by Naomi Cyprus
“But not all the nobles in the land approved of their love,” said Rani, stroking Nalah’s hair as she spoke. “One night, as the princess was working at her forge, she heard a great roar and looked out of her window. It was her knight, riding a steed made of pure iron that would carry them away from the princess’s castle as fast as a shooting star crossing the sky.”
Nalah’s mind began to drift as she listened to the story. She found herself staring at the empty bottle and the glass full of juice, and thinking about herself and Halan. There was the bottle, elegant and beautiful like Halan—but empty. And the glass, plain but full of juice. That was Nalah. Why couldn’t they both be full and content? Why did it have to be this way?
Because there’s only so much juice.
Suddenly, something occurred to Nalah. What if there’s only a finite amount of power between the two worlds?
When the split happened, most of the magic must have spilled into the Magi Kingdom, leaving only a little bit left in New Hadar, in the Thauma families there—most notably with the people who had tawams here. But what happens to that power if one of the tawams is killed?
In a kind of trance, Nalah picked up the glass and the bottle, and poured the juice back into the bottle. Now it was beautiful, elegant, and full.
That’s why the king killed Zachary Tam. That’s why he killed them all.
“Halan,” the queen said, pausing her story to look at Nalah questioningly. “What’s wrong?”
Nalah blinked. “Nothing,” she lied, an icy chill running up her spine. “I’m just not thirsty anymore.”
Chapter Fourteen
Halan
The Wild Thauma trade must end. The freedom that unsecured Thauma magic grants is far outweighed by the danger of allowing untrained peasants to pick up and use magic intended for the hands of their betters.
For the security of the realm and in the interest of peace, I instruct you to lead a phalanx of officers to the city and deal with this threat. Any craftsman or trader found dealing in these black market goods, or any citizen found in possession of them, is to be held in prison until further notice.
His Royal Highness Asa Tam, Great Shah of the Magi Kingdom, Protector of the Delta and the Sand Sea
There were rebels everywhere she turned. Most of them were young, but that made no difference to Halan. Any one of them could be on Seyed’s side, willing to murder her at the first hint that she would cause them trouble. The boy Marcus spoke with them easily; he seemed to get along well with anyone, no matter who they were. An ability that might be useful to her later.
Soren had left orders that Halan’s world could be opened up a little, since he’d bound her into the Veil of Strangers. He seemed to think that without her identity—her royalty—Halan would be lost and would give up on any thought of escape.
He was spectacularly wrong, and the thought that he’d underestimated her gave Halan more courage.
She was allowed to go into the dingy kitchen to get her own water to drink. She had to pump it manually from the well, and it tasted like rust. She was even allowed to use the dank basement bathroom by herself. She’d searched it from top to bottom, even briefly considering whether she could capture the scorpion that she found hiding under the mop and release it somewhere later as a distraction. She filed the idea away as something to consider if she ran out of other options.
She wasn’t allowed into the room with the pile of weapons, or up the stairs, so she found herself making a slow circuit of the basement, moving from room to room and trying to overhear snatches of plans from the rebels.
It wasn’t getting her anywhere, until she heard a familiar glassy cheep coming from the kitchen. She followed the sound, and found Marcus sitting on the creaky old table with the glass falcon in his lap. He was eating a piece of bread and offering the crumbs to Cobalt, who was eyeing them suspiciously.
They weren’t alone—two of the younger rebels were pumping water into flasks, and Seyed and another older boy were sitting in a corner playing a game that involved spinning a smooth rock between them and betting on where it would land. Seyed looked up at Halan with undisguised loathing, and Halan almost fled—but she forced herself to stand her ground. She had a plan. All she needed was a moment alone with Marcus Cutter.
She came into the room and approached Marcus and Cobalt.
“Does he eat food?” she asked.
Marcus looked up and saw her, and smiled. “Don’t know. I’m not sure he knows, either,” he added, looking down at the bird pecking at the crumbs. “It must be a shock, mustn’t it? To suddenly be alive, when you weren’t before?”
