Spin the Dawn

by Elizabeth Lim

  “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.

  “I understand,” said Edan.

  Edan was wise enough to retreat to the stables and give me time alone. Another monk delivered a change of robes, and my clothes were taken to be washed.

  I tucked my scissors into my sash and started on the mending I’d promised to do. There were holes to patch and sleeves to shorten, but sewing had always been as easy as breathing for me. I finished so quickly that when I returned the clothes, the monk in charge balked, hardly able to believe it.

  Wasting no time, I dipped into my trunk for the moonlight dress and sat cross-legged on my cot to sew. Of the three dresses, this one had the most layers: a jacket, a bodice, a belted skirt, and a shawl. It was also the most faithful to A’landan fashion, though I’d taken liberties with the cut. I worked on the jacket now, assembling its pieces and sewing the sleeves into place.

  The looming deadline took my mind off Edan and Bandur’s curse. A distraction I sorely needed. Little by little, I let my work fill my heart, let myself revel in the moonlight dress as it came together. I let myself remember how much I loved my craft, and how much pride I took in it.

  When daylight was fading, someone knocked on my door. Edan.

  He closed the door behind him. “Monasteries haven’t changed much in a few hundred years. All the monks still do is hum and pray. The smells have gotten better, though.” He tried to smile. “I am grateful to whichever god insists that everyone bathes twice a day and sweeps the halls at dawn and dusk.”

  He was trying to amuse me, but it felt like we were strangers again.

  “They’ve been very kind,” I said stiffly.

  “To you. And for that I am grateful.”

  “Have you always disliked monks so?”

  He shrugged.

  I turned away and started embroidering gold on the hem of Lady Sarnai’s dress.

  Edan knew I was ignoring him. He let me, for a while. Then he spoke. “I was raised in a monastery,” he said at last. “The gods worshipped there were different, but being here…still brings back memories.”

  How little I knew about Edan’s past! Even though I wanted to ignore him, I was still curious. “Where?”

  “Nelronat,” he said. “It was a city thousands of miles from here. It doesn’t exist anymore. Barbarians destroyed it centuries ago.”

  I was quiet. I’d never heard of Nelronat.

  “After my mother died in childbirth,” Edan continued, “my father was left to raise seven sons alone. He hated me. Blamed me for my mother’s death, and it didn’t help that I was a scrawny boy who preferred to read rather than herd the cattle.”

  The sadness in his voice made my insides melt, but I wouldn’t look up. I focused on knotting a stitch into place so I could change to a new color of thread.

  “My father took me on a trip one day. He said he was going to put me in school, since I was so inclined toward reading. It wasn’t a lie…not really. I was so happy.”

  “He left you,” I said, looking up now.

  “At a monastery a four days’ journey from our farm. I tried many times, but I could never find my way home. The monks I grew up with were different from the ones here. Not generous and kind. And the gods we worshipped were harsh and unforgiving.

  “I stayed with them for years, until soldiers overran the temple and I was deemed old enough to fight for their cause. I was barely eleven.” He chuckled, though the laugh was dry of humor. “Six months into soldiering, my talent for magic was discovered. That led to me serving in more wars, but more as a weapon than a boy…until my first teacher found me.” He stopped, as if he heard something in the distance. “You should go down. Dinner is ready.”

  I set down my needle. “What about you? You’re going to change.”

  “Just tell the monks I wanted to rest,” he said solemnly.

  “Should I bring you dinner?”

  He managed a grin. “I’ll be out hunting. But I would be grateful if you left a window open for me.”

  “Will you be able to find your way back?”

  His grin widened, and I realized I’d shown him a sign that I still cared. “To you, always.”

  His words made my heart unsteady, and I stiffened, then nodded and left.

  Dinner consisted of boiled lettuce and carrots harvested from the garden, with a bowl of rice with sesame seeds. No one ate with me—the monks ate only in the morning, it appeared. But a few of the younger ones sat with me and sipped soy milk from wooden bowls.

  When dinner was finished, I washed and dried my dish; then I sought out Ci’an. “You said I could take a bath once the sun had set.”

  “There’s a spring past the washhouse you may use,” he told me. “Walk with me. I’ll take you there.” As I followed him out of the monastery, he said, “Your husband did not wish to partake of dinner?”

  “He wanted to…to rest,” I said, staring at my hands. The guilt of lying to a monk made me unable to look him in the eye.

  “I see,” Ci’an said. The elderly monk walked slowly, for it was dark and there were many steps in the garden.

  “Monks are taught to seek peace,” Ci’an said, breaking the silence, “but even my brothers bicker with one another from time to time. Yet no matter how great their discord, they come to remember that harmony among them is greater.”

  I swallowed. Ci’an must have sensed that Edan and I had quarreled.

  “You care much for your husband,” he went on. “That is easy for anyone to see. But he cares for you more.”

