Otherbound by Corinne Duyvis

She dashed around trees, slowing only when she reached the road. Her boots were too loud on the stones. She stopped, silent, listening. They’d never had mages tracking them so soon after moving. They’d only been on Teschel since last night.
    She didn’t hear anything. She moved farther in the direction Jorn had indicated, but she stayed close to the side of the road, ready to dive to safety—then she did hear something, a woman’s voice, to her left. Amara peered through the trees. After a second, she saw movement. A flash of thick curls. Dit? “—give me—” the woman murmured.
    Amara came closer, careful to avoid branches. Leaves were harder to dodge. At least they were wet, less noisy than usual when they crumpled underfoot. If the woman heard her, she didn’t seem to care.
    â€œI have to help. Please forgive me.”
    Peering past a tree, Amara spotted the woman. She was leaning forward, both hands on a slab of polished stone held up by blocks of rock on each side. Underneath the rock lay a small, still pond, perhaps the size of a table.
    A temple. An old one, judging by the dirt-brown moss creeping across the rocks, but a temple nonetheless.
    The Dit mage stood still, as if listening. Amara pressed her hands to her hair to keep it from wafting out past the tree. The wind had picked up again. The woman wasn’t listening for her, though. Jorn had told her this, years ago. Mages would draw on the spirits for spells, then read their response in the rustling of trees, the rush of water rubbing against the shore.
    Amara had almost forgotten that the topic of magic hadn’t always been off-limits.
    She tried to listen, too. All she heard was the wind.
    The mage pulled her hands brusquely off the rock and turned back to the path. Behind her tree, Amara stood as still as the dead, listening as the woman’s footsteps broke into a run, moving away from the granary.
    The mage wasn’t after Cilla. Backlash cleanup, just as Jorn had said. Amara should go back and tell him. But … she’d been searching for a plan. She could ask this mage—a stranger, someone who wouldn’t tell Jorn—about the blackouts.
    Amara ran. For the next minute she followed the woman through the woods, diving behind this tree and that, until a pair of silver rails sitting on raised earth abruptly bisected the road.
    A moment later, Amara smelled something burning. Carefully, she moved closer to the rails. The trees thinned, robbing her of cover. The smell strengthened. Her own hands had stunk the same way yesterday.
    She shivered. The sensation ran down her spine again and again. She pressed clammy hands together and made herself step through the trees so she could see down the rails in both directions.
    The airtrain stood a stone’s throw away, gleaming metal except for a massive black stain on one side. That explained why it had stopped. Amara saw movement through the windows. She sneaked closer, until the voices drifting through the windows formed words.
    â€œLightning,” someone was whispering. “Lightning.”
    â€œJust stay calm,” the Dit mage said. Amara saw the back of her head through the windows now, moving around, then dipping out of sight. “I’ll help you. All right?”
    The voice kept whispering. A different voice said, “My father. How’s my father?” When the mage didn’t respond, a sob tore through the man’s words. “The weather was fine before—when—how
is
he?”
    â€œIt wasn’t me,” the mage said. Even from this distance, without seeing her face, Amara felt her irritation. “I haven’t used magic in months. I’m oath-bound. But I’ll get you to the carecenter, all right? Just let me put my hands here … This’ll hurt, but I need to …”
    â€œYour magic will make it worse,” the man said.
    â€œI’ve already prayed. The spirits might allow it.