by Naomi Cyprus
“How about a story?” Mr. Bardak asked. Nalah was probably too old for bedtime stories, but she wasn’t about to tell him that right now. Right now, she wanted to be taken far away from here, into a fairy tale. She nestled into the crook of her father’s arm, and he began.
“There once was a beautiful, faraway kingdom, where the power of the Thauma flowed freely and magic was in everything, from towers to teacups, from the bricks of the palace to the swords of soldiers. And there lived a king—King of the Magi—who had fought a long and punishing war. . . .”
Nalah smiled and closed her eyes. None of these awful things would happen in the Magi Kingdom. In that world, magic was respected and Thaumas were revered for their talents. Even wars could be ended by magic.
Too bad it was all just make-believe.
“And so it was,” her father said, “that on the darkest night of a long war, as swords enchanted with Thauma fire clashed before the palace gate, a man appeared before the King. And O, my daughter, what a strange man was this!”
Her father had read the story so many times, he didn’t need the book to quote it word for word.
“He had but one eye in his head,” Mr. Bardak went on, “and that eye was full of heavenly cloud; it was an eye that saw nothing but divine truth. Cyrus was his name, and he was the Prophet of the Sands. He had traveled far across the war-ravaged land to give a message to the King. . . .”
Nalah felt herself drifting off, while Cyrus’s message swirled around in her head. He had promised the king that there would be peace. But peace had come with a heavy price.
Tell me the price, she thought. I will pay it. Anything . . . if we could only live in peace. . . .
But how could they live in peace, when at any moment Nalah’s power could reveal itself and ruin everything?
Chapter Two
Halan
I have seen the future, and it is shattered.
They say that the weapon can unknit reality and forge a new kingdom, free from war. They do not know how close they are to the truth.
I go now to warn them, to stop them. I only pray they will listen.
If I fail, you may look for me in another world.
Cyrus, Prophet of the Sands
A warm breeze ruffled the feather of the calligraphy pen in Princess Halan’s hand. She paused in her work of copying out Thaumaturgic symbols from the book at her elbow and turned her face toward the window, glad of anything that disturbed the air in this stale, stuffy room.
Lord Helavi had long ago covered every wall in his study with shelves, and lined every shelf with books, and now books were stacked in teetering piles on the floor, and on his desk, and even on the windowsill. Still, between the spines of Thaumaturgtic Theory and A History of the Great Thauma Families, Halan could see down into the palace courtyard.
It was busy at this time of day, after the long, hot noon, when the sun was starting to sink toward the Sand Sea and there were shadows in the kingdom again. Guards in black scale mail stood by the walls, keeping in the shade. A man in green robes held a scroll and gestured widely as he directed carts across the yard. They were laden with goods from the city and from the farmlands beyond the Great Delta Lake. All of them places Halan had never seen.
When I’m queen, she thought, the calligraphy pen drooping in her hand, I’ll travel, just like Father does. When I’m queen, they won’t be able to stop me. I’ll see my whole kingdom—the lake and the mountains and the Sand Sea.
Halan’s gaze was drawn to the entrance of the stables. A boy and a girl were standing on either side of one of her father’s great black horses, washing the dust from its coat. The two stable hands were grubby and their clothes were patched and poor, but even they had the freedom to go beyond the palace walls.
Halan’s mother often said that the royal family had to make sacrifices for the kingdom, and for their own safety. Halan just wished they would let her make that choice for herself.
The horse neighed and tossed its mane, throwing droplets of clear water across the face of the boy. He recoiled with a shriek, and the girl stifled a fit of giggles in the sleeve of her sand-brown tunic. Then the boy carefully bent down and soaked his rag with water. Halan watched as the boy tossed it and hit the girl square on the top of her head. She squealed and threw the rag back, water splashing on them and the horse alike, both stable hands dissolving into laughter.
Halan’s smile widened, and then faded.
But who will come with you on your grand adventure, once you’re queen?
