Sisters of Glass

by Naomi Cyprus

  Halan resisted the urge to feel sorry for her mother, for whatever pain she was enduring. Not tonight, Halan told herself. Tonight is all about me.

  As usual, Rani stayed a few minutes, looking at Halan. Then she turned and left, closing the door behind her.

  Halan counted to a hundred, slowly.

  Then she grinned.

  She threw back the blankets and slid out of bed, adjusting the clothes she’d gone to bed in: loose black tunic and pants, leather breastplate, and black sandals. The breastplate was a little bulky, but she figured she should wear it just in case she ran into any trouble. She dug into her bedclothes to find the hooded cloak, and fastened it around her neck. It had all been “borrowed” from the laundry, over the last few months. She had been planning this for so long, and now she was actually doing it.

  She went to the door and opened it carefully, looking left and right to make sure she wasn’t seen. But there were no guards on these rooms at night—the Thauma door at the bottom of the stairs would only admit the royal family and a few approved servants.

  That was what made the plan so perfect.

  Still, she shouldn’t allow herself to get too careless. If she was caught, her parents would probably set a guard right outside her bedroom for the rest of her life.

  She hurried down the hall, holding her breath and stepping lightly as she passed the queen’s chambers. Her mother would probably still be awake, but Halan couldn’t hear anything stirring behind the ornate green-painted door. She kept half an eye on the door as she carried on down the silent corridor.

  “Halan?”

  Halan’s heart leaped into her throat.

  No! her mind screamed at her. I’ve been planning this for so long! No one is supposed to be here! Trying to keep her face relaxed, she turned to face the person who had spoken. He was coming around the corner, a tall, graceful shape in billowing red robes.

  “Father!” Halan said. It truly was a joy to see him again. She only wished he hadn’t come back tonight. She pasted a smile on her face and subtly drew the cloak closed over the leather breastplate. “You’re home!”

  “My darling!” said the king, his face breaking into a sunny smile. He opened his arms wide. Halan barely hesitated for a split second before she rushed to him. He hugged her tight, then looked down at her with his eyebrows raised. “What on earth are you wearing?”

  Halan swallowed and tried not to panic; she could feel her heart stuttering in her throat.

  “Such darkness,” her father went on. “Why all this black? You hardly look like a royal princess at all!”

  Halan took a deep breath. “I don’t know.” She shrugged, as if the cloak was something she’d just found at the back of her wardrobe instead of having stolen it from the laundry. “It was so dreary here when you were away. I wanted my clothes to match my mood.” Halan held her breath as she waited to see if her father would swallow the lie.

  The king’s expression melted and he placed a hand on Halan’s cheek.

  Thank goodness.

  “You’re a sweet child, Halan. Tomorrow, you can put on your most sparkling golden robes—in fact, I insist. My business abroad is finished, and everything is going to be all right from now on. No more rebels and criminals in our city. No more war. The Magi Kingdom will be a paradise, my dear.” He paused, thoughtful. “At least, I hope to make it so.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Halan said, a genuine smile pushing aside the fake one. Her father was such a dreamer, always talking about how he was going to improve the kingdom. She was sure that whatever had him so excited, it was going to be wonderful.

  “In fact,” her father said, taking Halan’s hand in his, “in a few days I will have a surprise for you. A gift. Something you have always wanted.”

  Halan looked into his eyes. They seemed different, somehow. There was a fire in them that she’d never seen before. “You really did do something great, didn’t you?”

  If he had found some way of ridding the city of crime, of making peace with the rebels, then perhaps he would finally allow her to leave the palace. Her father was always promising that one day she would be able to travel as much as she liked, without any fear of being attacked. Could it be that he would actually keep his word?

  Maybe, but I can’t wait around for that.

  King Asa lifted his finger theatrically to his lips. “All will be revealed soon. Now, I must get to bed. I’ve traveled a very, very long way. You should get some sleep too—you’ll need your energy in the next few days.”

  “I will. I just want to get a breath of air.”

