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 wanted 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?