by Bree Barton
“You don’t have magic stabbing you in the head.”
She heard footsteps and wheeled around. Pilar was standing beneath a carmine arch.
“She’s ready for you now, Rose.”
Mia was happy for the interruption. The boys would be fine on their own—Quin seemed enraptured with the history lesson, and Dom was all too pleased to give it.
As she followed Pilar into the mouth of a lava tube, Mia’s capillaries felt plucked and ripe, ready to burst. The inside of the tube was duller than the outside, coarse gray and brown rock, and darker, too. Pilar struck a torch against the stone and it roared to life as they slipped through a labyrinth of passageways.
“Here.”
Pilar stopped in front of two giant doors hewn from the rock, buffed and polished to a fine glint. Mia saw her reflection, carved into pieces by the volqanic glass, her body shimmering and sliced.
She reached for the doorknobs—two carved talons—and hesitated.
“You’re not coming?”
Pilar shook her head.
Mia’s skin was tingling. She felt the same rightness she’d felt at the waterfall and again in the hot air balloon, a sense of inevitability nudging her forward. She grabbed the talons and pushed.
The doors swung open onto a gargantuan room lit with candles and torches from floor to domed ceiling. Mia half expected a pipe organ to strike up an orchestral fugue. On the far wall, a tiny waterfall burbled into a silver basin, identical to the one she and Quin had jumped into, only in miniature. Beside it, a red hot air balloon puffed up and down on a piece of twine.
She inhaled sharply as the doors closed behind her. She wasn’t interested in the waterfall or the balloon; it was what graced the other three walls that held her attention. This room wasn’t an empty cave. It was her favorite thing in the world.
A library.
Chapter 38
Bare
LEGIONS OF BOOKS LINED every wall.
They were grouped by color: crimsons bleeding into rusts, rusts to roses, roses to creams. They easily numbered in the tens of thousands. The shelves were sculpted into strange shapes, and the books themselves became the art: swooping in concentric circles, extending into tiered wings, sweeping into spiral staircases. There were stacks that looked like pyramids and a tall ship with billowing book sails.
Mia had grown up with a respectable collection—and the library at Kaer Killian was nothing to sniff at—but she’d never seen anything like this.
She was in bliss. Her headache faded as she walked the perimeter of the room. She ran her finger down spines, devouring titles like sugared fruit. What a Witch Was. Mythologies of Magic. The Anatomy of Desire: An Introduction.
There were titles in Pembuka and Luumi and dialects she couldn’t even begin to guess. And of course books in Fojuen abounded. One caught her eye: Zu Livru Dujia (The Book of Magic). Maybe the truths in this book would actually be true.
Carefully she slid the tome off the shelf. It was very old, the pages rough and weathered at the edges, the spine clinging by a few thin threads. She traced the words on the cover, merlot against vanilla custard.
“So you have chosen.”
Mia startled and dropped the book. It was a woman’s voice, low and haggard with the consonants bitten off at the ends. The accent she couldn’t quite place.
Mia blinked into the dark recesses of the room, the places where the candlelight could not reach.
“I can’t see you,” she said.
“Why do you assume you need to see?”
Mia stooped to get the book.
“Leave it,” the voice said.
“But I—”
“You chose this book, why?”
“Because I want to learn the truth about magic.”
“Your magic?”
“Yes. Well, all magic.” She swallowed. “Are you Zaga?”
The woman didn’t answer. When she spoke again, her voice had shifted subtly; it seemed to be coming from a different corner of the room.
“You do not want to learn magic. You want to control it.”
Mia wasn’t sure what to say.
“You, Mia Morwynna Rose, do not read books to learn the lessons therein. You read them to master them.”
Her cheeks burned. “How do you know who I am?”
“I know a great deal about you. I know where you come from and why you have come. I know you are not a true student of magic.”
“How can I be a true student of magic? I’ve never studied it!”
“Yet you want to.”
She hesitated. The strange voice was right; the moment Mia walked into the library, she had forgotten all about her mother’s murderer. All she’d wanted was to curl up with a good book and throw open the windows in her mind.
“I’d like to debunk the lies I’ve been told my whole life, yes. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“That itself is a lie. You lie to yourself. You are desperate to learn about magic.”
Mia shielded her eyes with her hand, thinking she saw a shape materialize by the toy waterfall. But there was no one.
“You’re Zaga, aren’t you?” Silence. “Why can’t I see you?”
“And still you think you need to see. You are unable to trust things your eyes cannot behold, truths your mind cannot parse for instant meaning. Yet you think you are ready to learn magic.”
This was maddening. Mia didn’t want to talk in circles with an invisible woman. She needed answers, not more questions.
She took a breath. “Who murdered my mother?”
“One more answer you are eager to claim as your own. You covet knowledge the way others covet power or wealth. You seek a prize to be worn around your neck. Knowledge is something to be stalked and subdued, then displayed like a trophy.”
