Tethered Spirits Read online

  “That’s it,” Valkyra said soothingly. “Acknowledge your feelings and accept them. You can’t change what was, only what’s to come.”

  Aleida didn’t want to acknowledge her feelings. It would be far less painful to shove them down and pretend they’d never existed. But as she’d learned time and again in the two years she’d been Bonded to Valkyra, burying her emotions would only interfere with her ability to use her magic.

  She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and opened herself to the full force of her inner turmoil. Her physical wounds hurt less than the guilt, disappointment, and fear warring inside her heart. Memories of the fight and everything she could have done differently replayed in her mind. She couldn’t afford to make those kinds of mistakes. Tyrus was counting on her, and she’d let him down, wasted time he didn’t have.

  What if she couldn’t succeed before his time ran out? What if he died, leaving her all alone in the world, the sole survivor of her family?

  She let it all crash over her in waves until tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  For a few minutes, she allowed herself to cry, giving her pain the time it needed to be recognized. Then she raised her chin and wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. She was doing the best she could, and Tyrus was still alive, still counting on her. She couldn’t change what was already done. All that was left was to keep going. She’d do better next time.

  Valkyra nodded. “Try again.”

  Aleida reached around to touch the wound at her back, channeled her altma, and sought out the underlying layers of damaged tissue. The magic flowed freely this time. A soothing coolness bloomed inside the wound and spread. The bleeding stopped as muscle and skin knit themselves back together, forming a raw, raised scar on the surface. She pulled her hand away. She could still sense injured muscle and flesh beneath the surface, but the pain was much more bearable now.

  She mended her leg next, following a similar process. An angry red line remained across her thigh when she was done. It would split open and bleed again if she wasn’t careful, but at least for now, the worst of the damage had been repaired and some of the pain had subsided.

  “You did well,” Valkyra said. “Now sleep. Magic did most of the work, but your body needs rest to fully heal.”

  Aleida shook her head and stood up stiffly. She tested her weight on her injured leg. Not as strong as it should have been, but it would have to do for now. “How can I sleep when we’re so close? If we go back now—”

  Valkyra spread her wings and glided over the grass to the horse. She nipped him in the ankle with her tiny fangs. His ears flicked back, and he let out a panicked whinny as he shot off down the trail.

  “Why did you do that?” Aleida cried. “That horse was our best chance of catching up to them!”

  “I’ll track him down later. Right now, you need to rest, and since you’re too stubborn to listen, I decided to take matters into my own hands.”

  “I’ll walk, then.”

  “And how far do you think you’ll get on that leg?”

  “Farther than I’ll get sitting here.”

  Valkyra sighed. “Aleida, please. Listen to reason. Even if you could reach them, you’re in no condition to fight, and they’ll be on their guard now more than ever. We need to reevaluate our plan, and you need to rest.”

  She was right. Aleida hated every word of her little speech, but she was right. She lowered herself back onto the grass and stretched her injured leg out in front of her.

  Valkyra meandered over and sat down, feathery wings folded demurely behind her back. Her silky tail wrapped around her legs. “I know how much you want to save Tyrus,” she said gently, “but that man and his friends have outmaneuvered us twice now. We need to be smarter.”

  “Amar,” Aleida said. “His name is Amar.”

  For so long, the man who couldn’t die had been only a story to her, and then only a face. Now he had a name, too—the one the Sularan woman had called out to him during their battle. Somehow, knowing that simple fact about him made him seem more real, more human.

  More like her.

  But she couldn’t let herself think like that. In the end, if it came down to Tyrus’ life or Amar’s, she would do whatever it took to save her brother.

  “Are you certain he’s the key to helping Tyrus?” she asked Valkyra. They’d had this discussion many times before, but sometimes it was comforting to hear it all again. Valkyra was always so sure and steadfast, and that confidence was a rock on which Aleida could stand when her own doubts rolled in like storm clouds.

  “I’m sure,” Valkyra said. “Once we learn the secret to his immortality, we should be able to replicate whatever magic is causing it.”

  “And Tyrus will live,” Aleida said. “But will he be healed?”

  “I have every reason to believe so. The information I’ve gathered indicates that any injuries or illnesses Amar suffers are healed quickly, even when the injury is fatal. That must be part of what prevents him from ever truly dying.”

  She still didn’t understand how it was possible. Before the Kavoran Empire had invaded and conquered Vis, she’d never ventured outside her home city of Libera. There were no natural born Tarja among the Visans, and while Tarja from other nations sometimes passed through the coastal city, magic had been largely a mystery to her. It still was, in many ways. She knew enough of how it worked to call on it herself, but even now, many of the feats accomplished through magic looked like miracles to her.

  Sometimes, it was easier for her to think of magic as a kind of faith. She didn’t always understand it, just as she didn’t always understand Artex’s workings, but she believed in the possibilities both offered. She believed Artex would watch over Tyrus and keep him safe while she was away. She believed that Valkyra knew what she was doing, and that once they captured Amar, they could use his unique ability to save Tyrus’ life. And if, in the end, that meant using Amar or trading his life for her brother’s, then so be it. The fact that she now knew his name changed nothing.

