Spin the Dawn

by Elizabeth Lim

  Finally, I let go. Everything I’d worked so hard to keep inside, all the hurt and grief I’d buried, I poured out of my heart and sobbed.

  Why couldn’t I just be Maia, the obedient daughter? The girl who loved to sew, and who only wanted to spend the rest of her days with her three brothers and her father?

  But Finlei was gone. So was Sendo. And Keton—his spirit was but a phantom of his former self.

  Edan had filled the void left by my brothers. He’d brought out the adventurer, the dreamer, and the rebel in me. But now I was about to lose him, too.

  I couldn’t lose Edan.

  I wouldn’t.

  I slowed my thoughts, putting the pieces together. If Edan were free of his oath to Emperor Khanujin…then he would no longer be an enchanter. He couldn’t become a demon. He couldn’t take Bandur’s place as guardian of Lapzur.

  I rolled off my bed and picked up my scissors. Using my teeth, I popped off the cork holding the blood of stars in the vial, and I carefully poured its precious contents over the scissor blades. Then I touched them to the smooth white silk of my final dress.

  Slowly, gradually, the blood of stars spread, paint rippling across an empty canvas.

  The night was dark and starless, but inside my little room, I’d spun a world of light.

  My dresses shone so brightly their power seeped through my closed doors and windows. Seeing all three dresses at once should have blinded me—but I was their maker, and that protected me from their intensity.

  I stepped back, exhaling a long breath as I looked at my creations. “One woven with the laughter of the sun,” I whispered. “Another embroidered with the tears of the moon, and lastly, one painted with the blood of the stars.”

  I searched for something to fix, a loose thread or button, but the scissors and I had made no mistakes. The dresses were perfect. Worthy of any empress. Worthy of a goddess.

  With a sigh, I brushed my hand over the last dress. The paint had dried unnaturally quickly, and as my fingers lingered over its fine silk, I knew it was the most beautiful of the three, my masterpiece. The dress of the sun was wide and full, a glorious, incandescent gold with rounded flaps at the hem that flared like the sun’s rays, and the dress of the moon was sleek and silvery, with flowing off-the-shoulder sleeves and a slim-fitting skirt that rippled down to a train. But the dress of the stars—it was black as night, yet when I touched it, a spectrum unfurled, shimmering with gold and silver and purple and a thousand other colors I could not name. I held the bodice to my chest, imagining myself in it.

  Why not, Maia? You’ve spent your whole life sewing for others, dreaming up dresses that you’ve never dared to try on.

  Before I could change my mind, I undid the hundred buttons I’d painstakingly sewn onto the star-painted dress, stepped into the skirt, and pulled up the bodice, threading my arms into the sleeves. Whatever power Amana’s dresses held, I was going to find out. Tonight.

  By magic, the skirt bloomed, the buttons knotted together one by one, and the sash tied over my waist. I touched my hands to my heart, trying to rein in my excitement. The dress fit perfectly. It hugged me neatly at the hips, the soft silk flowing outward like the petals of a rose. The fabric itself was warm, in a way that made me feel it was somehow alive.

  I let my hair down and hid my face with a thin veil made of leftover silk.

  Then I ventured outside. The palace was dark; the lanterns illuminating the garden paths flickered, their candles growing scarce of wax. But I needed no lantern or torch to see my way. My dress sparkled and lit my path.

  The guards who saw me stared, their jaws agape. A few fell to their knees, touching their foreheads to the ground as if I were a goddess. No one asked who I was or where I was going.

  I reached the Great Temple. My shoulders tensed, but I pushed past its wooden doors and made my way to the shrine.

  An altar to Amana awaited me, lit by candles and incense so that the statues glowed, though the temple was unattended.

  Gently, I took a bundle of incense, parted my skirt so I could kneel. “Amana, bless me and forgive me. For I have made the three dresses of legend, of your children: the sun, the moon, and the stars.”

  I staked the incense in its pot, bowed, and stood to leave. Then the wind began to hum. No, not the wind. The sound reminded me of my scissors—a quiet song that resonated with my very being, as if only I could hear it.

  I turned around. Amana’s statues glowed brighter.