“If that means finding my mother’s murderer,” Mia said sharply, “then yes. I’ll stalk all four kingdoms to find her. Heart for a heart, life for a—”
“Life. Yes, I know. If you want answers, maybe you should read your book.”
Mia stooped, picked up the book, and pried it open to the very first page. Scarlet ink curled and beaded at her fingertips.
The First Law of the Dujia
The practice of magic shall never be used by Dujia to consciously inflict pain, suffering, or death on her fellow sister, unless the Dujia’s own life is in danger.
The Second Law of the Dujia
The practice of magic shall never be used by Dujia to consciously inflict pain, suffering, or death on herself.
The Third Law of the Dujia
In situations wherein the practice of magic is necessary, it is at the discretion of the Dujia to determine the most equitable balance of power and act accordingly.
Mia felt a glimmer of hope; even magicians subscribed to laws. Perhaps magic was not so different from science after all. Science was knowable. Science she could understand.
But when she flipped to the next page, it was blank.
She licked her thumb and leafed through the book. One empty page after another.
“The book is not what you imagined,” Zaga said.
Mia yanked another book off the shelf and began thumbing through it, but it was empty, too. She pulled another book, then another, riffling through the pages, searching for ink. The papers were rich and varied—papyrus, hemp, linen, cotton, wood pulp—but they all had one thing in common: they were bare. It was uncomfortably familiar.
“Your mood has changed,” said the disembodied voice.
“Yes, well. I’m angry.”
“Good. Angry at what?”
“At you!”
“Not at the book? The failure you perceive is a failure of ink and paper. Is it not logical to be angry at the book?”
“What is this? Some kind of cruel joke? Fill a library with blank books and lure me into it?”
“The books are not blank. They are only empty to those who try to read them with their eyes, instead of with their hearts.”
Mia w
anted to laugh. The thought of reading a book with your heart was preposterous. But then, her mother’s journal had been empty, too, until the ink seeped across the page. Was that the book’s secret? You had to feel something to see the words?
Something her mother had said during their last fight came back to her. Whatever you’re feeling—fear, anger, love—let yourself feel it.
Mia let out her breath. When she spoke again, her voice was steady.
“You speak as if it’s arrogant to seek knowledge. I think it’s the opposite. It takes great humility to admit you know nothing, and that you want to learn.”
“This is uncomfortable for you, not knowing.”
“I hate it more than anything in the world.”
Zaga inhaled, and Mia caught the faintest hitch in her breath.
“Good. Then you are ready.”
And so began Mia’s first magic lesson, a student with an unseen teacher, two voices touching and colliding in the dark.
Chapter 39
An Excellent Stew
—WHAT IS LOVE, MIA?
—Love?
—Surely you are familiar with the concept.
—I know what love is! I just . . . no one’s ever asked me to define it before.
—What is love?
—It’s a commitment. A sacrifice.
—A sacrifice of what?
—Of yourself. Giving up the things you want for someone else.
—That is not love. That is martyrdom.
—What’s the difference?
—What is true love?
— . . .
—You are thinking about your parents.
—What do you know about my parents?
—This is where your mind fails you, Mia. For you the world is split into two halves: what you know and what you do not. But your logic is reductive. Some things do not fall cleanly on either side.
—You either know something or you don’t.
—Not all true things can be known. Your mind is not sufficient for the task. Only the heart can lead you. Your heart knows what your mind cannot.
—That’s not physiologically possible.
—Is magic physiologically possible? Is an enthrallment? A healing? What about this seems physiologically possible to you?
— . . .
—Until you learn to feel with your mind and think with your heart, you will never be a Dujia. You are no sister of ours.
—What is marriage, Mia?
—A pact of lies. Something you do because you have to, not because you want to.
—That is a rather cynical view on marriage.
—Then I’m a cynic.
—Was your parents’ marriage a farce?
—A farce?
—Surely you have wondered how this came to be: your father, the great magic Hunter, married to a Dujia.
—My father stopped eating after she died. He didn’t speak for days. It decimated him. I’ve never seen grief like that.
—Then would you concede that marriage can be a happy union?
—I would concede that marriage ends in misery, one way or another.
—What is the greatest gift of an inquisitive mind, Mia?
—Always asking questions. Thirsting for knowledge. Being agile, quick to adapt, ready to question.
—Wrong. The greatest gift of an inquisitive mind is its ability to silence its own inquisitions.
—What?
—You disagree?
—Why would I want to silence my mind? It’s my greatest asset!
—A matter of opinion.
—A matter of your opinion, perhaps!
—You are angry.
—I’m insulted.
—A former teacher told you your mind is dazzling. Congratulated you on your exceptionally big and brilliant brain. Who rewarded you for asking questions?
—My father.
—What would you ask him, if he were here right now?
— . . .
—If I’m so bad at magic, how was I able to heal Quin?