  “You really should rest,” Valkyra said. “Lie down, sleep. Give the altma in your body a chance to do the rest of its healing work.”

  “I don’t think I’d be able to sleep now even if I wanted to,” Aleida muttered, but she lay down anyway, wincing as the muscles in her back stretched around the arrow wound.

  “Try.” Valkyra took a few steps closer to her, curled up on the ground, and began to sing softly. It was an old Visan lullaby, something her mother used to sing to her and Tyrus. It didn’t sound quite the same in Valkyra’s Kavoran accent and low voice, but when Aleida closed her eyes, she could almost see Mama sitting beside the bed she and Tyrus had shared as children, stroking their hair while Papa looked on from the doorway.

  It was only a memory, and those days were long gone, never to return. But for a moment, Aleida allowed herself to sink further into the comforting illusion it provided. If the only place she and her family could be together was in her dreams, then, for a little while at least, that was where she wanted to be.

  7

  Amar

  He woke with a gasp, as though startled from sleep. Was it a bad dream? What had he been dreaming? Or perhaps it was a noise, though everything was quiet now.

  Pale sunlight filtered through a window overhead. It must be dawn, or early evening. But when had he gone to sleep?

  No answers came to mind. Not a good sign. He let his gaze drift around the room, searching for something familiar. The doorway was covered by a colorful woven cloth, and a man he didn’t recognize dozed against one wall. The bed beneath him was little more than a roll of heavy blankets spread on the floor, and nothing covered him except…

  He pressed a hand to his abdomen. There was something thick and dry caked into the fabric of his clothes and flaking from his skin. He raised his fingers to his face. A dark red substance coated them.

  Blood.

  His? He didn’t think so, but where else could it have come from? He sat up carefully
just in case. Nothing hurt, but the front of his shirt had a long, ragged tear. He raised the bottom hem to his shoulders to examine the flesh underneath. No wounds, not even so much as a scar.

  Someone else’s blood, then. Why couldn’t he remember?

  His gaze darted back to the man sleeping against the wall. A neat, graying beard covered his chin and jawline. Half of his dark hair was pulled back in a knot behind his head while the rest hung loose around his shoulders. His clothes were simple, made of homespun cloth that hung in loose folds over his thin frame. One hand rested on the saraj laid out beside him.

  Who was this man? He still had no idea, but he got out of bed and approached him anyway, bending to get a better look at his face.

  The stranger stirred, blinked, and looked up. “Amar,” he said in a voice still groggy with sleep. “You’re awake.”

  Amar. A name that didn’t belong to him. His name was—

  His name was—

  Why couldn’t he remember? His heart pounded, and he backed away as fast as his feet would take him.

  “It’s all right,” the man said, pushing himself up off the floor. He held his hands up and slightly outstretched, like he was approaching a wild animal. “You’re safe. I know this is all very strange, but I can explain everything. Would you like to sit down?”

  Whatever was wrong with his mind, this stranger could have had something to do with it. He wasn’t going to stick around for him to continue whatever unpleasantness he was plotting. His eyes found the door, and he ran to it. The man made no move to stop him as he flung aside the colorful fabric.

  Another figure stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Red lines crossed her face, not quite dark enough to be blood, but they gave her a fierce appearance nonetheless. He threw a punch at her.

  She dodged the blow as if she’d been expecting it. His fist only grazed a few strands of her long brown hair. “Amar, stop!”

  He lashed out again, but she caught his arm and attempted to twist it behind his back. Skies above, she was strong. He wrenched free and aimed a kick at her torso. At the same time, she dropped into a crouch and made a sweeping motion with one of her legs. Her stiff foot hooked around his ankles. His legs flew up, and he landed on his back. All the air in his lungs whooshed out in a ragged grunt.

  “We just want to talk,” said the man from the room, coming to stand over him. “No one is going to hurt you.”

  Still gasping for air, he grabbed the stranger by the ankle and yanked him down. Then he made a break for the nearest door.

  The woman was faster and blocked his path again. “You need to listen, Amar.”

  “That’s not my name!”

  “Can’t an old woman get any peace and quiet in her own home?” a new voice shouted from another room. The tapestry over the doorway shifted, and a short old woman emerged, hair disheveled and mouth twisted in a disgruntled frown. Her eyes met his. “The dead man rises. It seems your friends were telling the truth.”

  “He’s alive?” said another voice, and a girl with black hair poked her head out of the same doorway. How many people were in this house?

  They were all talking to him like they knew him—or knew about him, at least. But he didn’t recognize any of them. Who were they? Who was he? What did the old woman mean by the dead man rises? What dead man?

  His eyes shifted between them all. Aside from the taller woman who’d knocked him down, none of them looked particularly dangerous. Maybe his situation wasn’t as dire as he’d thought at first. Now he only had questions, too many to count. It might not be such a bad idea to at least hear what they had to say.

  “Who are you people?” he asked. “What’s happening to me? Where are we?”

  The bearded man laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Come sit down, and I’ll explain everything.”

