing: nothing was different, only he couldn’t bear to watch her get hurt.

  Maybe neither could Nolan. But Maart and Nolan weren’t the ones who had their noses cracked on the bottom of a bloodstained bowl. Whatever pain of hers Nolan felt, he had a place to run to. Their guilt made them focus on now, on this can’t go on.

  They didn’t stop to think about what would come after.

  Amara’s lips pressed together. Then she realized: her lips. She pursed them again. They obeyed without question. She stared at those doors in front of her. Two seconds. Two seconds, a firm push, and she’d be out in the cold.

  She turned and walked back to her bedroll. She set the sidesling carefully on the floor. She leaned over. She untied her boots. She needed to be quick. Jorn might wake. She’d need to put the contents of the sidesling back, too, all the coins and clothes, exactly where Nolan had found them.

  Movement to her right made her freeze. Tears pushed behind her eyes. Jorn would kill her. He’d killed Maart, and now he’d think Amara wa
s trying to leave, so he’d kill her, too. She knew how he’d do it. He’d wait between eye blinks, when Nolan wasn’t there, and strike quickly.

  Her heart seemed to delay every beat, pressing against her ribs until it could take no more and slowly, finally, thumped.

  But the movement wasn’t Jorn. Cilla crouched by her side. Amara watched her through a haze of unshed tears, then looked at Jorn, who was still asleep. His shape on that roll was big but so quiet. This couldn’t be the same person who’d grabbed her hair, who’d collapsed the back of Maart’s skull. This Jorn was just a man, sleeping. This might be the Jorn who’d taken over cooking sometimes to experiment with bizarre meals, or who used to call her kid, or who, years ago, had bought them toys when they’d done their jobs well. A Jorn from forever ago.

  Amara wanted to check on Maart’s bedroll next. She turned to Cilla, instead.

  Cilla was signing. She hadn’t used signs in weeks. The last time Jorn had seen her do it, he’d shouted at her. She was a princess—she couldn’t teach herself these things—she was a disgrace to her family.

  She was doing it, anyway, sitting cross-legged on Amara’s bedroll. She must not want Jorn to wake up. Her movements were loose and hesitant, and she spread her fingers in places she shouldn’t. Someone like her was only supposed to understand servant signs, not use them. She had her voice, her words, her tongue.

  Maart’s signs were nimble in comparison. Safe.

  “I want to come with you,” Cilla was saying.

  “I’m not running. I—Jorn can’t think I’m running.” Amara took off one boot and flexed her toes. She moved on to the other.

  “You think I would tell him?” Cilla signed.

  “You used to tell him everything. You told him about the blackouts.” Amara met Cilla’s eyes, too tired for fear. She had all of that saved up for Jorn. Cilla was … just Cilla, now.

  “I was worried. I’m sorry. I won’t tell him. I didn’t tell him you contacted the mage, either. On my life. On the names of the dead.”

  Maart, Amara thought.

  “I was lying the other day.” Amara was an idiot for saying this. She no longer cared. “When I said I didn’t hate you.”

  “I … thought as much.” Cilla breathed deeply. Amara caught a whiff of garlic. Now she knew what Maart had cooked last. When Cilla went on, it was as though Amara had said nothing. “If you’re not running, why do you have your boots on? What’s in the bag?”

  Nolan returned without warning. Her hands halted in opening her other boot, the cord biting at cold fingers.

  No, she wanted to tell him. No!

  Cilla leaned back. “Nolan.”

  Was Amara that obvious, that Cilla detected a change in this fraction of a second?

  “So … running wasn’t Amara’s idea,” Cilla signed.

  “You have to tell her to go.” Amara felt her expression change but couldn’t tell how. She wanted to claw at it. “I won’t force her. I’m just giving her the option. Making it easier. Listen. I know her parents’ names and what they look like. They lived in Bedam. If we go there, we can find them. They’ll have to hide her or return to Eligon, but she’ll be safe.”

  Her parents. Amara had never considered that option. All she remembered were words that weren’t Dit, said by voices she couldn’t place. The words had to be Elig; the voices had to be her parents’.

  How come Nolan knew, and she didn’t?

  She still couldn’t leave. Her parents could be dead or could have moved hundreds of miles away. Jorn would track her. He’d find her. Or maybe Ruudde would, the moment she set foot in Bedam.

  She couldn’t.

  “I’m leaving now,” Nolan said. “I’ll keep watching in case she needs to heal. Earlier, when she told me to leave, I swear, I didn’t know what’d happen.”

  Cilla’s lips pursed. “If we tell you to leave, you leave. And you don’t take control unless she asks.”

  Nolan nodded. He clawed at the blanket of her bedroll—then her body sagged. She had to remind herself to sit up, to lift her hands, wake the muscles he’d left unattended.

  “I can’t go,” Amara said. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

  “Jorn killed Maart,” Cilla signed, and she didn’t even seem ashamed of having that name on her fingers. Amara shut her eyes too late to miss it.

