My brother used to tease me relentlessly about my appetite, especially when we were poor and had little to eat. “If only you could spin all that thread into noodles, we’d never be hungry again.”
But Keton wasn’t here; he was back home with Baba. How I hoped he was doing better. How I hoped he would tease me again, if I ever made it home.
Edan was waiting, so I closed my eyes and imagined my mother’s chicken porridge, steaming with chives and ginger, Keton’s favorite dumplings with chili oil, and enough sweets to last me a week: steamed coconut buns, fried flatbread, sticky rice with nuts and sliced apricots. Oh, and water. Jugs and jugs of water.
I clapped. And waited.
My nose caught a whiff of ginger. Then I opened my eyes. My jaw dropped—everything I’d imagined appeared before me.
“You went a little overboard,” Edan said, with a hint of approval.
The food flowed off the cloth. “Is it…real?”
He passed me a bowl. “See for yourself.”
My hands curved over the bowl, and a sharp pang of hunger stirred inside me. I picked up a dumpling, bit at its skin, chewed, swallowed. My shoulders melted with contentment, and I ate ravenously, not bothering to ask any more questions.
Edan laughed at me.
“What’s so funny?”
“The way you look.” He reached for a handful of dates and currants. “I haven’t seen anyone so gluttonous since the end of the Great Famine. Maybe you should have become a palace taster instead of a tailor.”
“I can’t help it if you can’t taste anything.” I gulped a spoonful of porridge, then greedily turned for one of the coconut buns.
Edan wasn’t touching the chicken, I realized. He chewed the fruit slowly, as if he was ruminating on something.
I set down my coconut bun. “Did you grow up during the Great Famine?”
“A different sort of famine,” Edan said. “My stepmother was a terrible cook, my father a terrible farmer. I grew up half wild, on a diet of grass and sand. Yams, when I could find them.”
It was the most he’d ever told me about his past. “Is that why you’re not eating much?”
“No, I’m just not as hungry as you are,” he teased. “Eat up. No more talk of famines.”
As he reached for a piece of flatbread, a gold bracelet peeked out from under his sleeve. No, not a bracelet. A cuff—plain, with no ornamentation or jewels. I’d never seen it before. His sleeves had always covered his wrists. Could it be the talisman he’d said he couldn’t show me?
“You mentioned that enchanters channel their magic through talismans,” I began. “I noticed that Emperor Khanujin always wears an amulet with a bird on it. He isn’t an enchanter. What is it?”
Edan dug his fingers into the pale sand. “Something to protect him,” he said dismissively.
“Why does he need an amulet? I thought it was your duty to protect him.”
“It is my duty to serve him,” Edan corrected. “There is a difference.”
I looked at Edan’s wrist again; I wondered about that gold cuff. I picked up my bowl once more, swallowing a mouthful before I dared to ask, “Would you do anything he asked?”
Edan straightened. His bread was on his lap, untouched. He seemed to have forgotten about it—or lost his appetite. “I came here with you, didn’t I? Despite his telling me not to.”
I frowned. “That just shows you’re good at evading direct commands.”
“Yes,” Edan muttered, more to himself than to me. “Unfortunately, Khanujin has learned to be quite accurate in his speech.”
“So you have to obey him?”
“Yes.”
“Or what?”
“That’s enough questions for today, xitara,” Edan said. “It’s nearly dark, and contrary to what you think, I am going to retire to my tent.” He rose, pulling up his hood. “Be careful of snakes and scorpions.” A pause. “But tell me if you see any spiders.”
He disappeared into his tent.
I didn’t see any spiders.
* * *
• • •
By our seventh day in the desert, I understood why Edan despised it here. Every breath stung my lungs, and my skin burned so hot it was agony to even move. Edan had become brutal about rationing our food and water, which confused me. I’d seen the powers of his tablecloth. I could have imagined buckets and buckets of crisp cool water. Anything to quench my thirst.
“Must we conserve water like this?” I pleaded.
“Magic is scarce the deeper we go into the desert.”
“Will it get better?”
“Mostly.”
Mostly. I rubbed my neck, which was tender to the touch. My head hurt, and my