  He nodded and headed down the corridor toward his own rooms.

  Halan walked around the corner and immediately stopped, catching her breath.

  That was too close.

  She loved her father, and she wished she hadn’t needed to lie to him. But he would never in a million years have allowed her to do this, and she needed to do this. If only for a little while, if only this once. She had to prove that she could take care of herself out there in the real world. Not to anyone else—but to herself.

  She ducked through a door and into a room filled with strange, bulky, looming shapes: the room where the servants stored furniture and decorations that weren’t on display.

  The door closed behind her, and she was plunged into utter darkness. A creaking noise came from the murk, and a tinny metallic voice began to sing. Halan froze, until she realized it was only an enchanted music box, activated when it sensed a presence in the room. Steeling herself, she continued picking her way through the crowded room.

  Finally she came to the tapestry hanging on the far wall. Making sure there was no one else about, she pulled the tapestry aside, revealing a narrow, dark tunnel hidden behind it. She felt cool air on her face, and carefully made her way into the secret passage.

  “Thank you, Lord Helavi,” she muttered, “for one lesson that actually turned out to be useful.” When she’d expressed an interest in the architecture of the palace, he’d been only too happy to bring her every book and scroll he had on the subject. She’d had to sit through a lecture on sandstone and seem interested the whole time, but it had been a small price to pay. Some of the secret passages were common knowledge, but others were only hinted at in cryptic clues left by historians. Halan had put her mind to deciphering them.

  It took a while, but she’d done it.

  The passage sloped steeply downward and smelled of old stone. It felt a little damp, but the floor seemed to be clear as she walked through the dark, keeping her hand on the stones of the wall to her right. A little way down she heard a squeak from the darkness and suppressed a shriek, but carried on. So what if there are rats?

  Halan had never actually seen a rat, but she’d heard about them from Ester. Huge, scurrying things with sharp, biting teeth. Her hand along the wall started to tremble.

  “I’ll have you know, I am your princess,” she said into the gloom. “Out of my way.”

  It probably made no difference to the vermin, but it made her feel better, anyway.

  Suddenly the passage leveled out and started to grow a little lighter. She could see her way now, though she couldn’t work out where the light was coming from until she reached a place where a small hole had been made in the roof. This had to be right under one of the courtyards, because moonlight poured in, and it hit a series of mirrors set into the walls, bouncing the dim, gray light around the passage.

  At last, she came to a short flight of steps leading up to an ancient trapdoor. Taking a steadying breath, she climbed the steps, braced her shoulder against the trapdoor, and pushed.

  The moonlight outside was as bright as a Thauma lamp after the dim tunnel. Halan blinked and peered around, trying to get her bearings as she climbed out. She was alone, right at the edge of the lush, cultivated palace gardens, sheltered from sight by tall palm trees. In front of her there was a clear view down to the city.

  She sighed. It seemed so much closer than from her tower window. She
could see fires twinkling; torches moving between the low, pale houses; bright lights in the city squares. She couldn’t wait to see it all even closer.

  “Your Highness,” said Soren’s voice. Halan turned, and found him waiting on a nearby path, the reins of a beautiful gray stallion held in one hand. Behind him there was a guard post. It was empty and dark. Halan imagined that Ester and the guard she fancied were snuggling somewhere together in the dark, just as she’d planned them to be.

  Soren bowed to her. “Your adventure awaits, my lady,” he said.

  Halan couldn’t hold back a huge smile.

  She and Soren rode down the road to the city together—Halan, in front of the young lord, holding on to the horse’s saddle. To her left, the great darkness of the Sand Sea seemed to swallow even the moonlight, but as they descended the hill the sea itself was hidden from view by houses, workshops, warehouses, and tall, sand-battered acacia trees.

  The city was alive with activity, even at this late hour. Men and women strolled through the streets, laughing or talking or arguing with each other; others wheeled carts or worked on the houses. It made sense, Halan reasoned. It was better to do such heavy work through the cool night rather than struggle through the blazing sun.

