“My mother believed in fate.” I unwound the thread, wrapping it around his wrist. “She told me there was an invisible thread tying me to someone else.” I looked up to meet his eyes. “Someone I was destined to meet and would be bound to all my life.”
I pressed my palms against his, studying his hands—the palms once stained with the blood of stars. They weren’t a noble’s hands. Rough along the sides with calluses like mine, but his fingers were long and graceful.
Slowly, I tied the thread around his wrist, knotted it.
“You said that I am your oath now,” I whispered, “so I bind you to me. No matter what happens, come back on the ninth day of the ninth month. Every year, I will wait for you—by the sea where I grew up, back home in Port Kamalan.”
Edan drew me close, wrapping his arms so tightly around me that his heart pounded against my ear. He kissed me, the warmth of his breath melting me. “I won’t let him have you.”
“It isn’t up to you. It’s up to me.” I held out my wrist for Edan to tie a thread around.
As he knotted it, he said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear, “I’ve been thinking about what Master Tsring said. If we destroyed Lapzur.”
“I’ve been thinking about it too,” I admitted. “Bandur would be no more…but my pledge to him would still stand.”
“Yes, but you would not be bound to the isles.”
I could see a plan unspooling in Edan’s mind, hope springing from despair. Did I dare to hope as well?
“It can’t be easy to destroy Lapzur,” I reasoned. “If it were, someone else would have done it long ago.”
“Bandur is a formidable guardian,” Edan agreed, “and his army of ghosts is strong. But I’m willing to take the risk.”
I looked at him, then at the matching red threads on our wrists. A protest died on my lips.
Edan spoke again: “Master Tsring says I will never recover all the magic I had while under oath, but some will come back to me.” Edan raised his hand, and the threads around our wrists grew warm, the ends stretching for each other. “The magic I had when I was a boy.”
His forehead was moist with perspiration, a thin watery line gliding down his temples. “I fear it won’t be enough to save you from Bandur. Or A’landi from the shansen’s greed and Khanujin’s pride.”
“You’ve done enough to protect A’landi for a hundred lifetimes,” I said. “The battle against Bandur isn’t yours to fight. It’s mine.”
I held his cheek so our eyes were level. “You told me once that Amana’s dresses were not meant for this world. Their power is in me now. If that isn’t enough to defeat Bandur and save A’landi, then I don’t know what is.”
“You sound like you don’t need me at all,” he teased gently.
“You’re wrong,” I whispered. I needed him more than ever. It wasn’t the dresses that compelled me to cling to who I was, but Edan—and my family. “Without you, I’d be lost.”
I rested my head on his arm again. “Sing for me,” I said softly. “I want to hear that little tune you always played on the flute when we were traveling.”
“This one?” Edan started to hum, his throat vibrating that simple song I’d grown to love so much.
“What’s it called?”
“It doesn’t have a name,” he replied. “My mother used to sing it to me when I was a boy. I sang it to remember home when I was in the monastery, then to calm the horses when I was taken to war. It’s been with me a long, long time.”
Together we hummed the melody, its lilting energy so wistful and simple I thought of Port Kamalan, of my brothers and of Mama. As the tune approached its end, an ache for home swelled in my throat, and I could barely hum the last note. That ache sat with me a long time, even when the rhythm of my breath finally steadied, matching Edan’s.
But still I could not sleep.
I waited an hour before I dared to move. Edan had fallen asleep again, so, careful not to disturb him, I rose and sat at his desk to pen a letter home.
Dear Baba and Keton,
I’m sorry I left so suddenly.
The emperor called me back—
I pray that you are safe and far from the field of battle, and do not need the comfort of this letter. I do not know when I’ll be able to write again, but I write now to tell you I am well and being looked after. Please do not worry about me.
Keton, please be careful. Baba, too.
If I do not see you again, know that my heart is with you.
My brush sagged, and I clutched my head in my hand. How could I tell them I’d come into the possession of unspeakable power and that both Emperor Khanujin and the shansen were combing the country for me? How could I write that their lives were in danger—because of me—and that I couldn’t protect even them…because I was the last person I trusted.
Because I was turning into a demon.
What I’d written would have to be enough. There was nothing I could add that wouldn’t bring Baba and Keton pain.
I picked up my brush again and reached for a fresh page. My fingers trembled, as if I could not remember how to set my brush to ink, as if my hands did not know how to form characters on paper. I squeezed the handle tight, the dripping ink smearing under the side of my palm.
This time, I wrote to Edan.
A long time ago, a foolish girl was asked to weave the sun, embroider the moon, and paint the stars, three impossible tasks she did not believe she could accomplish. But that foolish girl was lucky, even more so because those three impossible tasks freed the boy she loved.
I am lucky, Edan. I know that for every dawn, dusk must unravel its darkness. I know I have to pay a price for what I’ve done, yet I would not change anything about the choices I have made.
Still, I will not lie. Shadows cling to me, and darkness folds over me. Some days, I do not even remember how to set my needle to cloth. I would rather leave you now while I still remember your face, your voice, your name.
I swallowed, loosening my grip on the brush.
And should you ever feel alone, when I am gone, go to my father and brother. They will know who you are, and they will love you. Look after them and protect them, the way you would protect me.
I beg you, Edan, let me be strong. Let me go.
I blew once on the letter to dry the ink, then I slipped it into one of his cloak pockets, tucking it inside his flute so he wouldn’t find it right away. If we were successful in defeating Bandur and in lifting his terrible curse from me, I would take it back and burn it. If not, then I would leave him. And when I did, at least he’d have a piece of me—of the real me, no matter what came.