Sisters of Glass

by Naomi Cyprus

  Halan scanned the crowd as she followed her mother to the raised platform at one end of the hall. She was looking for one noble guest in particular. She found herself genuinely smiling as her gaze finally rested on the tight black curls and slightly protruding ears of a boy of sixteen. He was wearing a dark gray coat with no sleeves and a glinting silver sword, held at his side by a thin chain.

  Lord Soren Ferro. You don’t know it, but you’re about to skip ahead several moves in the intrigue game tonight.

  “Welcome, Lords and Ladies of the Magi Kingdom,” said the queen, opening her hands, bidding them all to raise their heads and look at her. “And thank you for gracing our palace with your company and extraordinary talents. It has been a pleasure to receive you. I hope you return to your noble houses all across the land . . .”

  As soon as possible, Halan thought.

  “. . . full of inspiration, with many new friends and trade agreements, and with wonderful stories to tell of our great city. Now, eat and be merry, and let the demonstrations begin. To the king’s health!”

  “The king’s health!” chorused the nobles.

  Queen Rani sank gracefully toward the floor and settled herself on a pile of gold-embroidered cushions. Halan followed her, more hesitantly—the ability to sit down without looking behind you was a queenly gift she had not mastered yet.

  The servants brought out trays of food and began setting them in front of the guests: cured meats, spice bread, steaming bowls of stew, saffron rice, and fresh green salads arranged to look like blossoming flowers.

  Some nobles moved to serve themselves, but others hurried toward the platform, clutching boxes and bags and strange-shaped objects wrapped in parchment. One woman was even dragging a small cart laden with a lumpy, canvas-covered object as tall as Halan.

  Halan ducked her head to hide her smirk as they all tried to look casual while getting ahead of their competitors in the line to approach the queen. Elbows were sneakily thrown into ribs; one lord took a shortcut around the back of a cushion circle and cut off at least three others; the woman with the cart ran over someone’s foot. It must be a myth that the nobles are more civilized than the peasants, Halan thought. I can’t imagine a more cutthroat bunch than this.

  When a civilized line had finally formed, Queen Rani nodded to Steward Osaya, who raised her voice over the hubbub of chattering nobles.

  “A demonstration by Lady Artaz, woodworker,” the steward declared, and stepped aside for a woman with gray hair that had been braided and woven into a high bun.

  “Your Majesty, Your Highness,” she said, bowing to Rani and Halan and holding out a wooden box. “I present to you the finest work of my family, a masterpiece of Thauma excellence.” Lady Artaz opened the lid. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a small wooden head appeared, pyramid ears flicking back and forth curiously. Carved black eyes blinked, and a little nose stuck out of the box as if sniffing the air. Lady Artaz reached in and placed the animated wooden kitten on the platform.

  Halan couldn’t help smiling as she reached out a hand and the kitten warily padded over to her, its paws tap-tap-tapping on the sandstone floor. It opened its mouth and let out a meow that sounded like creaking wood. Halan let it climb over her leg and into her lap, and petted the smooth carved place behind its ears.

  “Very nice, Lady Artaz,” said Queen Rani. The elderly woodworker’s creased brown face flushed with excitement at the compliment, and she bowed low again before she was ushered away.

  Steward Osaya scooped the kitten out of Halan’s lap. Halan let it go with a sigh, and caught Queen Rani giving her a wary but pleased nod.

  I know. I can’t accept any gifts, or I’ll have to accept them all. I know that.

  Still, she hoped the kitten would be kept somewhere it could be seen, not hidden away in the royal Thauma collections where nobody but her father ever went. A little creature like that would be good at keeping her company on lonely afternoons.