“Yeah, it must be,” said Halan, sitting down on a chair beside the table. With a sad smile, she reached out and stroked Cobalt’s smooth blue feathers. “I thought he went to the palace with Nalah.”
“He did. He just brought a message tied to his leg. It was for Soren. I don’t know what it said,” Marcus added hurriedly, looking a little sheepish. “Sorry.”
Halan raised an eyebrow. “Would you tell me if you did?”
“I . . .” Marcus trailed off, glancing back at Seyed and his friend. “It depends.”
Halan nodded and stroked Cobalt some more. He seemed a lot more interested in the affection than in the bread, and Halan wondered if he could tell the difference between her and Nalah—one of them had so much power she’d brought him to life, and the other had none at all. But maybe that didn’t matter to him.
The young rebels left with their water. Now it was only Seyed and the other boy, and their game of spinning rocks.
Cobalt’s interest in her was good—she could use it. She ruffled his feathers, talking to him and Marcus about nothing very much, until finally there was a smack as Seyed’s friend slapped his hands down on the floor.
“That’s it. You win. I’ve got almost nothing left to bet.”
“Aw, just one more?” Seyed asked. “Winner takes all!”
“Ha! I don’t think so,” scoffed the other boy. “You’ve gotten me that way before.”
Halan held her breath. Would they stay and talk? Would they play some other game?
They both got up, Seyed casting her a final cold look as they left the kitchen.
Halan was alone with Marcus.
Yes.
She stared into her splintered reflection in Cobalt’s feathers and let all of the rage and fear inside her come bubbling to the surface. She thought of the worst things she could: her father and mother hacked to pieces in the palace by children with Wild Thauma weapons, her whole world crashing down, Nalah caught and hanged as an imposter. Her eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip, trying to look as if she were suppressing them.
“Halan, are you all right?” Marcus asked. Just as she hoped he would.
“It’s Seyed,” she whispered in a ragged voice. “But it’s not just him, it’s all of them. I overheard them saying they’re going to kill me. As soon as Soren leaves to check on Nalah.”
Marcus sat up straight. “No! Soren wouldn’t let that happen and neither will I.”
She took a deep, shuddery breath and threw him a bleak smile. “That’s brave of you, Marcus. But there are so many of them, and you don’t know them like I do.” Halan reached out and clasped Marcus’s hand in hers. “Please, I’m begging you. Help me get out of here!”
Marcus frowned. “You know I can’t do that—” he began.
“It might be the only way to save Nalah,” she blurted.
“Save her?” Marcus’s eyes widened, a flicker of fear passing over his face. “What do you mean?”
“There’s something I didn’t mention,” Halan said, leaning in as if telling him a dangerous secret. “There are objects in the palace, Thauma doors and other things, that will only work for members of the royal family.”
She had to be careful. She could lose his sympathy. Indeed, Marcus’s expression darkened and he jumped up from his perch on the table.
“Why didn’t you tell her that before you let her go off
alone? She swore to protect you. Don’t you care if she’s safe too?”
“I don’t want her to be hurt,” Halan said. “I know it was wrong of me, but I . . . I thought that if she was caught, my father would keep looking for me and he might get here before the rebels decide I’m no use to them anymore. But the longer this deception goes on, the angrier Father will be when he realizes that his supposed daughter is actually an imposter! If I can get back in time and take her place, we can still save her.”
She held her breath. Marcus turned away from her, shaking his head.
“If we do nothing,” Halan prompted, “both she and I could be killed. You’re my only hope, Marcus. And maybe Nalah’s, too.”
Cobalt scratched the table with one claw and gave a worried squawk. Marcus looked back at the bird, and his shoulders slumped.
“All right. We have to save Nalah, so I’ll help you,” he said. “But you have to help us get Nalah’s father back.”
“Of course,” said Halan, giving him a watery smile. She decided that as soon as she found out what glass falcons really did eat, she would order Lilah to bring Cobalt a bathtub full of it.
