I was hurt and angry—at myself and Edan and Lady Sarnai and Emperor Khanujin. I wanted to reach into my trunk and rip Lady Sarnai’s dresses to shreds. They were the cause of everything—if I hadn’t gone on this journey to make them, none of this would have happened.
Now Edan was condemned to be a demon.
All because of me.
Dusk fell, and Edan the hawk tried to perch on my shoulder a few times, but I waved him away until he disappeared. I didn’t look back to wonder where he was.
I held in another sob. My body ached, and my eyes were raw from weeping. I was so tired. From the raid, from Bandur, from being so close to the stars.
From knowing that I was about to lose the boy I loved.
PART THREE
The Oath
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Once we were out of the canyon, Edan and I traveled for days without seeing any signs of civilization, until we finally came upon a monastery. Wedged between two great willow trees, it had a roof whose edges curled out like wings and a bronze bell that rang from a pillared courtyard by the entrance.
I didn’t know whether to be hopeful for a warm meal and bed that night or anxious that we would have to deal with company. Edan and I had been riding in silence, him behind me, keeping a careful distance. Every time I stole a glimpse at him, his arms were folded over his lap, hands only moving to push his dark, unruly curls out of his eyes. I wished he would at least whistle or hum, but he didn’t dare. Even his shadow didn’t touch mine.
“You should get a good night’s rest,” he said, his voice crackly from disuse. “The monks will take you in.”
I inhaled. The air was crisp, fragrant with pine and dew, and the shadows drifted west as the world slowly tilted toward night. “What about you?”
“Magic and religion have been at odds for centuries. I doubt a monastery would welcome me with open arms.”
“I’m not going in if you aren’t.”
Edan overlooked my petulance. “Does that mean you want me to go in with you?”
I wouldn’t answer, and he reined Rook toward the monastery.
We left the horses outside. There was a modest stables next to the grounds, well supplied with hay and water for Opal and Rook. Edan hid our weapons under a bush nearby.
I saw the monks before we reached the gates, outside sweeping the monastery’s wide stone steps. Their heads were shaved, and they wore plain muslin cloaks over their robes. They greeted us with polite bows, but Edan was right—the senior monk eyed him suspiciously. Still, he did not turn us away.
We left our shoes outside, and one of the younger monks brought us water to wash our feet. A thread of saffron floated in the wooden bowl, scenting the air. I dipped my toes, shivering as the cool water washed over my skin.
Edan tried reaching for my hand, but I shoved his away. I saw his jaw stiffen, his mouth drawing in a tight, cautious line, and the twinge in my heart sharpened. I was hurting him, but I couldn’t help it. Deep down, I yearned to have his arms around me, to have his warm breath touch my hair and his heart beat against mine. But every time Edan’s promise to Bandur bubbled up in my memory, a flare of anger burned deep in me.
Going with Bandur had beenmychoice to make, not Edan’s.Mine.
I pursed my lips tight, refusing to look at him. Instead, I stared at the sun. I couldn’t look for much longer than a blink, but still I saw the ever-widening red tinge in its crown. Two weeks left of making Lady Sarnai’s damned dresses. They were the reason everything had gone wrong.
The senior monk, whom I’d heard the others call Ci’an, approached. He was very old, his frame thin and shrunken, but his eyes were sharp. “We welcome guests to the monastery as long as they make themselves useful during their stay. Can you cook?”
“I can,” I admitted. “But I am better with the needle.”
This pleased the old monk. Unlike the others, he wore a faded burgundy sash, which was frayed at the ends. “Then you’ll help with mending.” He cautiously addressed Edan. “And you?”
“I can help with the horses,” Edan said curtly.
The old monk grunted, then motioned for us to follow him into the monastery and to our rooms. The chambers we passed were sparsely furnished, save for several altars and a smattering of statues, mostly of Amana and Nandun, the beggar god who gave away his wealth to the poor.
“We are an enclave of men here,” Ci’an said, addressing Edan. “Should you wish to bathe, you are welcome to. However, we ask that your wife wait until nightfall.”
I stiffened. Of course I’d known Edan and I would have to pose as husband and wife to stay here, but hearing it pained me—because now I knew it would never be true.
