Thankfully, Ammi was too enraptured by the world below us—and the changing landscapes as they flashed by—to notice my troubled silence.
“We’re going so fast,” she kept marveling. She let out a squeal as the carpet dipped unsteadily. “Will it take us to the edges of the world?”
A smile loosened my lips. I remembered how thrilled I’d been when I first experienced Edan’s magic.
“Notthatfar,” I replied. “I was told it’s ten times faster than His Majesty’s speediest stallion. Maybe three now, given the headwinds.”
I studied the quilt of landscapes below. Edan was at the Temple of Nandun, deep within the Tura Mountains. From what I remembered, the Tura Mountains were south of the Winter Palace. The same direction as the Forgotten Isles of Lapzur.
“But it’ll take us far enough,” I murmured. “Someplace the emperor and the shansen won’t be able to find us.”
I pursed my lips. I couldn’t tell her I was bound to the demon guardian of Lapzur, that his call tugged at me more violently than Edan’s to the Tura Mountains.
We made our way south, making camp far from the Road, usually in the woods. For Ammi’s sake, I wished I had found Edan’s feast blanket in his chambers, the one we’d used in the Halakmarat Desert to conjure a twenty-course meal out of thinair.
We subsisted on what she had taken from the palace kitchens, and our tent was the carpet pitched up with a flimsy rod of bamboo. Once it grew colder, we’d have to find shelter in a village and pray His Majesty’s soldiers did not recognize us.
Ever since I’d woken, somethinghadchanged. Even when the winds were biting, I never felt cold. Or hot, when I tended our fire. Ammi had to remind me to eat, or I’d forget. The burns from my dress left only the memory of pain, not pain itself. All of me was numb.
If Ammi noticed, she never asked what was happening to me, never asked why my eyes would suddenly glow red, or why, in spite of the cold, I never needed a cloak, or why sometimes, when she called me Maia or Master Tamarin, it took me an extra beat to respond.
At night, the voices grew stronger. I whispered to myself sometimes, when Ammi was asleep, to try and drown out the noise. I’d tell myself the stories Sendo used to regale me with or pretend I was writing a letter to Baba and Keton. Sometimes, when the moon was bright, I tried to draw in my sketchbook, but I hadn’t brought a brush or ink, and sticks with dirt could only get me so far.
“Dear Baba and Keton,” I murmured to myself one night. “You must leave A’landi. War is coming again, and I fear you will not be safe. Please don’t look for me. I am going far away, and I do not know if I can return.
“Your Maia,” I ended, lingering on the sound of my name.
Ammi rustled at my side. Sitting up on her elbow, she rubbed her eyes. “Who are you talking to at this hour?”
“My father and brother,” I replied sheepishly. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“Your father and brother?”
“They’re far in the South. Sometimes when I miss them, I pretend to write letters. I want to warn them that war is coming again, but even if I had a brush and ink, it would be too risky to send.”
Ammi didn’t reply. She was so still I thought she’d gone back to sleep, until finally, she said, softly, “I heard your father was a tailor, and your brother was injured in the war. That’s why you lied, isn’t it? To me, to everyone. You were trying to protect them.”
“Yes.” I bit my lip. “I’m sorry, Ammi. Really, I am.”
“I know. I suppose I would have done the same for my family.”
Her family. She’d said she wanted to go home, but she’d never told me where home was. “Where are they?”
“No one’s looking for me,” Ammi said, ignoring my question. “I could do it for you. Post the letter, I mean. I can’t write. Or read.”
Most women couldn’t. I’d been lucky Baba made me learn.
“I’ll teach you,” I offered. Eager to rekindle any spark of our old friendship, I drew a few strokes in the earth. “This meanssky.”
Ammi tried to copy it, but she missed a stroke. “Maybe it’d be best if we continue in the morning,” she said, making a face. “It’s too dark to see.”
I’d noticed how every time a shadow moved over our tent, she jolted. After years in the palace, she wasn’t used to such darkness. I’d been the same once, but little frightened me anymore. When Edan and I had camped in the forests, I’d grown used to the symphony of sounds, the dance of shadows bending under the moon, the lurking of the unknown.
“You should go back to sleep. It’ll be morning soon.”
“What about you?” asked Ammi. “You’ve hardly rested. You need to. Ever since you returned from your journey, you haven’t been the same. You look…different.”
I pursed my lips, unable to deny it. “HowdoI look?”