She’d known that Nalah’s best friend would be a powerful ally, but she hadn’t realized just how powerful. Marcus Cutter had a shadow cloak. Normally, such Thauma objects wouldn’t work for Halan—unless they were Wild, of course—but since she was using the cloak with Marcus, it slid over both of them easily.
“I thought magic was forbidden in your world,” she whispered as she felt the slippery fabric fall around her. It was such an amazing feeling, to be a part of a magical object like this! Halan wondered if Thaumas ever got used to being able to do such wonders. I know I wouldn’t.
“It’s an heirloom,” Marcus whispered back defensively.
It was absurdly easy to slip out of the rebels’ hideout under cover of the cloak. They stepped lightly, but even when a floorboard creaked under Marcus’s feet and the little girl with the glowing marble heard it, the girl turned and stared right at them for a moment before shrugging and walking away. Soon they were at the crumbling back door of the house, walking out into a sun-drenched alleyway.
Marcus led them through it out into the street, and Halan suddenly recognized where they were. This was the Storm Quarter, a few blocks away from where the rebels had originally caught her. The ground was sandy and the houses were crumbling, returning to the desert piece by piece.
“I think we can uncloak now,” she said.
“Right. It’s not as if anyone but the rebels will recognize you.” Marcus looked around to make sure they weren’t being watched, then pulled off the shadow cloak and turned to stuff it into his bag.
I’m so sorry about this, Marcus, Halan thought.
Not allowing herself time to hesitate, Halan bent, scooped up a chunk of sandstone, and clunked him on the back of the head.
Too stunned to shout, Marcus slumped to the ground with a groan. Above them, a shriek like nails being dragged down a glass window made Halan cringe. She looked up just in time to see Cobalt wheel away on the hot breeze.
“I’m sorry!” she called after him. “I truly am,” she told Marcus at her feet.
He groaned again, let out a string of curses, but couldn’t get up.
“I will help Nalah,” Halan said, backing away. “But I have to do this myself. My father will listen to me.” And then she ran.
Before yesterday, Halan had never so much as slapped someone. Now, her knockout count was up to two. What was she turning into?
As she drew nearer the bazaar, she started to notice not being noticed. It hadn’t been too strange at first, when the people she passed were the poor and homeless, but as the streets grew more and more crowded, and she started to pass homes and workshops run by nobility, the skin on the back of her neck began to prickle.
Some of these people should know her. But the Veil of Strangers had turned her into just another Dust-scarred peasant, and even those who did notice turned away quickly and pretended not to have seen her.
At least it clears a path to the palace, she thought determinedly. If I can just get to Father . . .
Then what? The unwelcome thought barged into her head, demanding to be heard. With this face, even getting into the palace would be difficult—being allowed to see the king would be virtually impossible. But she quieted those thoughts for now. I have outsmarted some of the most brilliant minds in this kingdom, she told herself. I did it before, and I can do it again.
The bazaar was crowded and noisy, and Halan shuddered to think of the time she’d spent exploring it with Soren at her side. She weaved and elbowed her way through the crowd, still attracting almost no attention apart from a few angry curses. “Out of the way, Duster!” a well-dressed noble snapped. Halan’s cheeks turned hot with anger and humiliation, but she kept on running until she turned a corner and almost ran into Lady Lang and her retinue. They were browsing a sand merchant’s wares.
Halan skidded to a halt, her heart pounding.
“Lady Lang!” she exclaimed. The glassworker was a good friend and adviser of her father’s; surely she would help her.
Lady Lang looked at the princess and pulled a face as if she were watching a dog do its business in the street. “Get out of my sight, peasant,” she spat. An angry-looking middle-aged servant moved between her and Halan, glaring fiercely. Lady Lang turned back to inspect the jars of crushed ruby and heliothyst. Halan didn’t move.
“But, Kavi,” Halan began. “Please listen to my voice, I’m—”
“Don’t you dare address me by my first name! And don’t spin me your sob stories, either,” Lady Lang said. She dug inside her purse and produced a single copper coin—worth almost nothing—and threw it at Halan’s feet. “There. Now, don’t let me see your face around here again, or I’ll have you thrown in the dungeons for a night to teach you a lesson in manners!”