  So you have found my children, a woman’s voice said. It was low and powerful, yet kind. And you have made my dresses.

  I fell to my knees again. “Mother Goddess, I have.”

  They hold great power, power too great to remain in your world.

  I bowed my head at the admonishment. “I see that now, Mother Goddess.” My voice trembled as I spoke. “I will serve whatever penance you wish.”

  Amana considered me. No punishment is necessary. You have suffered much, and the power of the dresses may cost you more yet. She paused. I shall take mercy on you and lift one of your burdens. Ask me your heart’s greatest desire, Maia. And I shall grant it.

  My heart flooded. I didn’t need to think twice. “Please, Amana. Release Edan from his oath to Emperor Khanujin, so that he may be free.”

  The incense grew strong, as did the eyes of Amana. Your wish will have great consequences, Maia. Edan will not be able to fulfill his promise to the demon Bandur. You will have to pay the price for his broken oath.

  “I do not care,” I said fiercely. “I love Edan.”

  A pause. I held my breath, waiting.

  Is your wish truly out of love alone? There is anger in you, child. Anger, and great sadness. Is there nothing you would want for yourself?

  At her words, my shoulders fell. One could not lie to the mother goddess. “For many years I’ve wished that my family could be together once more,” I admitted quietly. “But that is a loss I know even you, Mother Goddess, cannot undo. Whereas Edan…there is still hope for him.”

  Then it shall be done, Amana said at last. Upon the light of the blood of stars from whence he was bound, your love shall be free.

  “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you, Mother Goddess.”

  I bowed three times, pressing my forehead to the cool wooden planks of the temple floor. Then I ran down the steps, my heart heavy with Amana’s blessing and my arms spread wide with hope—that tomorrow would spin a new dawn.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I slept past the gongs of breaking dawn, even past the toll of the regular morning bells. When Ammi burst through my door, she found me asleep atop the blankets, both feet hanging off my bed.

  She shook me, hard. “Everyone’s waiting for you!” she cried, her braids whipping in agitation. “You were due at Lady Sarnai’s apartments twenty minutes ago.”

  I jolted up. The first thing I saw was the red sun. It glared at me from the door Ammi had left open, casting a crimson glaze over my room, even over the breakfast tray Ammi had set on the floor hours earlier. Some soup had spilled onto the lacquered tray, and in the light it looked almost like blood.

  My eyes wandered over to the dresses. The sunlight and moonlight gowns were folded into a neat stack, both ready to present to Emperor Khanujin and Lady Sarnai. But the last dress…it hung over my chair, skirts sweeping the floor.

  It had to have been a dream.

  “Get up. Get up.” Ammi pulled me by the arm, struggling to lift me from my bed. “At least you slept in your clothes.”

  So I had. Strange, I didn’t remember putting them back on the previous night. There was a mirror on my left, long and rectangular and framed with a rosewood lattice. I saw myself in the glass, my sunken eyes tired from worry and lack of sleep, wisps of black hair over my face and the rest tangled at the ends. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  I tidied my h
air, straightened my pants. “I’m awake.”

  Ammi took a step back and crossed her arms. “No time for breakfast.” She knelt to wipe the spilled soup off the tray. “I’ll leave this here for you to eat later.”

  I nodded, clasping my tailor’s belt. My scissors hung at my side, their weight familiar.

  She dusted my hat and passed it to me. “Your hair’s gotten long.”

  I hesitated, wishing that Edan’s spell over the palace hadn’t affected Ammi, too. It would have been nice for another girl to know my secret.

  “I know,” I replied, taking the hat. “Thank you.”

  I gathered the gowns into a basket and hurried to Lady Sarnai’s apartments, almost forgetting to hobble and use my cane. Like at the Summer Palace, the Orchid Pavilion was on the other side of the grounds, and as I passed through the open corridors and courtyards, I avoided looking at the sky. I could tell from the corners of my vision that the clouds were inflamed, that even my shadow had a tinge of red. But I wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t view the flaming red sun.

  I hurried up the steps and fell to my knees after the guards let me in, bowing. “Your Imperial Majesty. My deepest, deepest apologies for—”

  The sight of Emperor Khanujin made me forget my words.