  He gestured to the room they’d both awakened in, and they all filed inside. The shorter girl with the dark hair had a magical hovering fire that provided a little more light to see by. A Tarja, then. He’d have to keep a close eye on her. She could be even more dangerous than the taller one.

  The man sucked in a breath and held it, as though he couldn’t quite figure out where to begin. “I think some introductions would be appropriate,” he said after a few moments. “I’m Mitul. Our gracious host is Tamaya Takhar, an esteemed Tarja in this province.” He gestured to the older woman beside him.

  “My name is Saya,” said the tall young woman. “I’m sorry for knocking you down earlier.” Her amber-colored irises gleamed in the firelight, and the red markings painted across her face looked suddenly familiar, though she herself didn’t. Those were Sularan haseph markings.

  How was it that he could recall information like that but couldn’t remember anything about himself?

  “I’m Kesari,” said the other girl. She stuck her hands into the pockets of her long blue coat and nodded to the fire hovering beside her. “And this is Lucian.”

  “A pleasure to formally meet you,” the fire said, and there seemed to be the hint of a face within its flames. Not an ordinary magical fire, then. He had to be a Spirit Tarja, though it was taboo for a Spirit Tarja to Bond with a person as young as Kesari looked. But that was a question for another time.

  He felt like he should say something, perhaps give his own name, but he still didn’t know it. Amar was as good a name as any for now, but he wasn’t about to start introducing himself that way. Instead, he said, “It’s nice to meet you all,” even though that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  “Your name is Amar,” Mitul said. “Or at least, it has been for as long as I’ve known you. Twenty-eight years now. This is the third time I’ve seen you die, and the third time I’ve seen you come back to life.”

  Come back to life…was that what Tamaya had meant? The dead man rises. But that was impossible. He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me start at the beginning,” Mitul said. “You and I met in Jakhat when I was fifteen. You were a couple years older, or you appeared to be. When we met, you couldn’t remember who you were or where you’d come from.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Amar muttered.

  Mitul nodded. “Neither of us had anyone else, so we looked out for each other and did what we could to make a living for ourselves. I taught you to play music. You kept us safe and out of trouble. I always thought of you as an older brother.”

  Brother. He said the word fondly, like it meant something important to him. The way he was looking at Amar, it clearly should have meant something to him, too. But it didn’t. He broke their gaze and stared down at the floor.

  “We grew up,” Mitul went on, “but as the years passed, you never seemed to change the way I did. After a while, people assumed I was the older one. We used to laugh about it, like it was a trick we were playing on everyone else. But it bothered you, after so many years.”

  “What do you mean by that? I didn’t change like you did.”

  “You didn’t age,” Mitul said. “You never have. Even now, you look exactly as you did when we first met.”

  Amar frowned. Mitul claimed they’d met nearly three decades ago. The lines in his face and the gray strands in his dark hair reflected that. But according to him, Amar himself still looked like a teenager. “That’s not possible.”

  In the corner of the room, Tamaya let out a snort.

  “It gets even more impossible,” Mitul said with a hesitant smile. “You and I made a pretty decent living for ourselves playing music in Jakhat. We mostly performed on the streets, but we were often hired to play for wealthy families and even some of the nobility. We were starting to do well enough for ourselves to attract unwanted attention. A gang of thieves broke into our house one night, and things got out of hand. You tried to fight them off—all six of them. I did the best I could to help, but…they killed you.”

  His eyes drifted to the floor. “I sat with your body for hours. In my shock, I didn’t know what else to do. You had no heartbeat. You went
cold. You were dead. And then suddenly, you weren’t. Come morning, you were alive again, and your wounds had vanished.” He shook his head. “It was the most incredible thing I’d ever seen, and it was terrifying.”

  Amar narrowed his eyes. The sincerity in Mitul’s voice was almost convincing enough to make him believe this outlandish tale. Almost. Mitul himself certainly seemed to believe it, which could only mean he’d lost his mind. But the others were listening with rapt attention, giving no indication that they found his words false or humorous or otherwise unbelievable.

  Maybe they’d all lost their minds.

  As unbelievable as the tale was, there didn’t seem to be any harm in entertaining it a little longer. He still wanted to learn what had happened to make him end up in this strange house without his memories. “So, then what?” he asked.

  “You didn’t remember me,” Mitul said. “After you came back, you didn’t remember anything. When I told you what had happened, you didn’t believe me.”

  A scoff escaped Amar’s lips, and he barely managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

  “That’s it—that’s the very same look you had on your face back then. But when we went out, everyone greeted you like they knew you. We came across one of the men who had killed you, and he ran away as if he’d seen a ghost.”

  A faint shiver fluttered across the back of Amar’s neck. This entire story was based on the word of a madman, but there was something uncannily familiar about one part of Mitul’s statement. Amar looked around the room at Kesari and Lucian, at Saya, at Tamaya, and then back at Mitul.

  Everyone greeted you like they knew you.

  “After that,” Mitul went on, “our lives continued mostly the same as before. We moved to Valmandi for a time. I’m not sure you ever completely believed me about what happened to you—not at first. We never talked about it. But after a while, you noticed the same signs. My body continued to age while you stayed young. You decided you wanted answers, so we set out to find them. Together.”