by Naomi Cyprus
“Will we be there soon?” Halan asked.
“It’s not much farther,” said Soren.
“It’s so quiet,” Halan said, feeling compelled to whisper as Soren led her through a courtyard where a dried-up fountain stood, full of sand and a few persistent weeds. “Doesn’t anybody in the city walk around at night? The palace is always busy, even in the small hours of the morning.”
“It’s after curfew,” said Soren.
“Curfew?” Halan asked, frowning haughtily to cover her annoyance that she didn’t already know.
“It’s a rule that states that no citizens can be on the streets after half past eleven or before five in the morning. Your father made that rule to impose order.” He said the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “He was afraid that if the people could meet and organize in the dark, they might rise up against him. Anyone caught out on the streets after curfew is thrown in the dungeons. Some are never seen again.” Soren looked at her, his handsome face made leaner and more serious by the shadows. “Did you know that, Princess?”
“That can’t be right,” Halan retorted. “Just for being outside?” It didn’t sound like the father she knew. More like the rebel propaganda she’d heard the nobles complaining about. “You sound like that Ironside! With his lies and exaggerations. It’s ridiculous, every word of it.” She tried to laugh, but it came out as a nervous cough. “Aren’t you afraid to be out at night, if it’s so dangerous? If we’re caught, won’t we be clapped in irons?” She was trying to lighten the mood, to go back to their teasing tone, but it sounded hollow to her ears.
Soren laughed, but it was a long way from his normal, carefree chuckle. There was something dark and thorny in it.
Halan turned to look at him, but he was looking at something ahead in the dark. Why is he acting this way? “Where are we going, anyway?”
“Just down here,” said Soren. He turned down another street—though this was more of an alley. The ground wasn’t neatly laid with flagstones, it was just packed sand. The buildings here were low, rough, without glass or even shutters in the windows. There were no Thauma lamps here—merely candles that flickered in the breeze. Halan shivered, suddenly feeling the cold desert air creeping under her cloak. How poor would one have to be to live in a home like this?
She suppressed a gasp as they drew level with a doorway and what she had thought was a pile of black cloth suddenly stirred and turned toward them.
“Careful, lady,” croaked an elderly voice. “It’s far too late for a young girl like you to be outside.”
The woman wrapped in the cloth looked up at Halan, and Halan struggled not to recoil. The woman’s face was almost completely covered in puckered scars. One eye was white and crusted with a drying yellow substance. Her lips didn’t align; they’d been twisted out of shape by whatever had done this to her face.
Halan looked down and saw that there was a bowl at the woman’s feet, with a single copper coin at the bottom. How could this woman be living in such squalor in her beautiful kingdom? Halan felt dizzy and confused.
She fished in the pocket of her tunic and pulled out a handful of silvers, each one worth a hundred of the copper. She dropped all of them into the woman’s bowl.
The woman’s one good eye went wide. “My lady!” she breathed. “You are very generous.”
“Will it help you?” asked Halan.
“Very much,” said the woman quietly.
Halan nodded. She took Soren’s arm and hurried away, feeling self-conscious. When they were out of earshot, she looked up at him. “That poor woman. What could have happened to her face?”
“She was burned by the Dust,” said Soren. “The scars are unmistakable.”
Halan felt her stomach twist. The Dust? But everyone in the palace always praised the Dust, how it was such an effective tool against criminals. Halan had never really stopped to think about how it worked. “The Dust is only used on violent criminals,” Halan said, trying to sound confident. “That woman . . . she must have been rioting! I feel a little sorry for her, but she must have brought it on herself.”
“Do you think my father brought it on himself?” Soren asked. His tone was so light that Halan almost didn’t understand his question, and she let out a nervous chuckle.
“What? Your father?” Suddenly Halan remembered. Last year, Lord Ferro, Soren’s father, had been killed when he tried to stop a mob from attacking the city grain stores. They’d been plotting to poison the palace’s food supply. David Ferro had been hailed as a hero for giving his life to protect the king. She remembered sitting by her father’s side as he received Soren’s pledge of allegiance to the throne as the new Lord Ferro.
What did any of that have to do with Dust?
Soren looked down at her, his tone still eerily casual. “Dust is Thauma metalwork. Quite brilliant, actually. Bits of iron ground to powder and magically heated, so that it burns any skin it comes into contact with. It is, as you say, used on rioters. But any guard, patrolling the city with a pocket full of Dust, is free to use it whenever he or she sees fit.”
Halan’s frown deepened. She knew what he was trying to say, but she couldn’t believe it. The guards were good men and women; they were only trying to protect the kingdom, protect her.
“Well, they wouldn’t use it if they weren’t afraid for their lives,” she said, as firmly as she could. “If the rebels weren’t using Wild Thauma and working with traitors like Ironside, the guards wouldn’t need the Dust!” She watched his face, hoping that the nobles at the banquet had been right. He nodded, and she allowed herself to feel slightly smug. See, I do know some things that are going on in this city.
“That’s very true, they only use Dust when they feel threatened. But it seems that all sorts of things make guards feel threatened. Poor people. Crowds. Loud noises. Being questioned in any way.” He counted them off on his fingers.