Halan stumbled back, shocked. Lady Lang had been a friend of King Tam’s for years, always cheerful and attentive to the princess.
Was this how she treated people outside the palace?
Leaving the copper coin on the ground where it lay, Halan hurried away, feeling the Veil of Strangers against her face even though she couldn’t see it. She longed to tear at it, but she remembered the piercing headache and left it alone.
The servants’ entrance to the palace was along a rough cart track at the base of the hill, hidden from the main gate. Halan was strangely glad of that—if she couldn’t trust the nobles or the guards to treat a poor nobody with kindness, surely the servants would have a better attitude. She approached the servants’ gate, and the bored-looking guard standing there gave her a hard look.
“Don’t know you. Here to ask for work?”
Halan nodded, not daring to speak.
“Well, go on in and ask for Mistress Ruba—but I’ll tell you now, she doesn’t like Dusters in the palace. Makes Their Highnesses uncomfortable.”
Halan swallowed. That’s why I never knew what the Dust was—all my life, its effects have been hidden from me.
“Thanks,” she said, grateful for the warning. She knew Mistress Ruba—she was the palace’s head cook and mistress of servants, and despite her tough exterior, Halan knew, she had a soft heart. Perhaps she wouldn’t like the scars, but she wasn’t a noble like Lady Lang. She was definitely persuadable.
Halan hurried across the small courtyard and knocked on a big wooden door.
“What?” snapped a woman’s voice, and the door was opened by a middle-aged woman Halan vaguely recognized as another of the cooks.
“I’m here to see Mistress Ruba about a job,” Halan said.
“We don’t want any Dusters,” the woman sniffed. “What did you do to get those scars, eh? You’re a criminal, I bet—and you think you’re worthy to even breathe the same air as the royal family? Get out of here!”
“It wasn’t Dust!” Halan said. It wasn’t exactly a lie, after all—it wasn’t Dust, it was just an illusion. “I know it l
ooks like it, but I was burned in a kitchen accident. I was a serving girl in Lady Artaz’s house. Now I can’t get a job because no one will give me a chance. Please, I’ll prove my worth in no time!”
“Is that a girl looking for a job?” came another voice from within the dim kitchen. It was Mistress Ruba, large and covered in flour, as she always was. Halan’s heart leaped.
“Yes, mistress,” said the cook. “But she looks like a Duster to me.”
“Let her in, for goodness’ sakes. Let me look at her,” commanded Mistress Ruba. The other woman stood aside, a suspicious look on her face, and Halan took her first step back inside the palace.
Mistress Ruba was standing at a giant marble worktop, her arms folded as she supervised a small army of young boys and girls, who were pounding at a huge ball of dough. Puffs of flour and red and yellow spice burst from its surface like ash from bubbling lava.
She gave Halan a hard stare. “Well, she’s not exactly up to our normal standards. Still, we’re down two maidservants and it’ll be my head if everything doesn’t get done before dinner. Send her up to help with the floors. And give her a scarf to wear over that face. And you—are you listening to me, girl?”
“Yes, mistress,” said Halan quickly.
“If I hear you’ve so much as looked at something you shouldn’t, you’ll be out on the street so fast, your head will spin. Understood?”
It wasn’t quite the warm, kindly welcome Halan had hoped for, but she bowed low, anyway.
“Yes, mistress. Thank you so much, mistress.” She took the dark headscarf that the other cook handed her and wrapped it across her face, over the veil, without complaint.
If it gets me into the palace, closer to Father, I will do anything.
She was given a mop and a bucket of water and instructed to take the back stairs up to the second floor. She struggled up the steps slowly—the mop was awkward and the bucket was heavy, and she didn’t dare spill a drop. When she emerged into a corridor she actually recognized, she allowed herself to grin behind her headscarf. There was another servant here, an elderly man with a huge bushy mustache who was mopping as if his life depended on it. If she could give him the slip, then she’d be able to run to her father’s study only one floor up.