  Gone was the short, weak ruler I had encountered only five days ago. Thanks to Edan’s magic, Emperor Khanujin was again the regal king beloved and feared by all. His hair was black as ebony, tucked under a headpiece made entirely of gold, and his eyes were bright, if not kind. The façade was so stunning I forgot what his real self looked like.

  I pulled my eyes away from him, refusing to let magic toy with my perceptions and feelings. At his side was Edan. I pursed my lips. It’d been days since we’d been together. Edan’s hair was shorter, his curls tamed behind his head, and he was dressed in the black robes he always wore when he was near his master.

  He stood tall. Stiff, almost. Bound. That golden cuff still shackled his wrist, and the emperor’s aura radiated as violently as ever. I must have imagined my meeting with Amana the previous night. Seeing Edan this way, I felt as if my heart wanted to burst.

  I turned my head slightly, taking in Lady Sarnai’s chambers. They seemed smaller than her rooms in the Summer Palace, perhaps because there were so many gathered here: Minister Lorsa and three other eunuchs, a line of courtiers, several of Lady Sarnai’s maids—and Lord Xina. All here to see if I’d succeeded in making Amana’s dresses.

  “You’re late,” said Emperor Khanujin as the doors shut. He wasn’t looking at me, and it took me a while to realize someone else had arrived after me.

  Behind me, Lady Sarnai approached. Her bow was slung over her shoulder, as if she’d only just returned from hunting. In her hand was an arrow, as sharp as the animosity in her eyes. I wondered if she was considering shooting me. She certainly didn’t look pleased to see me here.

  She gave her weapon to one of the emperor’s eunuchs and dropped the arrow in her hand, as well as her quiver, on the floor. If she was surprised to see Lord Xina here, she concealed it well as she bowed to the emperor.

  “Rise,” he said, taking a seat on one of the two scarlet lacquered chairs set out for him and Lady Sarnai in the center of the room, incense burning beside them. I noticed Edan’s amulet on his sash. It looked the same as always—old and dull, with that carving of a hawk.

  “The red sun has arrived,” Emperor Khanujin declared. “Master Tailor, we have long awaited your completion of Amana’s dresses. Present them to Lady Sarnai so she may attire herself in one to honor the shansen’s arrival at our celebration banquet tonight.”

  I swallowed, keeping my head low and my hand on the head of my cane as I rose. “Your Highness,” I said, addressing Lady Sarnai, “I have completed your dresses and present them to you in anticipation of your marriage to Emperor Khanujin.”

  As I lifted the dresses and unfolded them, I marveled that not a wrinkle marred their fabric. I heard Lady Sarnai’s maids gasp as I held up each dress, one after another. The skirts puffed like clouds, shimmering and sparkling with such intensity, they looked like they were made of beams of sunlight and moonlight, of gold and diamonds and other precious jewels.

  “One dress woven with the laughter of the sun,” I narrated as the maid took the dresses from me to present to Lady Sarnai. “And one embroidered with the tears of the moon.”

  Lady Sarnai barely looked at them. It was difficult to do so. The dresses were blinding up close, but my eyes were used to their light.

  “Lastly,” I said, “a dress painted with the blood of the stars.”

  “Wait.” Lord Xina stepped forward to inspect the dress. His large hands hovered over the fabric, which strangely did not glitter or sparkle. Even in my hazy memory, I could have sworn it had come alive last night when I had worn it. As if I carried the light of the stars.

  But no, the dress remained black. Black as coal, as ink—as death.

  “An inauspicious color for a wedding, isn’t it?” said Lord Xina, slinging the words at the emperor. “You insult the shansen.”

  A corner of Lady Sarnai’s lips twisted upward. “Even if the color did not repulse me, it is exceedingly plain, Master Tamarin. Hardly a dress evocative of our great goddess.”

  I drew closer to the maid holding the dress and tried to get her to step into the light. But the light was crimson and did nothing to bring out the colors of the stars.

  “It catches the light, Your Highness,” I said, trying to hide how mystified I was by the lackluster dress. “Perhaps because today is the red sun, the light is different.”