The stable hands might be poor, but they had their freedom, and they had each other.
Halan had servants, teachers, guards. Dozens of them. But friends?
For even just one true friend, Halan would give all the treasures of the kingdom.
A wet sensation on her wrist made her look down, and she realized that her pen had left an inky black smear across the parchment, changing the word “fire” into an illegible squiggle.
Halan didn’t bother trying to change it. Lord Helavi would know it was an accident—and even if he didn’t, it wasn’t as if he’d correct her, or even notice. He was still standing in front of his beloved chart of the Thaumaturgtic Wheel, intoning the lesson with all the charm of a croaking sandgull.
“As the Glassworkers’ glass flows like water, so their connection is to the element of water. And so the heat of the Metalworkers’ forge connects them to the fire of life. . . .”
And Fabricworkers with air, and Woodworkers with earth. I already know this, Lord Helavi. He wasn’t an old man, but he spent so much time studying arcane history that he didn’t seem to remember what had just happened in reality—like the fact that he’d taught the princess this same lesson several times already.
“No Thauma, no matter how powerful, can master the craft without many years of study and practice,” he went on, in his thin and reedy voice. Everything about him was thin, from his drooping mustache to his threadbare yellow robe. She found herself watching him with fascination.
When will he stop for breath?
“Thauma techniques are closely guarded by the great Thauma families, who both practice and restrict the teaching and use of their crafts. Untrained or unregulated Thauma activity can be very dangerous to the safety of the people and the stability of the kingdom, especially if it creates so-called Wild Thauma objects without any restriction on who can pick up and use them,” he said, and finally drew a breath.
Easily fifteen seconds. Perhaps twenty.
“The great families are, of course, the noble families of the Magi Kingdom. They are the chosen people whose inborn powers helped to raise the kingdom back to peace and prosperity after the war, making them the rightful rulers of the land. The commoners—all nonmagical folk—need the leadership of the Thauma. Without us, there would be anarchy in this land. Those of the royal line have always been born as powerful Thaumas.”
He paused and looked up, seeming to remember that Halan was in the room. His face flushed.
Halan almost felt sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault she was . . . defective.
He cleared his throat and continued, trying desperately to save face. “That is, the Tam family are Metalworkers and Fabricworkers, and the queen’s great-great-grandfather was something of a legendary Glassworker.”
I’ve definitely heard worse, Halan thought. Sometimes, when people found themselves talking about the royal family’s abilities around her, they got caught in a loop of stuttering, or asked to be excused on some urgent and obviously made-up business. Once, one of the younger guards actually ran away from her rather than finish a sentence that would have made reference to her powers. Or rather, her lack of powers.
Halan clenched her fists. She just wished that everybody would stop pretending. She knew what some of the nobles said behind her back: How could a princess without any magic ever be allowed to take the throne? No other child of Thauma parents had ever been born bereft of powers. It was unheard of. That is, until Halan came along.
Lucky me, Halan thought bitterly.
Out in the courtyard, a bell sounded. Halan glanced out the window and saw the guards in the shadow of the wall jolt to attention. Her heart began to beat faster. The changing of the guard—it’s time.
It was time to work the only magic that Halan knew. Strategy and manipulation.
If this is going to work, I’ve got to get moving, she thought. Sorry, Lord Helavi.
“What about the Fifth Clan?” she asked. She’d asked the same question several times before, and she knew exactly what her forgetful old teacher would say.
“Oh,” said Helavi, his hands gripping the wooden rod he had been using to point at the chart. “Yes, such a fascinating legend.”
“I heard there once was a Thauma line so powerful they could manipulate any material with just a touch,” Halan prompted. “Is it true?”
“Oh, no, certainly not,” Lord Helavi said firmly. “It is a tale much loved by the common people, but it is merely superstition. In all the histories, there is no proof there ever was such a clan.”
For a moment, Halan thought he was going to stop there, and she gritted her teeth, uncertain whether to push him. But then a faraway look came over Lord Helavi’s face, and Halan relaxed.