  They passed a few citizens on horses or in carts, but most of the people were on foot. There were even some children still out playing in the streets, urchins who huddled in little groups over games of marbles or chased each other in and out of alleyways.

  She could hear music—a little like the music for dances at the palace, but much louder, much more raucous. She found herself tapping on the saddle in time to the beat. Behind her, a chuckle resonated in Soren’s chest.

  “We should leave Balthazar here and go on by foot,” he said, and dismounted in one smooth movement. He tied Balthazar’s reins to a post beside another horse, which was black and scrawny. The two horses sniffed each other curiously as Soren helped Halan down from the saddle.

  Halan let the hood of her cloak fall down onto her shoulders, eager to take all of it in. It wasn’t as if any of the citizens would recognize her—she rather doubted that even the guards who patrolled the city would know her face in a crowd. She let Soren lead her down a side street, looking up in wonder at the washing strung between the roofs to dry, the colored fabric blowing in the soft night breeze.

  They emerged into a square filled with people and smells and noise. Halan felt her jaw drop and tried to contain her excitement, but she couldn’t help turning to Soren, her hands clasped to her chest.

  “A bazaar!” she whispered. “This is amazing! I want to look at everything!”

  Soren laughed again, and took her hand. They walked into the crowd, ducking and weaving to make their way from one stall to another. Halan took a deep sniff of the scent wafting from a cart that sold spiced meat on skewers, each slice glazed in a different bright color. She saw a man take a big bite out of the meat and choke on the fiery taste, laughing even as his eyes started to water. Beside that was a stall where fabrics in every color and texture lay in giant rolls, and next to that was a stall full of wooden and metal jugs, and then one full of sticky-looking pastries. A woman bought a tray of bright orange sugar twists and walked away, sucking on her fingers. Halan and Soren passed by metal braziers burning wood that gave off flickering, rainbow-colored flames and the distinctive smell of Thauma smoke.

  Just as Halan was taking it all in, two shabbily dressed men wove drunkenly past, yelling at each other, though she had no idea what about. Their anger struck a dissonant chord that was at odds with the otherwise cheerful atmosphere in the bazaar. Halan was relieved when they disappeared into the crowd, allowing her own cheer to return.

  “There are so many things to see,” Halan said. “What’s that?” She pointed to a table where a strange, crude metal statue of a man sat on a chair.

  Soren looked where she was pointing. “That’s an automaton,” he said. “A Thauma machine that plays games of chance if you drop a coin into its palm. They say you can win your money back, but not really. The games are rigged,” he added under his breath.

  Halan frowned. “But that’s not fair.”

  Soren laughed again. “Out here in the real world, you’ll find that ‘fair’ is . . . relative.”

  Halan nodded and walked on, though she cast a glance back at the automaton and frowned harder as she saw an elderly man, his clothes ripped and dirty, settle into the seat opposite the statue and drop a coin into its hand. Didn’t he know that he probably wouldn’t get his money back? Somebody ought to warn him.

  “Lady, look out!” Soren put an arm around Halan’s shoulders and pulled her aside. She tripped over the slightly overlong ends of her trousers as she tried to duck out of the way of something that flew over their heads and crashed to the ground behind them. It was a glass bottle. In front of them, a woman laughed, her mouth wide enough that Halan could see she only had two teeth. Soren helped Halan get her balance and quickly led her away.

  Halan walked on, shaken. Underneath the party atmosphere in the bazaar, she was beginning to sense a thin layer of tension—a mixture of anger and sadness that she hadn’t expected. It’s okay, she assured herself. You’re just not used to seeing regular people outside the palace. Here they don’t have to cover up their emotions like the nobles do. This is probably totally normal. She tried to relax and enjoy herself.

  They went over to a stall where a big lady in a Thauma cloak that shifted colors as she moved was playing the dulcimer, and a strange-looking boy with bright red hair was making a whole chorus of wooden puppets dance and sing along with the music. Halan clapped her hands, forgetting the poor old man and the toothless woman as she tapped her feet.

