Tethered Spirits Page 7

  More than anything, I hope we find answers before I forget again. Some men might relish the idea of immortality, but I don’t. There’s something terrifying about the prospect of watching everyone around me age and die while I remain frozen in time for eternity. I can’t let that be my fate.

  Amar ran his finger over the journal’s page as he read the entry again, trying to dredge up some memory of the man who had written it. Himself, or whoever he’d been in a former life. But the words were as unfamiliar as the name the others had given him.

  Except for that last line. I can’t let that be my fate.

  Some deep-seated fear squirmed through every fiber of his being. The sensation was almost familiar, and he sat with it for a moment. Where had that fear come from? It wasn’t tied to anything specific—at least, not as far as he could tell. All he knew was that he didn’t want anything to do with immortality, no matter how invincible it made him. Right now, it was the only thing he knew about himself.

  He flipped through the rest of the journal’s pages. A few were written as neatly as that first entry, but most of the book contained haphazardly scribbled notes. There were lists of names, some of which had already been scratched off and some that directed him to different pages in the journal. Tamaya was on one of these lists. The names must have belonged to Tarja he and Mitul thought could be helpful, with those they’d already visited crossed out in dark, angry slashes.

  He skimmed through the rest of the notes, but none of them meant much to him. There seemed to be more detailed entries recounting his travels over the last ten years, but he’d read those later. Right now, it was all a little overwhelming.

  He flipped back to the first page. The handwriting there matched the copy he’d made so well. Not perfectly enough to be some magical duplicate, though he still hadn’t ruled out magic as a possible means of deception. The only other possibilities were that Mitul knew a very good forger, or that Amar had indeed written those words himself in another life.

  He was more inclined to believe the latter, despite the unlikeliness of Mitul’s story. A few doubts still lingered, but it wasn’t like he’d managed to come up with a better explanation. And he couldn’t see any good reason why the man might be lying to him. At least, not yet. He’d have to be cautious, stay on his guard, but for now, it seemed his best option was to go along with Mitul and the others.

  He sighed, then stood and crossed the room to the pack Mitul had pulled the journal from. He needed some clean clothes. Rummaging around, his fingers brushed against fabric. He pulled out the bundle and unrolled it to find a single shirt, a pair of loose pants, and a set of undergarments. He held them to his nose. Clean enough, and anything would be better than the blood-stained tatters he currently wore.

  Amar peeled away the layers of ruined clothing and used a basin of cold water in the corner to wash himself. When he was finished, he donned his new attire, smoothing the soft, well-worn fabric of the shirt over his chest. Like the one that had been destroyed, it was a plain wheat color and hung just below his hips. He tucked it into his pants, made of a darker and sturdier material, and strapped on the same belt he’d been wearing before. There was a holster for a pistol and a small pouch filled with spare cartridges, but the weapon itself wasn’t among any of his belongings.

  He combed through his thick hair with wet fingers. It needed a good wash, but for now, at least he was a little more presentable. He walked to the doorway, pausing to listen to the whispers in the hall. They were too quiet for him to understand.

  He stepped out of the room, and Mitul and Saya immediately ceased their conversation. They both stared at him, then Saya gave Mitul a nod. “I’ll give you two some time.” When she headed outside, sunlight streamed through the open door to illuminate Mitul’s face. There were shadows under his eyes, and the smile he gave Amar seemed strained.

  “I imagine you still have some questions,” he said, leaning back against the wall with his hands behind him.

  Amar nodded. Where to begin? There were so many questions swirling around in his head, but most were related to what had caused his condition and why it had happened. Mitul didn’t seem to know any more than he did regarding that, so instead, he chose a question the man could answer. “Why are you still here, after all this time? Why would you help me?”

  Mitul shrugged. “Why does anybody help someone they care about?”

  I’ve come to trust him even more than I trust myself. The words from his journal flashed through his mind, but standing here beside Mitul, Amar felt none of that trust. “You’re telling me you gave up years of your life to follow me on a personal quest that’s led nowhere?”