  After Lady Artaz, there was Lord Hosan the glassworker and his chandelier of glowing white lotus flowers. Then there was Lady Khora the metalworker, with a tiny box containing five iron nails that could hold a ton of weight each. Lord after lord and lady after lady approached the platform. They brought wooden bowls that filled themselves with figs, embroidered silks where birds flitted between the folds and sang sweet songs, magical glass eyes that could restore the sight of the old or injured. There were plenty of weapons, too. A metalworker brought out an evil-looking spiked ball on a chain that could be enchanted to swing at a chosen target. A woodworker brought sharp darts that would home in on anyone wearing a particular color.

  Another metalworker brought forward a silver circlet and placed it on the head of a trembling servant. The spice bread in Halan’s mouth seemed to lose its taste as she watched the lord touch the circlet, gently, and the servant cry out in unbearable pain and crumple to the floor, clutching at the metal around his head. The lord let his servant free at once, and the man got to his feet and gave her mother a shaky bow. But Halan still felt unsettled enough to slyly spit the spice bread into her cloth napkin. I know we must defend the Magi Kingdom against the rebels, she thought. But is such violence truly necessary? She wasn’t sure how her mother could keep the same polite interest on her face for the magical weapons as she could for Lord Drozani’s glass choir.

  “It’s just a shame that Lord Osha couldn’t aim his clever little darts by name, or have them sense thoughts,” said one of the lords, a man with a single eyebrow like a giant black caterpillar sleeping above his nose. He was standing close to Halan, just to the side of the platform, and didn’t seem to realize she could hear every word. “We wouldn’t have any trouble with rebels then.”

  “You’d have the king destroy any citizen who even thought of attacking us?” the lady at his elbow asked. To Halan’s dismay, she didn’t seem shocked—in fact, she laughed. “It’s an idea!”

  “Did you hear they attacked the Adulla family’s workshop? Or they tried to,” the lord scoffed. “What sort of idiotic rabble attempts to attack Thauma metalworkers?”

  “I heard the rebels had Wild Thauma weapons,” said the lady, pulling her purple shawl tighter around her shoulders, making the little bells on the ends of its tassels jingle. “I intend to tell the king as soon as he gets back, he must try harder to root out the Thaumas working with the rebels. If Ironside is able to make enough Wild weapons—”

  “I’m not convinced that Ironside even exists,” the lord said. “What is he? A traitorous noble? An upstart commoner with some Thauma heritage? Or maybe just a scary-sounding name on some inflammatory pamphlets.”

  Ironside, Halan thought. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard the name mentioned around the palace. Some nobles spoke of the mysterious rebel leader with scorn and derision, but others feared the specter of a Thauma secretly arming the angry rebellion. She’d even seen some of the servant children playing games together, one pretending to be the bloodthirsty Ironside, the others falling before his sword. Halan wondered how much of it all was gossip, and how much was true.

  “Well, the rebels must have someone with connections working with them,” the lady continued. “Where else would they get Wild Thauma weapons? Anyway, apparently they attacked the Adullas’ workshop because they believed that was where the king was making the Dust.”

  Halan shivered. She knew there were rebels outside the palace walls. A few dangerous malcontents who were determined to hurt the noble Thaumas, as her father had explained to her—mostly out of jealousy, because they had no powers of their own. Sometimes Halan would hear that there had been an attack or a riot, but the attackers were always repelled. The guards had Dust, and a pinch of the magical Thauma powder would knock out a large man instantly.

  Halan had heard about Ironside before, but not that Wild Thauma was finding its way into rebel hands. Lord Helavi had taught her that unlike regular Thauma objects, which have magic in them to restrict their use to other Thaumas, Wild Thauma could be used b
y anyone. That made it very valuable to the rebels, and very dangerous to the nobility. Hoping to eavesdrop a bit longer, Halan pretended she was staring out a window and craned her head toward the speakers.

  The lady shrugged theatrically, making her bells jingle again. “All I can say,” she said to her companion, “is that either someone has made a lot of Wild Thauma work very quickly, or someone has been removing the tethers from stolen work. Either way, it seems they have a Thauma with them. A talented one.”

  “Well,” said the lord, raising his glass to her, “long life and good health to the king, eh? I’m sure that once he roots out the traitor, he’ll make an example of him. King Tam runs a tight ship. He won’t allow this rebellion to go on much longer.”

