by Naomi Cyprus
The back of her neck prickled. Why did this view look so familiar?
She took a few steps backward, adjusting her perspective.
“What’re you doing?” Marcus asked.
There was something about standing here, in this spot, with a breeze at her back and the city laid out in front of her, the huge house on a hill crowning it all—
“Oh my god,” Nalah breathed. “It’s New Hadar!”
“What?”
“Stand right here.” Nalah took his arm and placed him right where she’d been. She glanced at Darry and then pointed over Marcus’s shoulder and whispered so that Darry wouldn’t hear them. “We’re standing on the beach! The promenade runs along there, right? Look up at the palace, it’s exactly where Zachary Tam’s mansion is! Over there is Market Street—see how the line of buildings is the same?” She turned and stared out at the Sand Sea again, her heart thundering in her chest. “The Hadar Sea should be here, but it’s . . . gone. All the water’s gone, there aren’t even any clouds. That’s why it’s so cold!”
Suddenly pieces of the puzzle began falling into place. How the Magi Kingdom and New Hadar could seem so similar and yet so different. “Darry,” Nalah called out. “Can I ask you something?”
The boy turned to her.
“Can you tell me what happened after the Great Weapon was used during the war?”
Darry raised an eyebrow at the strange question. “Amateur historian, are you?” he asked.
“Please, it’s important,” Nalah urged him.
Darry shrugged. “Well, the weapon was made by a foolish king, who thought he could stop the war by ridding the world of all its Thauma magic,” he said.
Nalah nodded. That much, at least, was the same. But in New Hadar, the king was revered, not despised, for creating the weapon.
“But the king didn’t realize that in setting off the weapon,” Darry continued, “he was literally splitting the world into two pieces, like the weapon itself.” Nalah remembered the vision in the tapestry, of the Great Weapon cracking like an egg. “Each world exactly like the other in every way—except one. One world was left barren, cold, and empty of Thauma magic, and in the other”—Darry gestured toward the land all around him—“the Thauma magic intensified tenfold. The initial shock of all that magic caused the Year of Storms. But even with that, this world fared better than its twin.”
Marcus blinked in shock at this revelation. “Why?” he asked. “What happened to the other world? The one without magic?”
Darry blew out his cheeks to make a whooshing sound and spread his hands wide. “Gone,” he said. “Destroyed. A world cannot survive without magic. Like I said, we got the better end of the deal.”
Nalah breathed deeply, letting it all sink in. “Thanks, Darry,” she said. “That’s very helpful. Will you give us a minute?” Darry nodded and went off to explore some of the ruins nearby.
“It’s just as I thought,” Nalah whispered to Marcus. “The Magi Kingdom and New Hadar were once the same place—until the Great Weapon split them apart. We lost most of our Thauma magic, they got more. We heard stories of this world, but thought it was a make-believe fairy-tale land, and they believed our world was destroyed. All this time, each world was ignorant of the other—until Tam was able to cross over to New Hadar with the Transcendent Mirror.”
Marcus shook his head in wonder. “If it didn’t make so much sense, I’d say you were crazy,” he said. “But Tam must have known that New Hadar still existed. Because he used the mirror to get there. But why? Why come to New Hadar and kill this other Tam, and try to kidnap you?”
Nalah shrugged. “That, I still don’t know.”
“Hey!” Darry’s voice rang out, and then came a cascade of muffled shouts. Nalah turned to see the boy being dragged through a dark doorway, into one of the ruined buildings at the edge of the desert.
“Darry!” she shouted, and dashed after him, her feet kicking up sand and Marcus’s footsteps crunching after her. Had one of the guards been following them? It was their fault Darry was in this mess at all. She couldn’t allow him to be punished for it.
Nalah threw herself through the doorway, only to run right into something hard that stank of grease and smoke. Strong hands grabbed her by the shoulders. In the dark, she heard Marcus and Darry yelp. Marcus cursed the person who’d grabbed him, but Darry shushed him.
