by Naomi Cyprus
“At last!” the old man complained. “Come on, girl, get mopping. I’m never going to finish this by myself.”
Halan had never mopped anything in her life, and after five minutes she decided that when this was all over, not only would she never mop anything again, but she would give all the cleaning servants a large pay raise. After only a few minutes, her arms and back began to ache. She’d assumed mopping would be straightforward, but somehow it wasn’t—either she was using too much water or not enough, and if she wasn’t missing bits she was going too slowly. The old man had already covered four times as much area as she had, in half the time. “Ach,” he scolded her. “Why did they send me a snail for a maid? You’re no help at all!”
A door opened along the hall, and a serving girl stepped out, carrying a pile of laundry.
“Ester!” Halan exclaimed, almost overturning her bucket of dirty water.
Ester turned, and Halan’s cheeks went hot as she recognized her mistake.
“Um—hello,” the laundry girl said. “Do I know you?”
“No,” said Halan quickly. “No, you don’t. I’m—I’m a friend of Pedram’s. I’m new,” she added.
Ester hesitated, looking deep into her eyes, and for a moment Halan wondered if her friend could see through the Veil of Strangers, truly see Halan for who she was.
“Oh, well, it’s nice to—”
“Girl! You, girl!” shouted a lady’s voice. It was Lady Amalia, the chaperone who Halan had spent so much time and effort trying to avoid. She stomped toward them, silk robes flying. “What are you doing?”
Halan backed away, pretending to be mopping.
Ester froze. “Nothing, my lady, I’m just taking these down to—”
“Nothing? I’ll give you nothing!” shouted Lady Amalia, and she seized the pile of clothes from Ester’s hands and threw them against the wall, scattering them across the floor. Halan gripped the handle of her mop, trying to keep her face impassive. How could her chaperone do something like that? What had Ester done to make her so angry?
“Pick those up!” Lady Amalia ordered, and Ester scrambled to scoop up the clothes.
You threw them down! Halan forced herself not to scream it back at her. She was just doing her job! Why was she treating her like this?
“And tell the laundry master if he ruins another one of my scarves with his clumsy washing, I shall tell the guards he was seen with the rebels and he’ll be out on his ear! Tell him that,” Lady Amalia snapped, and then stomped off down the corridor and was gone.
Halan dropped her mop and hurried over to help Ester pick up the rumpled laundry.
“I’m so sorry!” she said. “I wanted to say something, but—”
To Halan’s surprise, Ester gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, that’s sweet. You are new here, aren’t you? Don’t worry about me, just concentrate on keeping out of the nobles’ way when you can. You’ll see soon enough, unfortunately, they’re pretty much all like that.”
Halan had never heard Ester talk this way before. She’d hinted that life in the palace wasn’t always happy, but she’d never told Halan that she was being mistreated.
“Are they really all like that?” Halan asked quietly. Am I like that?
“Oh, some are better. Some are much worse. You learn to read the signs and keep your head down when they’re feeling volatile.” She looked down at the soiled laundry in her hands and sighed. “Normally. The only one of the lot of them that’s ever treated me like a human being is Princess Halan.”
Halan’s heart soared. “Wow, really?”
“Between you and me? The princess is actually nice. I’m so glad she’s back safely! If she were in charge, maybe things would be different around here.”
Halan was glad that she was wearing the headscarf, because now she was blushing.
There are going to be some changes around here, that’s for sure. She wished she could tell Ester that. I’m listening. And I’ve seen how some of the people I trusted treat their subjects.
She couldn’t believe her father was the evil man Soren made him out to be, but perhaps Soren did know a little more about the darker corners of her kingdom than she did.
Ester hurried off to her duties, and Halan went back to mopping, impatient for the job to be done. “Finally,” the old man said when he’d reached the farthest corner of the hall. “I’ll say you got the hang of it there at the end, girl.”
“Thanks,” Halan said with a grateful nod. She waited until he had disappeared down the back stairs, and then stowed the mop and bucket in a closet.
Now’s my chance.
She ran for the upper floors, her heart pounding. She had to get to her father before the rebels made their move.
Thinking of the reaction she might get for barging into the king’s private rooms, Halan opened the door from the stairwell just a crack and peered through to check that the coast was clear.
“As Your Majesty commands,” a voice said, and Halan held her breath. That was Lord Malek, the fabricworker. Lady Kayyali was beside him, leaning on her wooden staff. They were speaking to her father at the door to his study, flanked by guards.
Halan carefully shut the door again. She knew that there was no chance her father would listen to her while he was surrounded by nobles. They might be like Lady Amalia, or worse. She would have to wait a few minutes and hope that they’d leave.
As she waited, Halan heard the echo of a whisper from the floor below. “I know what I said,” a woman was saying. “I meant it. It’s just so hard to lie to her.”
Halan’s gasped. It was her mother’s voice!
“I know, my love,” said a deeper voice.
My love?
A strange, cold feeling crept up Halan’s spine. My father is still in his study. So, who is Mother talking to?
Very carefully, Halan crept to the side of the stairs and risked a look down.