Halan wanted to tell him to stop, that these must be lies, but something made her keep quiet. Soren’s voice was still light—he could have been talking about a new play he’d just seen—but something else simmered just beneath the surface. Something dangerous.
“Not many of the Thauma nobles in this kingdom care how their weapons are really used to oppress people,” Soren continued. “But my father did. He resisted, passively at first, refusing to let the king manufacture his Dust in our family’s workshops. But when he came across a guard about to mutilate an innocent man at the grain store—”
“Innocent?” Halan interrupted, shocked out of her silence. Her voice seemed to echo around the empty street, and she took a deep breath and lowered her voice before she went on. “They were poisoning the grain store!”
“They were starving,” said Soren, as if it was as obvious as the sun being hot or the Sand Sea being wide. “They went to the warehouses to ask to be allowed to work, to earn enough for a few loaves of bread. There weren’t a hundred of them, and they weren’t armed. It was twenty desperate people asking for food. People who stood peacefully at the door and wouldn’t leave until their voices were heard. They were no threat at all to a company of the king’s guards. But the guards felt threatened, so out came the Dust.” He paused, looking up at the bright stars. “My father shouldn’t even have been there. He just happened to be passing by. He saw that one guard was about to attack a man with Dust, and he stood in the way. The guard struck him down.”
Halan, stumbling in her shock, stopped walking. “Soren, that’s terrible, but . . . are you sure this is true?”
A look of intense grief twisted Soren’s features for just a moment—then was gone, replaced once more by that maddeningly calm smile. “I’m quite sure, Princess. One of the ‘mob’ told me. She came to me and told me my father was a true hero.”
“And you believed her?” Halan asked. Soren listened to commoners above her own father, the king?
“Her name was Neema Sadeghi. Do you recognize the name?”
The name did ring a bell—something mentioned
once in one of Lord Helavi’s lessons, but Halan was too upset to think of it further. Her hands closed into fists, anger rising. How dare he lead her all the way out here to tell lies about the guards and slander her father’s good name? Did he forget who he was talking to? “And what if it does?” she asked. “I’m the princess. What has she to do with me?”
“The Sadeghi family used to be one of the greatest Thauma fabricworker families in the kingdom,” Soren answered, his own anger rising to meet hers. “They were a good, proud family. But they became enemies of the king’s father for speaking out against his treatment of nonmagical folk. They were forbidden to work. They lost everything. Their daughter Neema was reduced to begging for work at the grain store that day while the king’s court feasted and complained about the heat.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “So, yes, my dear Princess, I believed her.”
Halan, unsure of what to believe, squinted at the young noble. “If this is so, then I have no idea why you’ve kept this information to yourself—or why you’ve brought me all the way out here to tell me! We’ll return to the palace this instant and tell my father as soon as the sun rises. If the guards truly are abusing their power, he will know what to do about it.”
She turned back the way they’d come, but then stumbled to a halt, her heart pounding.
The street wasn’t empty anymore. A row of figures dressed in black stood silently across the road, blocking her way. Their faces were in shadow, but the starlight glinted off shards of metal—small, jagged lightning bolts through each one’s ears.
Halan’s blood turned to ice in her veins. She looked back at Soren, suddenly afraid of what she would see.
She’d chosen Soren to help her because of the cunning she sensed hidden in his charming, friendly manner. She thought he’d only been hiding a sense of mischief—something they had in common. But looking at him now, she could see it was much more than that. He seemed much taller than she remembered. And the shadows that the moon cast across his face made him look older, too.
The boy she knew was gone. All that was left was the hunter.
Halan’s heart leaped into her throat. What is happening? Who are these people? Why is Soren doing this? But as sheltered as she had been, she knew this wasn’t the time to ask questions.
It was time to run.
She dashed back the way they’d come, flying through the dark. The gate at the end of the street was padlocked shut. She rattled the cold metal bars, whimpering, a prisoner in her own kingdom. She darted from one door to the next, tugging and pounding and screaming out loud into the silent street.
But there was no way out.
That was why Soren had brought her here.
The line of figures watched her, unmoving. After trying every door, Halan let out a breath and tried to calm her racing heart. She was trapped.
Throwing back her shoulders, she assumed the bearing of a princess and turned slowly to face Soren.
“I command you to return me to the palace immediately,” she said, gritting her teeth.
“But your people wish to spend some time with you, Your Highness,” Soren replied, his face a deadpan mask of respect. “People who are working toward bettering this kingdom of yours.”
“Rebels,” Halan whispered to herself. “And what about you, Soren? What’s your role in all of this?”
“Me?” Soren asked, almost coyly. “I am doing this because these people need a champion. Someone to get them the justice they deserve. And after what happened to my father . . . let’s just say that I was more than willing to assist. When you asked me for that dance the other day, you delivered yourself into the service of your people too, Princess. And for that I must thank you. It was quite generous of you to walk into our hands so willingly.”
A chill ran along Halan’s spine as the pieces fell into place. “You’re him—the noble that’s been working with the rebels. You’re Ironside!”
Soren executed a crisp bow. “One and the same, my lady. I’m sorry that I had to lie to you tonight. But mice don’t usually scurry into their traps without a little cheese.”