“Heard you coming,” said a gruff male voice from above Nalah’s head. “What’re you three kids doing out in the dark? Didn’t your mummies and daddies tell you what happens to scrappers who are out after curfew?”
Nalah was dragged outside, onto the starlit street. The man who’d seized her was a guard, dressed in black and with a scimitar at his belt. Two more guards emerged from the building, holding Marcus and Darry by the scruff of their necks.
“What’s this?” said one of the other guards. His hand had sneaked into Marcus’s bag, and he was pulling out the shadow cloak. Darry saw it and his eyes went wide. “How did a guttersnipe foreigner like you get your hands on something like this?” the guard snarled, shaking the delicate fabric in front of Marcus’s face.
“Hey!” Marcus snapped. “Be careful with it, would you? That’s a family heirloom!”
Nalah’s heart seized in her chest as she saw the guard’s face turn purple with rage. These guards reminded her of Hokmet enforcers—cruel, vicious, easily provoked. Because Marcus’s family was rich, he’d never had to worry about being picked on by an enforcer.
But they weren’t in New Hadar anymore.
The guard threw Marcus to the ground like a rag doll. “How dare you speak to me that way, mongrel!” he growled. He tossed the cloak to the guard holding Darry and drew his sword. “I’ll teach you to disrespect a king’s guard. Hold out one of his hands!”
Marcus screamed, digging his heels into the sandy ground, trying to get away from the moonlit blade.
As Nalah watched, time seemed to slow.
No! something inside her said, righteous, defiant. You will not hurt him.
She wrenched her body around in her captor’s hands, and when he held her tighter, she stamped down hard on his foot. He let out a yelp, and his grip loosened. Pulling free, Nalah threw herself at the guard who held Marcus’s arm, and she grabbed for his sword. Her gloved fingers closed around the dull side of the blade.
“Stop!” she shouted, and there was a sound in her voice like that of a hammer striking an anvil. Her blood felt like lightning in her veins, and suddenly the sword bent under her hands like it was made of clay. She yelped in shock, but didn’t let go of the blade. It folded almost in two and began to glow red, as if her fingers were as hot as a furnace.
The guard screamed—his hand smoking—and dropped the sword, which fell in a twisted heap onto the sand. He released Marcus, who scrambled to Nalah’s side, panting. Nalah staggered back and stared at her hands, the sudden courage she’d felt rushing away in a wave of fear. What was happening?
“Impossible,” whispered the third guard, backing away. “What kind of magic is this? Are they Thaumas?”
“Of course not. Look at them—they’re street rats. Anyway, stop standing there gawping,” the burned guard shouted back, gripping his ruined hand. “This could be some Wild Thauma trick—they’re probably working with the rebels. Kill them!”
The third guard drew his sword and approached them warily. Nalah and Marcus began backing away, looking for an escape. “Whatever you did, can you do it again?” Marcus whispered.
Nalah swallowed hard. “I don’t know,” she said, trying to control her shaking voice. “I’m afraid to find out.”
Luckily, she didn’t have to. Just as the guard was closing in on them, a flash of blue came out of the sky like a streak of lightning. Nalah and Marcus ducked out of the way when the guard looked up in confusion, and Cobalt plunged down and sank his glass claws into the man’s shoulder. The man yelled in pain and flailed at the bird, but Cobalt held fast. In his panic, the guard smacked his sword int
o his own ear, then dropped the sword with a string of wild curses.
Darry wriggled out of his captor’s grip, snatched the shadow cloak out of his hands, and danced out of his reach.
“Come on!” he cried, and Nalah and Marcus took off after him down the street. The guards tried to follow them, but they were sluggish with pain and confusion. Darry darted in through a doorway and led them down a sandy flight of stairs, through two basements, and out across an overgrown garden. Nalah’s thudding heart started to feel tight in her chest and she could hear Marcus’s breath rasping in his throat, but they couldn’t stop. Not until they knew they were safe. Finally Darry held up a hand and they all collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath, listening for sounds of pursuit.