“Still,” he said, “I can understand why the people find the stories so compelling. How could the clan command such immense power? Where did they go, and why is there no trace of them? Imagine, Princess, having the ability to control many elements, not just to craft magical objects, but to manipulate almost any material by touch alone! For commoners without any powers at all, it must be—”
Halan seized upon the moment like a cat pouncing on an unsuspecting mouse. I’ve got you now!
She rose to her feet, glaring at her tutor and trying to make her lip wobble. “How dare you?” she cried. “Compare me to a commoner? Is that how you see me? A powerless commoner?”
The pointing rod in his hands snapped. “I-I-I apologize, Your Highness, most humbly!”
“I think I’ve had enough lessons for today,” Halan snapped. She saw the relief pass over his face, and then he bowed so low he almost banged his forehead on the desk in front of him before dashing from the room.
Halan walked to the door and looked out. Apart from the hem of Lord Helavi’s yellow robe vanishing around the corner, there was no sign of anybody in the passage. No guards. No escort.
She counted to ten before she allowed herself to smile.
It’s not easy, Halan thought with a touch of pride, moving around the royal palace unobserved—especially when it’s your own palace. But she could always count on Lord Helavi to stick his foot in his mouth when prompted, ending her lessons early and giving her time to explore. It was too risky to do it often, but sometimes Halan couldn’t help herself. Despite all her finery, despite the servants who waited on her hand and foot and the nobles who tripped over themselves to please her, she still felt like a bird in a cage.
A pretty cage. But still a cage.
Sometimes she needed to get away, even for just a few minutes.
There was no hope of disguising herself from the people who lived in the palace. They’d known her all her life. There was also no time to go back to her room and change out of her golden gown.
But there was a window—a small and precious sliver of time when the guards were changing their positions, her noble escorts were busy, and the dusty back stairs from the libraries to the laundry were deserted.
I would trade every jewel I own for a shadow cloak, she thought as she hurried down the stairs. But no, using Thauma objects was something beyond her, and always would be. And even though she had feigned offense when Lord Helavi spoke about the “powerless” commoners, even though she’d been hearing the whispers at her back her whole life, she’d be lying if she said it didn’t hurt.
Because it still did. Every time.
The cloud of soap-scented steam that escaped from the laundry as Halan opened the door blew the dark thoughts from her mind. The room was a cavern of sandstone, with a high-vaulted ceiling that collected and funneled the steam from six huge tubs, each swirling with hot water and fabric of a different color. At the side of each tub, four or five young servants with their hair covered in gray headscarves stirred the laundry with long wooden staffs.
Halan ducked inside and seized a plain cotton shawl from a wooden rack beside the back door, where it had been draped until it could be taken for drying. It felt damp across her shoulders, but it covered her gown so that she didn’t glimmer as she made her way around the edge of the room, toward the tub where the rising steam was tinted blue.
She slipped alongside the tallest of the servants, a girl a few years older than Halan. The girl had a smear of blue dye across the bridge of her nose. Halan leaned casually on the edge of the tub and grinned at her.
“Hi, Ester,” she said.
The tall girl turned, saw Halan, and almost dropped her wooden staff into the blue water.
“Princess!” she exclaimed. Halan winced and pulled the shawl more tightly around the neckline of her gown. “Sorry, Halan,” Ester whispered. “I just didn’t expect you. How did you get in here without being seen?”
“I have my ways,” Halan said, a little smugly.
She risked a look at the other servants, who were stirring and prodding the fabric in the tubs nearby. The only one who was paying them any attention was a young girl, perhaps seven years old, who was staring openmouthed at Halan. Halan raised a finger to her lips. The girl’s mouth shut abruptly, and she went back to stirring as if her life depended on it.
“Anyway,” Halan went on, “you haven’t been on duty upstairs for so long! I thought I’d come and see you instead.”
Ester smiled and tucked a stray curl of hair back inside her headscarf. “Are you going to get in trouble?”