  The two of them wandered off, still talking, but their words were lost to Halan as they moved farther away from the platform.

  She stared into space for a moment, her heart racing. Was this why her mother had been so scared for her? If the rebels who wanted to kill her father truly had a Thauma on their side, did that mean they’d soon be making weapons like the ones that had just been shown here? Halan’s stomach turned as she pictured the mysterious Ironside placing the torturous silver circlet on her father’s head. The world outside the palace suddenly seemed darker and more dangerous than she’d imagined.

  Am I making a mistake?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the first ringing notes of a simple melody played on a Thauma dulcimer. The musicians were warming up their instruments, which produced haunting, dreamlike sounds that no traditional, nonmagical instrument could produce. The drumbeat began: at first a gentle tapping, and then a more intricate rhythm.

  The servants were clearing away the food now, and several of the young guests rose, hand in hand, and headed for the area of mosaic floor that served for dancing. A singer stood there, dressed in simple black, with her arms, midriff, and feet bare, swaying in time to the music.

  The dancing began, and Halan took a deep breath. Dancing was for the commoners and the young nobles—an activity for royalty to witness, not participate in. It was too free, too uninhibited for a stately princess like Halan, who had her reputation to think of.

  At least, that’s what everyone had always told her.

  It’s time I took my life into my own hands.

  She stood up and stepped lightly down from the platform, without waiting for an escort or looking back at her mother. She could see the faces of the noble guests—jaws dropping, shocked glances being thrown—and the odd whispers being exchanged. They can’t believe I’m bold enough to do this. I can hardly believe it myself. Still, none of them tried to stop her.

  The guards fell in behind her, but she didn’t look at them, either. She headed right toward the side of the dance floor, where the dashing Soren Ferro was already standing with other young nobles. He bowed to a girl in a long, draping headscarf that covered half her face in sparkling blue lace, and he took her hand.

  Then he saw Halan coming.

  “Princess,” he said, and the other young nobles turned hurriedly and bowed to Halan.

  “Lord Soren, may I invite you to join me in a dance?” Halan said, forcing herself not to blurt it out, to take her time, as if she had only just thought of it and had not made a beeline right for him.

  “Oh!” Soren said, clearly surprised, before seeming to remember his manners. His face relaxed into its usual wry, charming expression. “Of course, Your Highness. I would be most honored.”

  Halan glanced at the girl in the blue scarf. Even with half of the girl’s face covered, Halan could clearly see the disappointment in her eyes. A dance with Soren Ferro was something many of the girls would have fought over—but this was the princess, after all. The girl immediately bowed her head and backed away.

  Well done, Halan thought. She had never heard of a royal princess dancing among the people, let alone asking the boy of her choice, but Soren was taking it remarkably well. That’s why I chose him. Soren was popular with everyone at the palace—the old liked him for his polite, kindly manner, and the young—particularly the young women—liked him for his wit and boyish charm. He was handsome but not overly so, and his light brown eyes, though friendly, held a cunning sharpness, like the eyes of a hawk on the hunt. He was exactly what Halan needed.

  As Soren linked his arm with hers and they stepped onto the dance floor, she saw him smiling at her. Halan felt her cheeks grow warm. It was almost as if they were truly friends, sharing some funny little secret. I guess this is what it would feel like to have friends outside the palace.

  Well, good. If he liked this, he would love what she was going to ask him next.

  “I’m afraid I don’t really know how to dance,” Halan said. “But I think I’ve seen you dance with every young person here, so I’m assuming you can show me.”

  “I’d be delighted,” said Soren, taking one of her hands in his. He spun her gently one way, and then the other, holding up his free hand as if he were balancing a plate on it. Halan tried not to trip over her skirt. She mostly succeeded. “I must say, Your Highness, I’m flattered—and impressed.”

  “That I decided to dance?” Halan grinned. “Or that I picked you?”