There was her mother—recognizable to Halan despite the dark shawl she was wearing over her dress—with a man in black scale mail, an iron helmet held under his hand. She couldn’t see his face. He had black, curly hair, and he was leaning in to her mother, his lips pressed to hers.
Halan’s hands flew up to her mouth to hold in the shriek of confusion that threatened to fly out of her.
What about Father?
Perhaps the king and queen didn’t get to spend much time together, but for her mother to be having an affair, to betray her royal duty! It was unthinkable. Halan’s whole world seemed to spin out of control. She felt sick, but couldn’t stop herself from listening as they pulled apart and spoke once more.
“We will be together soon,” the queen murmured, a note of happiness in her voice that Halan hadn’t heard in years. “I won’t put you or Halan at risk, but I can’t wait much longer.”
“We’ve kept our secret this long,” the man said. “I’ll do anything to make sure you’re safe, you know that.”
His voice was familiar, and as he turned his head to glance up the stairwell, Halan finally got a good look at his face.
She felt lightheaded, as if she might faint and tumble down the stairs, hitting the two secret lovers on the way.
It was Captain Bardak.
As in Nalah Bardak.
She had heard the name before. It had flown from her mind when Nalah said it. Or maybe she just hadn’t wanted to remember.
Captain Omar Bardak. A member of the royal guard.
Halan’s mother was in love with him. Not with her father, the king, but a guard. Which means . . .
He said they’d kept their secret for “this long.” How long was that? A year? Five years? Or maybe more?
She pressed herself against the wall, letting its cool solidness keep her steady.
Who is my real father? Is it the king, or this man my mother loves?
The truth of it hit her all at once—those two never were the same person, and some part of her had known it for years and years. The way the king and queen talked to each other, and to her. It was
always cordial. It wasn’t love. Not like what she’d just seen.
Was this why her mother had always been so cold? She’d been keeping a secret so huge it could swallow her whole life.
And mine.
She reached up and angrily wiped away a tear. Perhaps her mother loved this man, but what was it Nalah had said?
I don’t care if our true father is Bardak or Tam. My papa raised me and I love him.
Halan wouldn’t betray her mother, but there was more at stake than this right now. She had to get to Father before Soren led the rebels into the palace, before even more of her life crumbled around her.
Before it was too late.
Chapter Fifteen
Nalah
I have loved you carelessly, with all my heart, and no one will ever be able to take that from me. We have both made our choices. One day we will be together. Even in death, our love will live on. You are the best person I know. I see you fight like a tiger to protect her, every waking moment. If the time ever comes, know that I will do the same.
A letter from Omar Bardak to Queen Rani Tam
I’m coming, Papa.
Nalah fought to keep her steps under control as she slipped through the darkened palace halls. She mustn’t run, no matter how desperate she was to see her father again.
The route from the royal quarters to the dungeons was longer and more tortuous than the passage with the spyholes. Soren had told Nalah how to get there, but every step Nalah took away from the relative safety of Halan’s rooms felt like walking into the lion’s den.
She’d hoped that Cobalt would be back with a reply from Soren before she set off, but she’d waited until well beyond sunset and still he hadn’t returned. Soren hadn’t been at dinner, either, and Nalah hadn’t dared ask after him. It had just been her, the king and queen, and twenty other courtiers, including the three Tam had empowered by murdering their tawams. They’d promised that the rebels who kidnapped her would be caught, but when she asked what would happen to them, they all clammed up. Tam had spun a line about justice, and Nalah had pretended to believe him.
After about fifteen minutes of walking and hiding, avoiding guards and slipping through forgotten, dusty rooms, Nalah found herself at the top of a dark staircase. She leaned over the well and looked down, but the stairs were swallowed up by the gloom long before they reached the bottom.
Soren had said not to bring a light, because it could be seen by the guards, but as Nalah looked down into that darkness, almost every part of her was clamoring to turn back.
Perhaps she could compromise. She reached up and took off the earrings she had borrowed from Halan’s incredible collection—they were simple multifaceted glass. Feeling a little guilty, she snapped the glass orbs off their metal settings and held them in her hand.
After spending all day long trying not to do any magic, Nalah felt a rush of relief to release a bit of her pent-up tension into the two little orbs in her hand. “Light my way in darkness,” she whispered in that chiming voice. “Light it only for me.”
The balls of glass fused together into a globe the size of a marble and began to glow with a weak, pale light. She held it aloft. It only illuminated a few steps in front of her, but it would be enough. Carefully, she began picking her way down the steps, keeping her free hand on the wall for guidance.
The farther she descended, the colder and damper the stone became. She counted the steps until she was certain she had reached the bottom floor of the palace. Just like Soren said, there was an arched doorway here, and a completely black passage leading away to some other secret entrance; but the stairs kept on going, and she followed them. They grew rougher, and the wall started to feel more like natural, crumbling rock instead of the sandstone bricks. She felt moss between the cracks in the wall, and she could hear water trickling somewhere nearby.