  She grinned at Soren, and squeezed his arm.

  “Is it everything you hoped for, my lady?” Soren asked her. His face seemed strangely serious, as if he was deeply pondering the question.

  “Yes,” Halan said. “It’s wonderful. It’s so . . . real.” She breathed in, the scents of food and smoke and dirt and sweat all mingling together. She saw smiling faces in the crowd, but she saw other things, too, things others might easily have missed. A gaunt, hollow-eyed woman crumpled in a corner, ignored. A young girl, thin as a rail, stealing a handful of figs from a cart while no one was looking. A large, muscled man, gripping a scimitar at his side, his eyes scanning the crowd.

  Soren squeezed her arm, dragging her attention away from the sights before her. “I’m glad you like it. And the night is still young. I promise you, by dawn you will have seen enough of this city to last you a lifetime.”

  Halan nodded and smiled, trying to ignore the annoying little voice in her head. It had started whispering to her just moments ago, repeating a single sentence over and over again. Words she desperately didn’t want to hear.

  You shouldn’t have come.

  Chapter Seven

  Nalah

  A famous sculptor once said: “We Thaumas do not take raw materials and change them into a magical object. The object was there all along, waiting to be set free. We simply open the door.”

  Xerxes Bardak, Wonderworkers: A History

  What have I done?

  It was a constant refrain, repeating over and over in Nalah’s head as she stared at the mirror that had swallowed up the only person who truly loved her.

  “Father!” Nalah yelled, louder and louder, not caring who might hear. “Father, I’m sorry! Please, tell me what to do!”

  But the Transcendent Mirror showed her nothing but her own reflection.

  Nalah raised a fist at herself, rage and hatred rising up like a full moon tide. She hated Tam, she hated the mirror, and she hated the girl in the mirror for thinking she knew what she was doing, for ignoring Great-Grandpa Xerxes’s warnings, for putting her father in danger.

  How could I be so stupid?

  Her heart thumped, and as she glared into the sparkling rainbow-sheened glass, she thought that she saw the sparks in the glass gathering around her hand.

/>   Nalah exhaled and stepped back. She forced herself to lower her fist, and the effect faded. Her heart slowed.

  She couldn’t risk breaking the mirror. It was the only means of getting her father back.

  Find a way to open the door, Tam had said.

  “Tam tried to grab me,” Nalah breathed. “Wanted to hurt me, it seemed. But why? Why take Papa? Just to get me to follow? Is it a trap?”

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, except getting her father back.

  “Hold on, Papa, I’m coming,” she whispered.

  What had Tam written on the mirror, before it opened? What were the words he’d been chanting? Nalah wanted to kick herself for not paying more attention. She almost raised a finger to try to mimic his movements, then froze.

  This is Transcendent Glass. If I draw the wrong symbol, say the wrong words . . . What was it Great-Grandpa Xerxes said about unknitting reality itself?

  Nalah spun on her heel and lunged at the worktop. The copy of Technical and Magical Aspects of Thauma Glasswork was still there, in its unassuming red leather cover. She turned to the page on Transcendent Glass and read it twice.

  But there was nothing about doors. Nothing about people stepping into the glass or using it to travel—just that warning about not looking too long or hard into what lies beyond our reality. Nalah tried not to think about what would happen to someone if they actually went through it.

  “Come on, Great-Grandpa. Help me.” She flicked through the book again, more and more desperately, reading every word of every recipe until she had “sillimanite” and “heliothyst” dancing in front of her eyes.

  With sweating palms and shallow breaths, Nalah pulled down every book from her father’s small collection on glasswork and scanned every page—but there was no hope in her heart. These were just recipes for harmless charms and luck magics; it was no surprise that they didn’t hold the secrets of the universe.

  Still, there was a strange little glimmer of hope. The more Tam’s last words echoed in Nalah’s head, the more she felt it.

  He wanted her to follow him, so he must think that she could find the way.