There were none.
“Okay, that’s it,” panted Darry. “I’m taking you to Ironside.”
“Where’s that?” Nalah asked.
“It’s not a place. It’s a person. He’s the leader of the rebels.”
“Rebels? Like the ones the guard mentioned?” Nalah said. She glanced at Marcus. This place was definitely turning out to be more complicated than it was in the stories. “Who are they?”
“They’re people who want to make things better around here, for everybody,” Darry said, with feeling. “That dumb guard was right about one thing—I’m one of them.”
Nalah bit her lip, still uncertain.
Darry noticed. “It’s okay, Ironside will help you,” he said reassuringly. “After what I saw you do, he may be the only one who can.”
“I don’t know what happened.” Nalah wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold again. “I’ve always had problems with breaking things that I touch, but only glass things.” Then she remembered the embroidered flower blooming at her touch at the market. “Well, at least until recently. I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“But you’ve always been different,” Marcus said. “I think you’ve got to face it, Nalah . . .”
He paused.
“What?” Nalah demanded.
“You’re a massive weirdo,” Marcus said, his face a deadpan mask of concern. Nalah let out a slightly hysterical laugh and slapped him on the arm, and his mask cracked into a grin.
“You know I said you didn’t have to tell me your secrets?” Darry said, crossing his arms. “I take it back. Where are you two really from, and what are you doing here?”
Nalah took a deep breath. “Are you sure you want to know?” she asked.
“Very sure,” Darry answered.
Ironside, leader of the rebels, she thought. That certainly sounds like someone who’s opposed to King Tam. Maybe he can help us.
Right now, he was her only hope.
“All right. My name is Nalah Bardak, and this is Marcus Cutter. You know that other world that everyone thought was destroyed after the war? The one with no magic? That’s where we’re from. We came here through a magic mirror to rescue my father from the king’s dungeons.”
Darry stared at her silently for a long moment with his mouth open. “You’re right,” he finally said. “I’m sorry I asked.” He blew out his cheeks and waved them on. “Well, come on, then. You need to see Ironside right away. I have a feeling this is going to be a very, very long night.”
Chapter Ten
Halan
Many men and women of my class are happy to ignore the plight of the poor in our kingdom, and instead to fill their minds with trifles and petty rivalries. But I believe that to look the other way while violence exists is the same as committing the violence yourself.
Letter from David Ferro to his son Soren
Halan strained against the ropes holding her to the chair. She didn’t care that there was a group of rebels watching her every move. She didn’t care that her wrists and ankles were tied hopelessly tight, or that her skin was starting to feel raw from pulling on her bonds. She didn’t care that even if she somehow got free, she would have no idea how to get back to the palace because she’d been brought here with a sack over her head. None of that mattered. She had to try.
The room was dark and dusty, lit by a couple of weak candles in a sconce by the door. The flickering light illuminated the lean, hungry faces of the rebels as they watched her, as a group of mice might watch a cat inside a cage. The rebels whispered to each other in the dim light, making certain not to let her hear what they were saying. There were four of them, two girls and two boys. They all looked like they were under eighteen. Every rebel she’d gotten a good look at seemed surprisingly young, which didn’t exactly mesh with the hardened, violent rebels of her imagination.
Maybe it’s all some strange game, she thought. Maybe they don’t know what danger they’re really in, keeping me here.
Soren was in the next room, talking with one of the others. Then they parted, and the young lord entered the room where Halan was being held. “My apologies,” he said, still irritatingly polite, “but I must leave you in the able hands of my friends here. I have some urgent business to attend to.” And with a crisp bow, he was gone.
Halan slumped in her chair. She still couldn’t believe it. How can Soren Ferro be Ironside? I never see him talking politics or even showing off his family’s Thauma weapons—he’s always seemed more interested in flirting with girls than in the kingdom’s economic problems.
Her heart sank as she realized that was the whole point. He’d presented himself as a frivolous boy, avoiding the other nobles and doing nothing to draw attention to himself. That was how he got away with arming the rebels like this. Misdirection.