Eventually the musty smell of the stairwell was replaced by something else—a foul stench, like a combination of mold and sweaty, unwashed people—and soon after she smelled it, she finally came to the bottom of the stairs and found herself in a tiny alcove. The darkness beyond was so thick that Nalah’s handful of light barely pierced it. She made out a corridor ahead, and decided that was the way to go.
There were sounds coming from the murk. Crying sounds, wails of pain and distress, the low chatter of angry voices, the odd rattle of chains or clang of metal against metal.
She’d never heard anything like it. In her worst nightmares about the Hokmet’s cells, she had never imagined sounds that frightened her as much as these.
Nalah knew that she had to go toward the sounds, but she waited a moment longer, taking a steadying breath, before she stepped forward.
The glow from her glass light fell on the gray face of an old man with muscles on his forearms like taut ropes; he was wearing rough black leather armor. He held a bowl containing crumbs in his hands. He must be one of the jailers, coming back from feeding the prisoners. The haggard man looked directly at Nalah as he passed by, but his expression didn’t change.
Nalah pressed herself against the wall and held her breath as the jailer went by, going right past her and her little well of light without looking up.
Only I can see the light!
Nalah stayed frozen in place as long as she dared, as the old man disappeared into the darkness. After all, she wasn’t invisible—she was just, as far as the guard was concerned, standing in the pitch black.
When his footsteps had receded, she stepped away from the wall and walked to the door the man had come through. The room beyond was lit by torches, their light spilling through the cracks in the ancient wooden door. Nalah pocketed her glass light and tried the door. It was locked.
She put her hand to the heavy iron lock and shut her eyes. Her heart was pounding, and she channeled her creeping fear into it, using the shudder building up behind her shoulder blades to heat and twist the metal under her fingers. The wood around it splintered and the lock fell out of place. Nalah caught it before it could hit the stone floor and bring every guard in the dungeon running.
The door swung open slowly, and Nalah found herself at the end of a long room lit blue by long-burning Thauma torches on the walls. Lining the room on both sides were iron cages that reminded her of horse stalls in a stable.
But these cages held people. Dozens and dozens of people—men and women and even children.
They sat in filthy straw, holding each other or curled in the corners. Some of them were crying, others hunched over injuries that looked fresh and painful. She saw Dust burns on many of them—pockmarked, bleeding, infected.
This may not be my world, she thought, anger burning in her chest, but I’ll do as I promised Soren, and gladly.
But none of these miserable people was her father. This wasn’t where he was being kept. She’d seen it in Cobalt’s eye—the dark, cold room; all alone.
“It’s the princess!” someone called out. It was a woman, her hair shorn so that she was almost completely bald, who bore a terrible Dust scar all the way down one arm, from shoulder to fingertips. A rumble of fear, excitement, and anger passed through the prisoners, and Nalah cringed and looked back at the broken door behind her.
“Shh!” she hissed, raising both hands to her lips. “Please, be quiet. I’m here to help you!”
Several of the prisoners scoffed, and she even heard a few peals of bitter laughter. Nalah turned to the woman who’d seen her, who was eyeing her with distrust, but fascination.
“Listen, I’m not the princess, I’m an imposter. It’s too hard to explain now, but suffice it to say, Ironside sent me to get you out of here!”
At that, several more of the prisoners got to their feet, the adults shushing the children and each other.
“Why should we trust you? Anyone could say they were working for Ironside,” said a woman in another cage. “Perhaps she’s just here to manipulate us into telling her who he is.”
“Never heard of the princess doing anything like that,” said a youn
g man with a Dust scar on his neck that kept his head twisted at an awkward angle. “Ironside said she was naive, not cruel.”
“I say we listen to her,” said an old man with one eye. He was so thin, it was as if he’d worn away to almost nothing. “What choice do we have?”
Nalah breathed a sigh of relief—she hadn’t realized she might have to convince these people to let her rescue them! She hesitated before continuing—everything in her wanted to tell these people to wait, to run through the dungeons and find her father first. But as she looked at all of their hungry, haggard faces, Nalah knew that her father wouldn’t have wanted her to leave them in those cages a second longer. Not for him. Not for anything in the world.
“There’s a secret way out,” she said. “Get everybody up. You’ll have to climb a lot of stairs. Can you all do that?”
“Those who can’t will be carried,” said the bald woman firmly, flexing her shoulders. “We won’t leave anyone behind.”
“Good. Go out of this door. In the third alcove on the right, feel along the wall until you find a gap. There are stairs on the other side. Don’t go all the way to the top—wait where the archway is, Ironside will come for you there.”
She began to move along the line of cages, placing her hands on the metal bars and commanding the iron to melt away. The prisoners stared at her.
“Can’t be the princess,” said the old man. “Everyone knows she’s got no powers.”
“Who are you, girl?” the bald woman asked in amazement.
Nalah tried to ignore them. Despite the rebels’ awe of her powers, opening the prison bars was hard work, and she started to feel weak after she’d opened only three cages. It felt as if her blood was thinning. It became harder to remember her fear, her anger, any of the useful emotions that would normally make her heart pump hard enough to channel the magic.
