Inside, I found drawers containing glass vials, filled to the brim with liquids of every color imaginable. There were plants and flowers and herbs I did not recognize, most dried and still in their whole form; some were crushed or ground and stored in hemp pouches. I found seeds that bloomed into flowers when I touched them, feathers and scales and molted snakeskins. At the bottom of the cabinet, I found a tray of objects. Talisman boxes inlaid with iridescent shell, a teak comb with missing teeth, an hourglass, a tin cup, an empty inkpot. The bottomless leather pouch that allowed Edan to carry so many books with him during our trip. I quickly exchanged my satchel for it, then picked up a familiar-looking mirror.
A reflection of the truth, he’d called it. When I was pretending to be my brother, its glass had revealed my reflection as my true self. Maia, not Keton.
I swept the dust from its glass and looked at myself. Without powder caking my cheeks and rouge painting my lips, I could see the familiar constellation of freckles on my face, the tired eyes that looked older than I remembered, the chapped lips.
“Still Maia,” I murmured, relieved. For now.
Tucked beside his bed was the little flute he had brought on our journey. I raised it to my lips, but I could not coax a sound out. How forlorn it was, without its master. Longing for Edan flooded over me, and for those carefree days when I could sit by a campfire listening to him play.
You’re not here to relive memories of Edan, I chided myself sternly.
Setting down the flute, I rifled through the books on the ground. Most were in languages I could not read.
A loose page peeking out of one of his journals caught my eye. Edan had brought it with him on our journey. Sand from the desert still spilled from its pages.
With trembling fingers, I picked up the loose page.
Maia. My name jumped out at me in Edan’s elegant script—finally, something written in A’landan.
Knees suddenly weak, I sank into the chair by his desk.
Xitara—my brightest one. Forgive me for leaving you. It is not what I would choose, but I would pay any price for your freedom—for your happiness. You say you will not be happy without me, but I know that is not true. Live your life, xitara.
His writing ended there, unfinished. It was the farewell letter he had intended to give me when he left for Lapzur.
I held it to my heart, the page crinkled from the strained press of my fingertips. I missed Edan so, so much.
“Where are you?” I murmured, reaching for my pendant. The walnut shell was warm, the light of my dresses pulsing within.
I turned back to the pile of books when a chill came over me, a sudden breeze tickling the back of my neck.
“Maia?” a voice called, faint yet near. A voice I dreamed of these nights, so tender and dear was it to me.
Again, “Maia?”
I trembled. The sound came from the mirror of truth. Was this my demon sight again?
I picked up the mirror and looked within: Edan sat by a tall stack of books, his black hair falling over his eyes. Trees rustled behind him, and the sky above was blue and clear. It was day, whereas here, it was night.
“Edan?” I called urgently.
He looked up and jumped to his feet. “Maia? Maia, can you hear me?”
“Yes.” I reached out to touch him, but my fingers only slid along the cold glass of the mirror.
“Are you safe?” Edan asked. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Yet somehow, without the weight of his oath upon him, he seemed more carefree than before. What torture it was to see him so clearly yet not be able to touch him.
I nodded.
“I was hoping you’d find the mirror.”
His smile was infectious even from a thousand miles away. I couldn’t help smiling back, until I remembered why I was here.
“I need your help,” I started. “Lady Sarnai was badly hurt by the dress of the stars—it attacked her, and now she will not wake. Is there something here that can help her?”
His brow wrinkled in thought. “Check the third drawer. In the cabinet with the hawk. The lock will open to your touch—”
“It’s open already,” I said, managing to sound both sheepish and brusque.
“A small glass bottle labeled AN EXTRACT USED FOR THE GRAVEST OF INJURIES. I used it to save the emperor during the Five Winters’ War. A few drops will ease her pain, but I can’t promise it’ll wake her.”
I stared at the array of bottles. “I can’t read any of them.”
“Use the mirror.”
I held it over the bottles until I found the one Edan had described. “Does this mirror always translate ancient texts?”
“Only for you.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to stay away from my chambers for long,” Edan said with a roguish grin, then his voice softened. “When Khanujin forbade me to see you, I spent the time preparing to leave you. Everything I have is yours now, Maia. My possessions will speak to you, the way your scissors do.”
A flood of warmth crept up in my chest, and I savored it, wishing the cold would never come back. “Thank you.”
Edan started to speak, but I interrupted. He was going to ask about the wedding, or how I was, and I wanted to avoid those questions. “Did you make it to Agoria? Khanujin is looking for you.”
Edan shook his head. “The master I sought never left. He’s at the Temple of Nandun.”
So Edan wasn’t in Agoria at all—but still in A’landi, high in the mountains somewhere, tucked away in a shrine to the beggar god.
I let out a sigh of relief and leaned toward the mirror. “Has he been able to help you?”
Edan’s dark brows knotted, and the color drained from his face.
“Maia,” he whispered hoarsely. “Maia, you said you were free of Bandur.”
“What?” I drew back. How did he know I wasn’t? My eyes weren’t burning, and he couldn’t have heard about what had happened to Lady Sarnai.
“You are wearing a demon’s amulet.”
I looked down and saw my pendant had slid out of its place inside my tunic.
“No, it’s just the walnuts you gave me.” I held it out, showing him. “This isn’t—”
His jaw tensed, his voice thick with dread, with fear. “Don’t go to Lapzur.”
“I have to,” I said. “I have to fight him before…” Before I lose too much of myself.