—Magic is powerful, even in its inchoate form.
—I healed him twice. I enthralled him.
—You are proud of this?
—You talk to me like I’m a child.
—You are a child.
—I may be naive when it comes to magic, but I am not a child.
—You are correct. Children are impulsive. They have not yet learned to silence their feelings. In this way, you are not a child. A child is far more sophisticated. There is an ocean of distance between your head and your heart.
—Why can’t I see you, Zaga?
—Because sight is an illusion of the mind.
—Sight isn’t an illusion. It’s science. It’s the mind interpreting messages from the eyes.
—The mind, the eyes—you speak of these things as if they are sacrosanct. Why should you privilege either? Your eyes play cruel tricks. Your mind is the greatest liar.
—What is that supposed to mean?
—Perhaps it will surprise you to learn I agree with your father. You have an exceptional mind. Nimble. Quick. And this is why you cannot control your magic. Your mind is overdeveloped at the expense of your heart.
—I don’t know what you want me to do. I can’t change who I am.
—I want you to stop asking what I want you to do. Listen. Feel. Cease being my student, and be a student unto yourself. To learn the answer to your question, you must start with another. You must ask what magic is, and who your mother was.
—Fine, then! What is magic? Who was my mother? I can’t learn if you don’t teach me!
—I am teaching you. But you don’t want to be taught. You want to know.
—What is brilliance, Mia?
—Someone is brilliant when her mind works more quickly than other minds.
—No. Brilliance has to do with light.
—Why do you ask me questions when you already know the answer you want to hear?
—You are opposed to my manner of questioning?
—I just wish you wouldn’t ask open-ended questions that aren’t actually open-ended.
—What is brilliance?
—You said it had something to do with light.
—In the old language, the word means shining. Brilliance is a brightness to the eye.
—You said I shouldn’t trust what my eyes see. Is that why you hide in a dark cave?
—I said sight is an illusion of the mind.
—That’s exactly what I said!
—You are frustrated.
—I don’t know what you want me to see in all of this.
—I do not want you to “see” at all.
—Is there anyone you love, Mia?
— . . .
—The question is difficult for you?
—No. I just want to give a careful answer. Not that you’ll like what I say.
—I promise to let you speak.
—I love my sister. I love my father—or I did love him. I don’t know if I love him anymore. I feel . . . angry.
—Does anger run contradictory to love?
—No. I suppose not. The day my mother . . .
—Yes?
—Never mind. It’s not important.
—You feel angry with your mother?
—No.
—Did you—?
—My mother is dead.
— . . .
—Say something, Zaga. It’s too quiet when you don’t talk.
—Perhaps anger is deeply tied to love. Perhaps you feel angriest at the people you love the most. Perhaps the love makes it safe to feel angry.
—Perhaps.
—And Quin? Do you love the prince?
— . . .
—You want to give a careful answer?
—My head hurts. Can I leave?
—No. Not yet.
—Follow the candlelight, Mia, to the silver basin beneath the waterfall. Do you see it?
—I see it. Wait—is this a trick? You said sight is an il
lusion.
—This time I want to know if you see it with your eyes.
—I do.
—Do you see the pink fish in the basin?
—Yes.
—Kill it.
—What?
—You said you know how to use your magic. Show me.
—I . . .
—As a Dujia, you have the power to take a life. Still the fish’s heart.
—I don’t want to.
—You are afraid of your own power.
—I don’t want to take a life. Even a small one.
—Yet you have spent the last three years honing your ability to do exactly that. You have polished your ambition like a stone. You live to kill the Dujia who killed your mother. A heart for a heart, life for a life.
— . . .
—Is this not true?
— . . .
—Am I not correct?
—I don’t know what you want me to say.
—What is hate?
—Hate is the antithesis of love.
—No. Hate is the perversion of love. It is love twisted in on itself, the feeling that floods the place where love once grew. If you saw her right now, here in this room, the Dujia who killed your mother . . . would you kill her?
—I . . .
—Every day for three years, you have thought of nothing else. It has commandeered your dreams and fueled your every step. It is what brought you here, to this village, to my island. If you hesitate, then why are you here at all?
—I’m so tired, Zaga. I only want to sleep.
—What is brilliance?
—I don’t know.
—What is seeing?
—I don’t know.
—What is love?
—I don’t know.
—What is hate?
—I don’t know.
—What do you feel?
—Confused. Exhausted. Angry.
—Good. You may take your leave. Tomorrow we commence your real lessons.
—My . . . real . . .
—If you want to face the Dujia who killed your mother, you must first learn how to be a Dujia yourself.
—But I . . .
—Go eat something, Mia. I hear the Blue Phoenix serves an excellent stew.
Chapter 40
River Rats
MIA WAS IN SHAMBLES. She’d spent the better part of the day in the Biqhotz, and when she emerged, the sky was purple and salted with stars.