  Mitul gave a small shrug. “Yes.”

  “That seems like a dreadful waste of time. Why stick around?”

  “Because, Amar, your problems are mine, too. You’re my brother.”

  There was that word again. Brother. A word loaded with some sentimental history Amar had no ties to. It grated on his nerves. “No,” he said flatly. “I’m not.”

  “Maybe not by blood, but we’re family all the same. I couldn’t send you off alone knowing you could die and forget who you are all over again.” His brows knit together, and something fearful came into his eyes. “How long would it take you to discover the truth on your own? How long have you wandered already, not knowing who you really are or where you came from?”

  “It isn’t your problem.”

  “But it is. The memories you lost were ones we shared, and without them, I’m just another stranger to you.” Before Amar could respond, Mitul pushed himself away from the wall and motioned for him to follow. “Come. Let’s see if Tamaya’s managed to think of any solutions to your predicament.”

  They found the Tarja outside in her garden. She crouched on her hands and knees between the neatly cultivated rows, plucking out weeds with dirt-coated fingers and tossing them behind her in a pile. Saya stood at the other end of the house, scratching the ears of a striped cat that sat on a fence post. In her other hand, she clutched a sword by its scabbard, and there was a flintlock pistol tucked into the sash at her waist. Probably the same pistol that belonged in Amar’s holster, but he couldn’t blame her for taking it as a precaution.

  “Excuse me, Tamaya,” Mitul said. “We wondered if you’d given any more thought to Amar’s situation.”

  She continued her gardening without so much as a glance in their direction. “What do you think I’ve been doing out here?”

  “My apologies. We didn’t mean to interrupt, but the woman who attacked us last night could still be on our trail.”

  “Hm. You’re saying you brought trouble straight to my doorstep, is that it?”

  Mitul rubbed at the back of his neck and gave Amar an uncomfortable look. “I suppose we did. I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to, but the sooner we leave, the better. Or we can make preparations to defend ourselves here, if you’d rather.”

  Tamaya grunted and continued to tug at a particularly stubborn weed. “Don’t trouble yourself. Whatever fight that girl brings, I can handle myself. As to your question, I do have a few ideas.” She finally yanked the weed free and brushed off her hands, then held one out to Amar. When he didn’t move right away, she frowned and said, “Come on, boy. Help an old woman up.”

  Boy. He was at least as old as Mitul, and for all they knew, he could be older than her. He offered his hand and pulled her up. She was even lighter than she appeared.

  She gave him a reproachful look as she set about brushing the dirt off her clothes. “What I would give to be as old as you must be and have a body that wasn’t falling apart.”

  How old was that, exactly? Fifty? Sixty? A hundred maybe, or even a thousand?

  So many years lost from memory. The idea of it was dizzying, like staring down into the sheer drop of a bottomless abyss. He shook his head and pushed the thought from his mind. Best not to dwell on it too much.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have all the answers you're looking for,” Tamaya said. “Bu
t I do have a few theories, and better yet, I know exactly where you need to go to find out more.”

  Mitul’s entire face lit up in a smile. “That’s wonderful. Saya, come listen to this.”

  She walked over to stand beside Amar, then passed him the sword and pistol with a pointed look, a clear warning of what might happen if he tried anything. He nodded to her in understanding, but she kept her eyes glued to his hands as he slipped the gun into its holster.

  He was still buckling on the sword when Kesari came stomping around the opposite corner of the house with Lucian hovering faithfully beside her. The girl’s hands were clenched around the cuffs of her too-long coat sleeves, and her entire body was rigid. Her narrowed eyes focused their gaze on Tamaya.

  “I’m not leaving,” she said, her voice tense. “Not until you give me what I came for—what I earned. We had a deal. You can’t expect—”

  “Silence, girl!” Tamaya’s arm shot forward, and a gust of air tore across the grass to slam Kesari in the ribs.