  Maart. Maart. She sang his name in her head, the only place she could keep it safe. She didn’t want to decide on another name. Not yet.

  “We’ll go together,” Cilla signed. “We’ll find your parents.”

  “Why do you want to come?” Amara knew the answer before she finished asking.

  “He. Killed. Maart.” Cilla’s eyes hardened.

  And, oh, Amara knew Cilla was right, she knew, but part of her could not help thinking, That’s what it took? That’s how far he had to go?

  “And he’s working with the ministers. Our enemies. You’re the only person I can trust.”

  “And you need me to survive.”

  “Yes. And I need you.”

  It was as though the word hate had never been on Amara’s hands. It changed nothing. She sat there, her fingers on the edge of her boot. If she stayed, she’d need to remain useful to Jorn. She’d be stuck with Nolan.

  If she ran—she might have a chance. And Maart had wanted her to. If she’d gone with him before, he might still be alive.

  Her hands dropped from her boot. “We’d need to cross Jorn’s detection spell.”

  Cilla’s face broke into a smile. Just like that. From hard eyes to that lit-up smile that made Amara love and hate her more at the same time. “We’re safe. Jorn never reactivated it. He went straight back inside after … He seemed really out of it.”

  “He’ll still track us. He has anchors on us—must be our clothes or boots, or your medicine.”

  “We’ll take the airtrain to the harbor and get out of Jorn’s reach before he notices. I don’t know how far he can track an anchor. Leaving the island should be enough, shouldn’t it?”

  Amara couldn’t believe she was discussing this.

  Cilla’s smile faded. “If you don’t want to go, don’t. You’re the one who should decide.”

  “But you want me to.”

  “Yes. I want you to.”

  No, Amara wanted to tell Cilla. No. I don’t want to go.

  She took her other boot. “We’ll find a ship, then. I’ve already packed money.”

  “I’ll get my things.” Cilla bolted for the bag where Jorn kept Cilla’s medicine, both the kind that stopped her monthly bleeds and the kind that sped her clotting. She’d need the brush for her teeth, of course, and her clothes, her knee and elbow pads …

  The smile might have gone, but as Cilla packed, her every movement contained a barely restrained excitement. Was this an adventure to her? She could take the risk of running. She’d get off easily if they were caught. Maybe her only punishment would be watching Amara’s.

  Amara pulled her boots back on. It didn’t matter. She’d made her choice. She felt … relieved. It would work or it wouldn’t, and either way, all this would come to an end.

  She took her knife from her boot and pricked her arm. A drop of blood welled up. She smeared it away, finding the skin underneath whole. “What about you?” she asked Nolan. “Is this just an adventure to you, as well?”

  No answer came.

  t’s not an adventure, Nolan wrote. He’d woken from his millionth nap, sitting uneasily in his desk chair. And it’s not about feeling guilty. It’s about making it right.

  He chugged more knockoff Coke. It was four in the morning. He had school soon. Mom would be furious. Few things were more important to preventing seizures than a regular sleep schedule.

  Amara blames me. Prob should. I didn’t mean to, but it’s still my doing. Should help FIX IT now. Fuck own life. Can’t ignore this. My fault. I still don’t get what’s going on with me but

  Ok, I think this is what’s happening. Nolan underlined the word several times. I’m a mag
e, or whatever the Earth version is and I can transport my mind into someone else. (Just Amara? Others if I try?) I used to do it without meaning to & now I can control it.

  I looked this up: When people blink, something happens w/ our brain, turning on & off diff sections to rest for a split second. So in my case, when brain rests when I blink & sleep, something else happens too. I go to Amara.

  So what’s in these pills that wasn’t in the others? And which part of my brain sends me to Amara? I guess my drs would know, all those weird EEGs from when I was a kid prob show which part of my brain is (in)active when I’m in her mind.

  Ok, leaves me where??

  As long as I take the pills, I can stay out of her mind. So I only need to stick around until she’s safe w/parents. Then ??? I take pills the rest of my life & hope I don’t focus on Amara too much b/c I’ll go by accident? What if she needs to heal? Do I keep checking?

  He drained the last drops of his pseudo-Coke can but didn’t get up yet to find another. He should’ve just brought up a full six-pack. And what happens with Cilla? he wrote.

  What happens with Amara?

  he airtrain was nearly empty. It only operated at this hour to take fishers and market workers to the harbor, and many of those had either already left or didn’t need to work until sunrise. Cilla and Amara climbed on right as the train was about to leave.

  Every second they rode took them farther from Jorn. Amara stared at the passing landscape: the forest where lightning had struck the other airtrain, dunes and farms and heathered hills, gray fields stretching far with nothing but cows, and, near the treelines, a handful of deer. The unnervingly steady drone of the dawnflies’ whistling followed the train on its trip.

  “Nolan. I’d like to talk to you,” Amara signed. She sat at the window, where no one but Cilla could see her hands.