Halan tried to twist her elbows around, thinking if she could get just the right angle she could work her fingers free.
“Why are you still struggling?” jeered one of the rebels, a girl of about sixteen who wore her thick, dark hair in a severe braid.
The other rebels tried to pull the girl back. “We’re not supposed to talk to her!” one of the boys hissed.
But the girl ignored him. “We could take away the ropes, you know,” she continued. “It wouldn’t make any difference. You couldn’t get away from here even if we gave you a ten-minute head start. Take away your fancy clothes and your guards, Princess, and what are you? Nothing. No better than a common street rat.”
Halan’s cheeks turned red-hot. She was used to nobles whispering behind her back about her being powerless, but she’d never been insulted to her face before. Rage and indignation bubbled up inside her. “I’m your future queen, that’s who I am! Not a thief and a murderer like you and your filthy little friends!” she snapped.
“Murderer?” said a boy, younger than she, who was sitting in the corner picking his teeth with a short knife. “Who’ve you murdered, Felis?”
The older girl—Felis—glared at him, and then stepped closer to Halan. “I’m no murderer. It’s your father who’s the murderer, Your Highness.” She bowed to Halan, with a mocking flourish. “We steal food. We steal to keep warm. Because your father’s given us no other choice.”
“Yeah,” said the other girl, adjusting her headscarf. “You think you know us, but you don’t. We go out on the streets every day and stop nobles like you and your precious guards from oppressing the good people of this city.”
Like that boy thief . . . , Halan thought, and she couldn’t help wondering where he was now, what was happening to him. But she shook the thought off.
“I’m not oppressing anyone,” Halan said. “And if some of the guards are acting too harshly, then kidnapping me is not the way to solve it! Let me go. Let me tell my father about your grievances, and he will root out the problem. I promise you!”
“My brother was taken,” said the boy. He stood up, a dark look on his face. “He was taken away two months ago. Nobody’s seen him since. Where is he, Princess, do you know? Because if he’s in the dungeons, then your father knows about it, and if not . . .”
Halan flushed even more. It wasn’t her fault that his brother was a criminal, was it? Why were they behaving as if it was? The girl
in the headscarf put a supportive hand on the boy’s shoulder, and Halan fought against the urge to say she was sorry.
I didn’t do anything to you!
Halan looked at the other boy in the room, the only one who hadn’t spoken. At a guess, she’d say he was only about eight years old. He was sitting against the wall, in front of a rack piled high with weapons. It was a lethal-looking mess—swords and axes with glowing blades were stacked up together, next to a bucket full of arrows and crossbow bolts. Glass jars were lined up against the wall, each one filled with swirling smoke that Halan guessed must make them some kind of bomb.
“If you’re all so peaceful, why have you stolen those weapons?” she demanded.
“We have to protect ourselves,” said Felis haughtily. “We wouldn’t last long against your butchers otherwise.”
“And they’re not stolen,” said the girl in the headscarf. “Ironside forged them. He makes them Wild, so anyone can pick them up and use them, even a non-Thauma. He’s brilliant. And he’s been inside the palace, gathering information right under your nose! With him on our side, we can’t lose.”
Halan doubted that. She doubted that any of the rebels except Soren had any idea just how well protected the palace was, how many soldiers protected the royal family.
But, Soren had been inside the palace, within striking distance of the king and queen. He had danced with Halan. Who knew how many more spies he had?
The skin on Halan’s arms prickled.
My mother was right. I was in danger this whole time.
Her stomach twisted as she thought of Queen Rani up in the palace, probably sleeping peacefully. All this time she had been so concerned for Halan’s safety, and now . . .
It wouldn’t take very many guards stepping away from their posts in the middle of the night to let a whole host of rebels into or out of the palace. Halan knew this very well.
The rebels would be armed with Wild Thauma weapons. Halan pictured them rushing through the halls, cutting down nobles and servants alike. The guards would fight. The battle would be bloody on both sides.