  She stumbled back a few steps, and Lucian’s flames rippled frantically as he grew to twice his usual size, then shrunk back down just as quickly. They exchanged a glance with each other before approaching more slowly.

  “Now then,” Tamaya said primly, “if you can remain civilized and silent, you can stay and listen to what I have to tell the others. Maybe you’ll hear something useful.”

  Kesari scowled and opened her mouth like she was about to protest further. Lucian whispered something in her ear, and she stayed silent, placing herself beside Saya with her arms folded.

  “Now where was I?” Tamaya muttered.

  “You know where we need to go next?” Mitul offered.

  “Right. But first, I have a theory I think you might be interested in. Last night, I told you that no magic I know of can bring back the dead, and that’s true. But magic is an ancient art, and there are practices that have long since been lost through time. There’s one type of magic in particular that might explain what’s happening to you, Amar.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “I’m not an expert on the subject, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s a curse.”

  Mitul frowned. “Like the ones in stories? Sleeping princesses and cursed objects and true love’s kiss? I thought curses were a myth.”

  “And where do you think myths come from? There are hints of truth in all stories if you look closely enough.”

  “Do you have anything more to go on than that?” Saya asked.

  Tamaya nodded. “There was a historian at the academy where I studied who believed curses may have been fairly common at one point. His research suggested they may have been outlawed during the reign of Emperor Harish.”

  “But that would have been at least five centuries ago,” Mitul said.

  “Yes, but as we all saw for ourselves this morning, Amar is immortal. Which means he could very well be centuries old.”

  “Old enough to have lived in a time when curses were prevalent,” Lucian said.

  “That’s what I suspect.”

  The world seemed to freeze around Amar. Five hundred years old. Maybe more. Probably more. He’d known this was a possibility, but hearing it spoken aloud somehow made it heavier.

  “And how does one remove a curse?” he asked Tamaya.

  “That, I can’t answer. But I do know someone who might be able to help. Years ago, when I was still part of the academy’s training program, I had an apprentice, Jameson Weatherford.”

  “That’s an Atrean name, isn’t it?” Mitul asked.

  Tamaya nodded. “He lived in Kavora for a few years to study magic. I’ve had many students over the years, but Jameson was unique. He was capable of channeling more altma than even I could after decades of practice, and his skill with healing magic was beyond anything I’ve seen before or since. He was a prodigy, not that it mattered much.”

  “What do you mean?” Lucian asked.

  Tamaya shook her head and let out a short laugh. “He was always far more interested in magical theory than he was in its practical application. He spent all his time in books studying how magic worked, why it worked, what differences existed between certain branches of magic, and so on.” She clicked her tongue. “It used to infuriate me. All that raw power and talent, but the only thing he ever put any real effort into was reading those books and scribbling his notes. He could have taken a prestigious position at the academy if he’d wanted, but he refused.”

  She was rambling now, and none of it was helpful. Amar cleared his throat. “But you think he’ll be able to figure out this curse?”

  “I’m not sure, but he’s the best chance you have. Maybe he even knows some way to break Spirit Tarja Bonds safely.” She cast a sidelong glance at Kesari and Lucian, who exchanged a look of their own. Kesari bit her bottom lip like she was holding back a smile.

  “Where do we find him?” Saya asked.

  “He moved home to Atrea, last I heard. Some lakeside town. Malfern or Melfarm or something like that.”

  “Malfram?” Kesari asked.

  “Could be. Of course, he’ll want nothing to do with anything that takes him away from his studies, but if you say I sent you, he should at least hear you out.”

  With that, she promptly knelt back down and returned to her gardening. Apparently, the conversation was over as far as she was concerned.

  Mitul and Saya looked at each other, then at Amar. “Well,” said Mitul, “what do you think?”

  He frowned. “Atrea’s a long way to go looking for answers this Jameson might not even have.”

  “He’s right,” Saya said. “Besides, we haven’t exhausted our search here in Kavora.”