  I frowned. “That isn’t—”

  “True love is selfless,” the old man interrupted. “And I can see you are very young.”

  I kept quiet and watched my step. We had passed the washhouse, and the stone path we’d been following had disappeared.

  “Your husband carries a heavy burden. I can see it in his eyes. He is not the first of his kind to pass through these walls.”

  I inhaled sharply. “Sir?”

  “This monastery is a thousand years old,” Ci’an said. “Many enchanters have come for the solitude and peace it offers, particularly before taking their oath. Your companion is the first I’ve met…the first to come here after taking his oath.”

  “I thought monasteries did not welcome enchanters.”

  The monk chuckled. “The rift between religion and magic has grown. But I was not always a monk, and I have seen many things the younger ones have not. Many things they will never see.

  “In my time, we called the enchanters gatekeepers, because they guarded magic from the rest of us. It is a heavy responsibility. Respected even by men of religion. To this day, I still hold that respect.”

  Ci’an took my arm to lead me. “One thing I have never seen is an enchanter in love. They aren’t supposed to love, you know. In some ways, they are taught to be like monks—compassionate and selfless. Only they love no one, and we love all. Your enchanter is different.”

  A lump
hardened in my throat. “He’s served a long time,” I said, staring at the ground.

  “So he has,” Ci’an said. “Many wish for such power for themselves, but I do not envy his path. The toll is heavy.”

  I said nothing. I didn’t want to talk about Edan. It hurt too much to think about his promise to Bandur, knowing there was nothing I could do about it.

  Finally, we arrived at the spring. The young moon illuminated a clear pool before me, as well as three statues of Amana standing on the banks. Her eyes were closed in all, her hands clasped together and lifted toward the sky.

  “Long ago, these waters were sacred to the priestesses of the mother goddess,” Ci’an explained. “Some still come once a year, on the ninth day of the ninth month, to see the stars form a bridge between the sun and moon. You’ve only just missed it.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I whispered, staring at the statues. The two wearing the sun and moon glittered under the silver moonlight, but shadows eclipsed the statue wearing the blood of stars.

  “As a seamstress, Amana’s dresses must fascinate you,” Ci’an said.

  “I always thought they were a myth,” I replied, “as far from us as the gods were. But that was before I believed in magic. Now that I’ve seen what it can do, I’m no longer sure that the boundary between Heaven and earth is as solid as I believed.” I thought of Bandur and the ghosts. “What if there are no gods? What if there is only magic, only enchanters and demons and ghosts?”

  “You must keep your faith,” said Ci’an. “The gods watch over us, but unlike the spirits of this realm, they do not interfere in our lives. Not unless we anger them greatly, or impress them.”

  “Yes,” I murmured. “When Amana forgave the god of thieves, she returned light to the world, but only for half the day. She gave us night.”

  “She was still angry with him,” Ci’an said. “Deservedly so. But you forget the tailor who actually made the dresses for the god of thieves. What few know is that Amana rewarded him with a gift.”

  “What gift is that?”

  “It’s said that she gave him a pair of scissors,” Ci’an replied. “Enchanted to imbue their owner with a piece of her power.”

  I went very still.

  “No one’s ever seen them, but I imagine they must still exist, passed from generation to generation.”

  I held in a deep breath and reached into my sash, where my enchanted scissors rested. My fingers traced the design engraved on the shanks—of the sun and moon. These had to be the scissors Amana had given the tailor.

  Did that mean the tailor’s family was my own? Did that explain why magic flowed in me? It had to. And why only I could use the scissors.

  Why Bandur had said I was more special than I looked.

  “What if someone succeeded in making Amana’s dresses?” I said in a rush. “Would the mother goddess interfere?”

  “Many have tried to make them, lured by the legend that Amana would grant a wish to any who succeeded.”

  “Is it true?”

  “I’d imagine that if someone did succeed in making Amana’s dresses…such a feat might incur her wrath more than her blessing.” Seeing my stricken expression, Ci’an smiled. “Then again, I would also wager that tale was made up by priests of Amana’s children to keep their temples prosperous and well visited.”

  “I see,” I said quietly.

  “Speak to her here,” Ci’an said, gesturing at the spring. “Amana is always listening, but perhaps here, among her children, she will listen more carefully.” He patted my shoulder before leaving. “Make peace with your enchanter. He loves you very much.”

  Alone, I stood at the edge of the pool a long time, listening to the trees and the wind. I understood now why so many revered Amana’s dresses, why some called them her greatest legacy. Because of them, she gave us the world as we knew it. Day after day and night after night, she spun the dawn and unraveled the dusk.

  And somehow, I was closer to that legacy than I had ever dared dream.

  Slowly, I slipped off my robes and stepped into the spring. The water was mild, and fish tickled my feet. Then I held my breath and sank down until I was fully submerged, coming up for air only at the last moment with a quiet gasp.

  The crescent moon shone above me, a broken pearl in the black sea of night.