  Emperor Khanujin folded his arms across his chest, his long silken sleeves draping over the ground. “Don’t look so sullen, Lady Sarnai. I think the color will suit you quite well.”

  “I won’t wear it,” she said. “Lord Xina is right. It would be inauspicious.”

  “Perhaps Your Highness should try on one of the other dresses,” Edan prompted. “The dress of the sun.”

  Lady Sarnai’s eyes narrowed at him. “What difference does a different dress make, if this one fails to dazzle? I asked for the three dresses of the goddess Amana, not imitations.”

  “They are not imitations,” said Edan sharply.

  “Indeed not,” Emperor Khanujin said. He rested his hands on his knees, looking strangely calm. “Last night, my guards swore they saw the goddess Amana at the Great Temple wearing a dress made of the stars.”

  Several of the eunuchs murmured to one another that they, too, had heard this tale.

  Lord Xina turned to Edan, his face taut with anger. “Did you think to fool us with your magic? To make us believe the goddess Amana would actually walk the earth in this…this vile gown?”

  “Put on the dress,” Emperor Khanujin commanded me.

  Mine was not the only head that snapped to face the emperor. “Sire?”

  “Master Tamarin, demonstrate its power, as I believe you did last night.”

  “I don’t see how that would be appropriate,” interjected Lord Xina. “Master Tamarin is a man. He couldn’t possibly—”

  “That is where you are wrong, Lord Xina.” A smile smeared the emperor’s lips. “Master Tamarin is Kalsang Tamarin’s youngest child. His daughter, Maia.”

  A gasp escaped my lips, and shock rippled across the room from face to face. Why was he doing this?

  “An impostor!” I heard people murmur. Minister Lorsa’s hand jumped to his mouth, and the eunuch beside him began scribbling into his records fiercely. Lady Sarnai’s smirk washed away into bewilderment, but I was too busy watching Edan to savor it. His face remained quiet and brooding, though he lifted an eyebrow at me, a sign that he had no idea what the emperor was thinking. Nervously, I twisted my fingers.

  “Maia Tamarin, put on the dress.”

  Edan moved to assist me, but the emperor raised a hand, stopping h
im.

  Aware that everyone watched me, I retrieved the star-painted dress and went behind the changing screen. I could feel Lady Sarnai’s eyes burning through the screen, waiting for my dress to fail to bring Amana’s magic to life.

  A chord of fear twanged in my gut that she might be right. None of the maids moved to help me, and the buttons didn’t fasten themselves this morning. I reached for my scissors, and that was all it took for the magic to return. The buttons knit together, closing me into the dress.

  Without any hesitation, I lifted my hat; my hair tumbled down just past my shoulders. Then I stepped out from behind the screen.

  My dress threw off dazzling bursts of light, intense enough to wash over the entire chamber. Overwhelmed, Emperor Khanujin raised his hands to shield his eyes. Lady Sarnai and Lord Xina did the same.

  But Edan did not look away. A silent breath escaped his lips. Marvel sparked in his eyes, awakening him, and for a moment my Edan had returned, not the Edan who was Emperor Khanujin’s servant. Yet it wasn’t the dress he was looking at; it was me.

  “You’re glowing,” he whispered, so softly only I could hear.

  I looked down, confused. My dress had come to life, as it had last night. It was a different color today, more purple than black—richer even than the dyes only kings and queens could afford. The fabric rippled and shone, radiating every color imaginable across the ceiling and walls. Then I saw my reflection in the mirror. I was glowing—my skin, my hair, my hands, my entire body radiated a soft, silver light that grew more brilliant as I became aware of it. Edan reached for my scissors. I’d been gripping them so hard the bows had made indents in my fingers.

  The dress grew brighter as his hand brushed against mine, but then he stepped back, and Emperor Khanujin took his place.

  Wonder filled the emperor’s face. His sneer slid from his lips, and he touched my chin, raising it to him as he had in the prison cell.

  “What a glorious transformation,” he said, studying me from every angle. “Now I see why they mistook you for Amana herself. Walk for me.”