“Only if somebody finds out where I went, and I’m not going to tell them.” Halan shrugged.
“You’re terrible,” Ester joked, shaking her head. “Such unseemly behavior, consorting with the commoners!”
Halan smiled. Ester was the only one of the servants brave enough to talk and joke with their princess. Halan worked hard to seem breezy and casual around Ester, to put the laundry girl at ease. But in reality, every time Halan came here, she wanted to spend hours talking, talking, talking, until her throat was raw. The truth was, Ester was the closest thing to a real friend Halan had. But Halan knew that she and Ester could never truly be friends outside the laundry.
Halan leaned over the edge of the tub and watched a pair of loose indigo silk pants circling the whirling pool. “They won’t let me visit the city, but they can’t stop me talking to who I like in my own palace! Let’s just pretend that I’m nobody, all right?”
“If you were nobody, you’d have to grab a staff and do some work,” Ester teased, prodding the pants as they swirled past. “How are all our noble visitors getting along? Have they eaten every last plum in the palace larder yet?”
“I think my mother might be going a little crazy trying to keep them busy,” Halan said. “You should see the way some of the country lords behave. They’re always showing off, trying to prove they’re richer and more powerful than the others.”
“I know,” Ester said darkly. “Believe me, you haven’t seen the worst of it.”
Halan flushed and drew the shawl tighter around her shoulders again. “Anyway, palace gossip is always the same: someone’s marrying someone for their Thauma armory, someone’s plotting revenge for being insulted at dinner. It’s like a game. Everyone’s always planning three moves ahead. I want to know something real. Like, what’s going on with you and Armsman Lajani?”
Halan grinned and waggled her eyebrows at Ester, but the tall girl sighed.
“Very little is going on with me and Pedram, if you must know. The captains keep the guards so busy. I’m starting to worry he’ll take up with one of the girls in his legion just to have a girlfriend he actually gets to see!” She laughed, but Halan could
see the worry in her face.
Halan hesitated, running her fingers along the damp edge of the tub, making the warm blue water dribble down the sides. Halan had an idea. She felt a little bad, because she didn’t want to manipulate her only friend, but she was desperate.
Then, trying to look as though the thought had just occurred to her, she asked, “Why not simply go to him while he’s working and steal him away? It’d be so romantic! I bet Pedram would love that. Oh!” Halan said, “I know. The grand feast is tomorrow, and two days after that all the nobles will finally leave. Everything will be so much more relaxed when they’re gone, I bet you and Pedram can just slip away somewhere that night and nobody will even notice.”
She held her breath, staring into the water. Ester didn’t say anything for a moment.
Halan’s stomach felt heavy with guilt. She hated to use her friend this way, but being trapped in the palace was driving her crazy. She had to get out, even for a little while, and this was the only way she could think of to do it. Besides, she was helping Ester and Pedram get together, so it wasn’t that selfish . . . was it?
“Do you really think it would be all right?” Ester said under her breath.
Halan tried not to sigh with relief. “Definitely,” she said. “Trust me. I’ve snuck around these halls long enough to know.”
Ester stared into the water a minute longer, and then a big, pretty grin spread over her face.
“I’ll do it!” she said. The next thing Halan knew, Ester’s arms were around her shoulders and the laundry girl was hugging her tight. Halan stiffened, despite herself, not quite sure how to respond. Ester pulled away. “Oh, sorry, Your Highness.”
“No, it’s—it’s nice!” Halan said, feeling her cheeks turn hot. Awkwardly, she leaned in and Ester hugged her again, squeezing tight for a second before letting go. It was nice, but unwanted tears sprang to Halan’s eyes, anyway. The hug only served to remind her how rare it was for her to feel close to someone, which made her feel even guiltier. “I—I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I have to go.”
Dashing the tears from her eyes, Halan slipped out through the back door to the laundry, and up the dusty stairs. She was in such a rush that she walked right into the black, steel-scale armor of a palace guard.