  I reached into the pile of my robes and took out my scissors, holding them in my hands as if in offering. “Amana,” I whispered, “Amana, I thank you for this gift you have bestowed upon my family. And I pray for your forgiveness. If you do not wish me to make the dresses, I will stop. But please, please do not punish Edan for my foolishness. Please let there be a way to free him from Bandur.”

  I waited a long time. But, as I feared, Amana did not answer.

  * * *

  • • •

  Dawn arrived, with no sign of Edan. I kept expecting to see his shadow glide across the walls, the last caress of night on his wings as he soared through the window.

  I’d never worried about Edan as a hawk before. But now I couldn’t stop—what if he was flying over a lake when dawn broke? He couldn’t swim. He would drown!

  Or what if a hunter had shot him? Or one of the shansen’s men, perhaps—did they know what Edan became at night?

  I sat on my bed, untangling knots in my hair with my fingers. It had grown long during my journey. I’d have to cut it soon, before we returned to the Autumn Palace. Then again, before the war, it had been tradition for men to wear their hair long.

  I touched the ends of my hair. Would the emperor let me remain as the imperial tailor after I finished the three dresses…and after Edan left me?

  These questions were painful, sharpening the loneliness already aching inside me. Getting up, I moved to the small table in my room and started a letter to Baba and Keton. My journey is nearly over, I wrote. I’ll soon be in the Autumn Palace.

  My words felt stiff and distant, yet no matter how I tried, I couldn’t muster a lighthearted tone. My own heart was too heavy.

  And Maia—ninety-five steps, I finished. I hope I’ll be home to walk with you soon.

  I set down my brush to dry and covered the inkpot. As I folded my letter, the air shifted.

  “Morning,” Edan’s voice greeted me from the door.

  I hadn’t heard him come in. “Where were you?”

  His hair was wet, and his monk’s robes flowed loosely on his thin form. He raked a hand through his hair, slicking it back. The effect made him look impossibly young. “I promised to help with the horses. So I did.”

  I wanted to tell him what I’d learned about my scissors. But seeing how awkward he was there, by the door, I bit my lip. “Are you tired? You usually sleep as soon as you turn back.”

  “I’m fine.”

  The ensuing silence between us was heavy. Edan stayed at the door, and he gestured at the dress I was working on. It lay on the other side of my bed.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said. “Lady Sarnai would be a fool not to appreciate it.”

  I could hear the monks chanting. I didn’t understand the words, but they were rhythmic and steady, blurring together into a deep hypnotic drone.

  “Did you have to chant every day?” I murmured. “When you lived in a monastery?”

  “Yes,” Edan said. His voice lifted with cautious hope. “Every day.”

  “I could get used to a monk’s life,” I said. “It’s not so different from a tailor’s. Sewing all day, chanting all day—I used to count my stitches out loud when I was a girl.”

  “You’d hate it.” Edan leaned against the frame of the door. “You don’t belong here, chained to a monastery. You should see the world.”

  My breath caught in my throat. I walked to him. “Edan…”

  “I know you’re angry at me,” he said. “And you have a right to be. But I love you,
Maia.”

  I swallowed. How unfair it was, that our time together was so short. That soon I would never see him again.

  “I love you, too,” I whispered, touching his cheek. It hurt to speak any more loudly—my voice was hoarse with emotion. “And I’ll have you. The sun and moon only see each other one day out of the entire year. Even if it’s an hour or a day—I’d rather be with you for that time than not at all.”

  A light brightened Edan’s face. He didn’t smile, yet somehow he looked happier than in all the months I’d known him. “May I kiss you?” he whispered.

  “You may.”

  He touched my chin, tilting it up, but I was already on my toes. My mouth drifted forward, my eyes half closed.

  Edan laughed softly. “Eager, aren’t we? Then you shouldn’t have denied me so long.”

  Slowly, he traced his fingers down my neck to my collarbone. His touch made me shiver, and my skin tingled as he traced back up my neck and around my lips. Then, when I was about to protest that he was tormenting me, he lifted me up.

  I crushed my mouth against his, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his hips. His kisses moved to my cheeks, my neck, my breasts, back to my lips. Passionate, then tender. Then passionate again, as if we couldn’t make up our minds. As if we knew our lips would be bruised tomorrow, but we would laugh about it.

  It was so easy to forget—and I felt myself slipping into the illusion that everything was fine.

  I pushed his hair out of his eyes and cupped his chin. “Let me come to Lake Paduan with you.”

  Edan was still catching his breath.

  “There has to be a way to defeat Bandur,” I said slowly. “That amulet he wears—I took it from him when I was on the Thief’s Tower, and that seemed to weaken him. Maybe if we can destroy it, you’ll be free of him.”

  “A demon’s amulet is already broken,” Edan said. He pressed my back against the wall. “Destroying it won’t kill Bandur, nor will it weaken him.”