  Soren grinned back and spun her once again. “The former, of course. But I should have known you were feeling rebellious when you first walked in wearing that dress,” he said. Halan glanced over his bare brown shoulder at the platform where her mother was still sitting—and saw her covering her eyes with one hand.

  Well, Queen Rani might be embarrassed, but Halan wasn’t. She knew all the nobles were whispering, but for once she didn’t care. She was going to have her moment, and no one was going to take it from her.

  “It was made for me by Master Eshaq, from the north,” she told Soren.

  “It’s very modern. It suits you.”

  Halan blushed with pleasure. “You should know, my lord. You are always so well dressed. Do you buy your clothes in the city?”

  “Sometimes,” said Soren. “You’d be amazed what you can find in the bazaar—trinkets and baubles, mostly, but I enjoy them.”

  “I would love to see it,” she said. Slow down, don’t frighten him off now. She paused while she concentrated on turning a tricky step without falling over, and then lowered her voice. It was time to get to the point. “Soren, I need you to help me.”

  There was a small pause.

  “I’m trying,” Soren said wryly. “I can’t help it if you royals all have two left feet.”

  “I want to visit the bazaar,” Halan said, ignoring his joke. “You know that we nobles hardly ever get to have any fun—imagine how much worse it is for me! I’m basically a prisoner here. But I have a plan to get out for a little while and see the city. The thing is, I can’t do it without your help.”

  Soren’s face was impossible to read.

  “Your father says you’re not supposed to leave the palace,” he said finally. “He’d have my head if he found out I snuck you into town.”

  “My father is away, and I don’t intend to tell him.”

  “He has good reason to forbid you. It could be dangerous.”

  “It won’t be if you’re with me.”

  The tone of the music changed. The drums beat more softly, and the singer began a new phrase, something about moonlight in the desert. Halan was glad of the slower pace. She faced Soren, looking up into his eyes with what she hoped was an unshakably determined expression.

  “I will see the city for myself,” she said. “If you don’t take me, I’ll just have to ask someone else. Who would you recommend I trust with my safety?”

  Soren didn’t answer. His expression had turned deadly serious.

  “I’ve taken care of everything,” Halan went on. “I can get away. Please! All I need is a horse and a friend to show me around.”

  “Which one am I supposed to be?”

  Halan stared at the young man’s face, waiting for the real answer to come. Soren looked down at her, and smiled agai
n—but it wasn’t a sarcastic smile this time. “As you wish, Princess,” he whispered.

  Halan’s heart soared.

  It’s really happening.

  Her plan was working.

  I’m finally going to see the real world! For one night, I’ll be free.

  Chapter Five

  Nalah

  I have always striven, in my work, to make mirrors that do more than simply reflect life. Instead, I hope that when someone looks into my glass, they see a side of themselves—a side of life—that they have never seen before.

  Xerxes Bardak, World-Renowned Glassworker

  Nalah stood at the top of the stairs, swaying. She had already turned around on the spot seventeen or eighteen times, hung upside down from her bed with her head dangling, and lightly wet her forehead with rainwater from outside her window.

  She descended the stairs, with some genuine difficulty, and headed out to the workshop.

  “Papa?” she called weakly.

  “Good morning,” came her father’s voice. He was inside, taking jars off a shelf and writing something down in a ledger.

  Nalah’s heart sank. The jars contained his ingredients—the gems, sand, and silica that glassworkers were still allowed to keep in their workshops. He was taking stock for the last time, preparing to sell up and close the workshop.

  “I don’t feel well,” she said, and it was true. She needn’t have bothered with spinning and hanging upside down to make herself look ill—the sight of her father giving up his craft was sickening enough. “I don’t think I can go to the market today.”

  Her father put down his pen and looked over at her with concern. “Of course you can stay home, baba. I’ll go. I need to talk to Mr. Caron about giving up the stall, anyway.”

  Nalah hugged him tight and buried her face in the soft, worn cotton of his shirt.