But what if Zaga was telling the truth?
Mia heard a telltale catch in Zaga’s breathing, then a deep cough. She had read about neqrosis of the pulmonary tissue, where abscesses filled with fluid and neqrotic debris led to gangrene of the lungs. A victim might die quickly, but they might also live a long, painful life.
“Anger is a weapon,” Zaga said. “But like all weapons, it is useless unless you know how to wield it. Learn to harness it, and rage can prove a clean and silent blade. If you do not learn how to control it, it can destroy you.”
“Mother?”
The voice made Mia jump. Pilar was standing just inside the library doors, her face in shadow, fists bundled at her sides. She was fully clothed and dripping wet, lake water pooling on the red rock at her feet, her shiny black hair glued to the sides of her head like a silken helmet.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Zaga said sharply to Pilar. “Go back to the tavern with your little friends, drink yourself into oblivion.”
“It’s morning. And they’re not little. They’re just my friends.” Mia heard the pain in Pilar’s voice. “And this is my home, too.”
Of course Pilar was Zaga’s daughter. Now that they stood side by side, Mia could see the resemblance: same sharp chins and thin, dark eyes. That explained her natural air of authority, the easy confidence that came from being the daughter of someone with power. Mia knew it well, having been such a daughter herself.
“Is my mother asking you a million questions, Rose? Without answering any of yours?” Pilar let out the kind of exasperated sigh only a daughter could make. “She’s very good at that.”
Mia was struggling to stay afloat. She had fled the river kingdom, followed a map that promised answers, trekked through a frozen forest, and escaped death, all so she could find her mother’s killer and avenge her. Every step had brought her here: to the place where her mother fell in love . . . the place where she made enemies. After all that, had Mia really stumbled into a dead end?
“If you didn’t kill her, then who did?”
Silence.
“Are you sure you don’t already know who killed your mother?” Pilar said. “Your father leads the Circle of the Hunt. Surely you’ve considered what he would have done if he’d discovered his wife was a Dujia.”
“Of course I’ve considered it,” Mia snapped. “But I saw her. I saw her body. There were no wounds, no broken bones. My mother was killed by magic.”
“All right then. It was worth a try.” Pilar gestured toward her soaking wet clothes. “After you stole the boat, I was forced to swim the lake to deliver a message. The prince is in dire need of your assistance.”
The breath locked in Mia’s throat. “Why? Is he all right?”
“He’s perfectly fine. Though for some reason, he seems to be in love with you.” She shrugged. “He’s making breakfast and humbly asks that you attend.”
Chapter 45
Choking
AS PILAR PADDLED THE boat across the lake, Mia traced the words into her arm. Love.
What was love? She’d once postulated that a rippling bunch of misfired nerves were the symptom of a malfunctioning heart. Now she simplified her definition: love was a lie. Her parents, who had appeared to be very much in love, were liars. Their marriage was founded on enthrallment, not love.
If Mia was born of this union, did that make her a liar, too?
Her entire life had been built on lies, an infinite bundle of them, the pyre stacked high. She imagined it would take a lifetime to burn them down to truth.
Mia stopped tracing meaningless words onto her flesh. Love had no meaning, not in a land of lies.
Pilar left her on the stoop outside the du Zols’ cottage. “I’ll be back,” she said. “I’m going to get Dom.”
“Where is he?”
“Who knows? Probably off with some boy. But he’ll come back for breakfast. He’s got quite an appetite.”
Mia stood on the front stoop watching Pilar go. She heard the clang and clatter of pots inside the cottage, and a chorus of giggles. From the sounds of it, Quin had help in the kitchen, either from one or both of the twins.
A sudden wave of homesickness spilled over her.
Mia sank heavily on the stoop and pressed her back into the wood beam, her sleepless night catching up to her. On a whim she opened the journal to see if her sadness had coaxed more sangflur onto the page. When she saw the ink, her heart lurched toward it.
Mia, my Mia.
My sharp-eyed raven, my little love. You are still small, but you are so smart, so dangerously clever. I urge you to listen to your heart, to let empathy and compassion guide your choices, but your father lavishes praise on your intellect, your logic.
Logic is insufficient. Love will always expose its flaws. It is good to have a mind, but it is better to have a heart.
Today we went to the merqad, you on your father’s shoulders, our little family of three. Only, it isn’t a merqad here, it’s a market. There is no music, no laughter, no touch. The market becomes a coffin: full of bodies with no life in them. It seems laughable that we bring our knives to be sharpened in a place so dull.
You asked me if the things I wrote about in this little book caused me pain. I told you I wrote about myself, the most painful thing of all. I could see how much it hurt you that I was hurting. In moments like this I see the woman blossoming inside you. A wise, kind woman with gray eyes and a brave, loving heart. You will be better than I am, stronger.
Will you promise me you will always keep the Three Laws? They are beautiful in their simplicity: Do not harm another Dujia. Do not harm yourself. Do not abuse the power you have inside you. Three simple rules for a life worth living.
I have broken the Third Law, Mia. I break it every day with your father. And I have broken the First Law, to my eternal shame. But I have always kept the Second. Small recompense, perhaps, for the mistakes I have made.
Mia frowned. Twice now her mother had referenced hurting a fellow Dujia. An awful thing, an unforgivable thing.
It would appear Zaga was telling the truth.
Mia didn’t want to believe her mother had ever been cruel. Wynna was perfectly preserved in her mind, her sweeping beauty and gentle heart.
People were flawed. Mia knew that. But had her mother really tried to stop Zaga’s heart? Why?
The Hunters say we are demons, bodies with no souls. They say we feel no remorse. They say we feel nothing at all.
Lies! All I do is feel. It is relentless. To be a Dujia is to feel, feel, feel.
Have you learned to use your magic, little raven, now that you have bloomed? Have our sisters taught you how to channel your gifts for good? It is good to feel your feelings, and it is also good to learn to calm them before they take you places you do not wish to go.
I will give you a short lesson. The next time your breathing becomes quick and irregular when you are frightened or upset, sit in a chair and plant your feet firmly on the ground. Press your left hand to your heart and your right hand just beneath your ribs, until you feel your belly rise and fall. Then close your eyes and imagine the wind coursing through the trees of Ilwysion before a rainstorm. Recall it whipping through the oaks and maples, the whispering leaves. Let the memory pool in your fingertips as your breath becomes the wind. Your lungs will soften, and your breathing will slow.
In the old language, the word for breath was the word for life. The ancients believed our breath was the seat of our spirit. I agree. Every time we take a breath, the goddesses breathe through us, their daughters.
We are not demons, Mia. We are the goddesses’ greatest gift to the world.
“HELP! HELP US!”
Mia’s blood curdled. It was Junay’s voice.
She leapt up from the stoop and flung the door open, stepping over the uzoolion border with her mother’s book clutched to her chest.
Quin stood motionless in the kitchen, holding a copper spoon. Junay’s face was frozen in panic. At their feet, Nanu lay face-up on the ground. Choking on air.
Chapter 46
Sister of Mine