Halan had the horrifying thought that her mother had been right—the world outside the palace was dangerous. In ways Halan hadn’t even imagined. Halan’s cheeks burned with shame.
She had been trying so hard to show she wasn’t the naive, useless princess people thought she was.
But I guess they were right about me all along.
Halan pushed those punishing thoughts aside—she could wallow in self-pity later. Right now, she needed to get herself out of this mess. “Holding me against my will is an act of treason,” Halan said, but even she could hear her voice quavering. “The consequences will be on your own heads! It’s not too late to let me go. My father will be merciful if you do.”
“Thank you for the warning,” said Soren quietly. “But I must decline. I’m glad you were sick of the palace, my lady, because you won’t be going back anytime soon.”
Halan’s scream was swallowed up by the night as the rebels closed in, her mother’s words echoing in her head.
Without power, you’re defenseless.
Part Two
Into the Mirror
Chapter Nine
Nalah
When the Thauma War ended, the chaos began.
A year of storms, of fire, of death. A year of famine and drought. The waters boiled and shrank away from the city. The Sand Sea was left behind, its dunes littered with dead and dying fishes, and the hulls of sunken ships.
Those who had power discovered that they were stronger than they ever knew. They used their talents to keep themselves and their families safe, until the quakes and gales that battered the land ceased.
Then the first of the deep wells were sunk, deeper and deeper, until water was found that didn’t ebb away. Roads were cleared. Houses rebuilt. We learned what would grow, and what would not, and traveled to the Delta Lake to establish new farmlands there.
We Thauma took control of our fate, and through our guidance led the common folk who had survived back to civilization. And slowly and painfully the Magi Kingdom rose from the ashes of the old world.
Prince Nestor Tam, The History of the Magi Kingdom
Nalah felt as if she were staring directly into the sun. She wanted to raise her hand and shield her eyes from the blinding golden light, but for a moment after she stepped through the mirror, it felt like she didn’t have hands—or any physical body at all. She felt herself hanging, suspended in an in-between place, wonderstruck and trembling with fear.
Then she fell forward, and her very real body struck a solid stone floor, face-first. She groaned, and then quickly rolled out of the way as Marcus tumbled after her, landing just where she’d been.
Nalah sat up slowly, blinking. She was in a dim room, surrounded by soft, flickering light.
“Ugh,” Marcus groaned. “I shouldn’t have eaten those kebabs right before we left. I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Not on me, you’re not,” Nalah said, shifting away from him. She got to her feet and scanned her surroundings. “Where are we?”
They were in a cavernous chamber lit only by burning candles in iron candelabra. A Transcendent Mirror stood behind her, glimmering in the shifting light. The incantation must have made a passageway between her mirror and this one. All around her there were shelves, many, many shelves, most of them filled with books. The stone floor and walls were covered in beautifully woven rugs and tapestries. A large desk, covered in papers, sat under a window. Various objects stood on pedestals around the room—probably Thauma artifacts. It felt like Zachary Tam’s study, except . . . different. There was something strange about it that Nalah couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was old-fashioned, somehow, like a room stuck in time.
“Looks like a library,” Marcus said, still clutching his stomach.
Nalah nodded. It was so quiet, she hardly dared to speak and disturb the still air. In New Hadar, even in the small hours of the morning, you couldn’
t escape the constant hum of motorcars and ships and people.
Not here.
She closed her eyes and listened. There was nothing but the buzzing of insects outside, and a soft rattling sound like someone clattering pots together a long way away.
She looked out the window at the cloudless black sky filled with stars. She tried to make out what lay below, but a courtyard wall blocked her view. Why does this place feel so familiar, and yet so different? she wondered.
Then something screeched, so loud and so close that Nalah whirled around, thinking it must be right behind her. But there was nothing there. She and Marcus were alone in the library.
The screech sounded again, a sound like glass edges vibrating against each other, and Nalah felt a strange prickling against her leg. She looked down.
Something inside her pocket was wriggling and twitching underneath the fabric of her tunic. Nalah yelped and just barely resisted the urge to tear the tunic off. “What is it?” she said. “Get it out!”
Marcus shook his head vigoriously. “Nope! I’m good right here, thanks!”
“Coward,” Nalah muttered, and tried to get hold of herself. Whatever the thing was, it was getting bigger by the second—she had to get it out before it ripped her tunic to shreds. She had terrible visions of a gigantic spider or rat that had somehow found its way into her clothing. With trembling fingers, Nalah reached down and gingerly pulled open the large pocket.
Something blue emerged and soared into the air, wings flapping. It flashed like a great jewel in the candlelight as it circled the room and came to rest on top of a bookcase.
Nalah gaped up at it, not believing what she was seeing. It was a bird. A living bird had flown out of her pocket. But this bird had no ordinary feathers. Its feathers glittered and shone as the bird moved, and Nalah realized it was because they were made of glass. Blue glass. The bird looked down at her, its head cocked in curiosity, and made a chirping noise like a wind chime blowing in a breeze. It preened its feathers, nuzzling its sharp beak into the slash of white at its breast.