  “No, but it’s not like that’s been going so well,” Mitul replied. “This is the first solid lead we’ve had in years—certainly the best we’ve had since you found us.”

  “Maybe so, but a curse?” Saya shook her head. “It sounds a bit unbelievable.”

  “It does, but it makes more sense than anything else we’ve heard.” Mitul turned to Amar. “I think we should go.”

  An image of the pages from his journal flashed across his mind. All those lists of names, dozens upon dozens that had already been scratched out. Their search in Kavora had clearly been unsuccessful. Would it be such a bad idea to follow a lead elsewhere?

  On the other hand, was it wise to give up the search here? “Atrea is so far,” he said. “And it’s summer. We’d have to cross the desert during the hottest part of the year. Or go around, which would take even longer.”

  “That won’t be a problem with Saya’s help,” Mitul said.

  “That’s true,” Saya agreed. “The desert is my home. I can get you through quickly and safely.”

  That took care of one problem, but there were others. “We don’t speak Atrean. At least I don’t.” Amar could identify other languages floating around in his head—a few snippets of Sularan and various Kavoran dialects, along with some other language he couldn’t name. But there was nothing that matched the blended, lilting sounds that belonged to the Atrean tongue.

  “I don’t either,” Mitul admitted. He looked at Saya expectantly.

  She shook her head. “Just a few words—not enough to help us get around.”

  Kesari took a timid step toward them. “I might be able to help with that.”

  “What are you doing?” Lucian hissed.

  She ignored him. “I know the language and the customs. I’m from Atrea—from Deveaural, specifically, but I know Malfram. I could get you there. And it sounds like Jameson could help me, too, so why not travel together?”

  Mitul turned back to Amar and shrugged. “Whatever you decide, I’m with you.”

  “As am I,” Saya agreed.

  Amar clenched his jaw. His gut instinct was to ditch the whole lot of them and set out alone. He didn’t want the company of these strangers who claimed to be his friends. But Mitul seemed harmless enough, and Saya and Kesari could be useful.

  “W
e’ll go to Atrea,” he said. “I’d like to meet this Jameson and find out if he’s really as smart as Tamaya says he is.”

  “Oh, he is,” the old woman muttered from the ground. “Too smart for his own good, if you ask me.”

  Mitul turned to her with his palms pressed together and made a low bow, even though she couldn’t see him with her back turned. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said. “We owe you more than we could ever repay, but I left a few jitaara on your table.”

  “Unnecessary, but thank you.”

  “I guess we’ll be on our way now.”

  “Good,” she replied. “Things were a lot more peaceful around here before you all showed up. I wish you safe travels. And if you do see Jameson, please remind him it wouldn’t hurt to write an old woman a letter every now and again.”

  Mitul smiled. “Of course.”

  They went inside to collect their things while Tamaya continued her gardening. She didn’t even look up when they trailed past a few minutes later, leaving her and her humble home behind.

  10

  Aleida

  The house in the forest stood alone between tall, thin trees that made it look smaller than it actually was. As far as Aleida could tell, the old Tarja who lived there was alone, too. It seemed Amar and his friends had already moved on.

  She swung her leg over the horse’s saddle. It was still sore, but between her healing magic and the full day of rest she’d had, her injuries were much improved. She clenched her jaw. She’d needed the rest, but maybe if she’d woken up earlier, she and Valkyra could have arrived here in time to catch Amar.

  Aleida glanced at the Spirit Tarja perched on her shoulder. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep all day.”

  “I should have let you sleep longer. You still don’t look entirely well.”

  “I’m fine.” A lingering tiredness seemed to have seeped into her very bones, but she wasn’t about to admit that.

  All lights in the house were out. Hopefully that meant the old woman was sleeping. Aleida looped the horse’s reins around a tree branch and crept forward through the darkness. A rustling wind muffled the sound of her steps through the forest undergrowth, and she soon reached the low fence surrounding the house.