Sisters of Glass

by Naomi Cyprus

  Halan waited for Nalah to protest, to say that she wouldn’t hurt anyone. To demand to know all the answers before she used her powers against the palace. But all she did was set her jaw, a look of steely determination on her face that Halan recognized. It was the face Halan saw in the mirror when she’d made up her mind.

  “I won’t let him hurt my family,” Nalah said in a soft voice. Halan felt tears well up in her eyes.

  I thought you were my friend. When she and Nalah were talking, Halan had thought they had more in common than just wearing the same face. She’d thought they shared the same fears, the same convictions about what was important.

  She was wrong.

  I guess there’s nothing she wouldn’t do to save her father, even if it means killing mine.

  She took a step away from the door, looked around at the sleeping rebels, and wiped her eyes on the rough, grubby fabric of Nalah’s tunic.

  Very well, then. I can’t depend on anyone but myself. Everyone at the palace is in danger. I have to get out of here and warn them!

  She heard a chirruping sound close by, and looked through the crack in the door again.

  Soren and Nalah were walking toward the boy named Marcus, who had appeared at the entrance to the stairs, with Cobalt the glass bird perched on one arm. He was with the young rebel, the one called Darry.

  As Nalah came closer, Halan recoiled slightly. Her tawam looked just like her, in her black clothes and with her hair brushed out.

  Even my own mother won’t know the difference, Halan thought bitterly.

  Still, she couldn’t keep a lump from forming in her throat as she thought about Nalah’s mother, Rina.

  If Rina had been warm and loving to Nalah, what had happened to Queen Rani, to make her so cold to Halan?

  A small voice, one that Halan worked very hard never to listen to, whispered an answer.

  Maybe it’s me.

  Halan balled her fists and angrily swiped another tear from her eye. She wouldn’t think like that, not now. All that was important was saving her family. Maybe if Halan did that, her mother would finally realize that her daughter was more than just something to protect. Maybe she would see her as someone to respect.

  “I don’t like it,” Marcus was saying. “I should be coming with you.” Halan swallowed the lump in her throat and refocused on their conversation.

  “No,” said Soren. “How would we explain you at the palace? Nalah needs to go alone. Darry, are you ready?”

  “Yup,” said the young rebel. “C’mon, Nalah. The princess has been missed, so there are guards everywhere. Let’s go make sure one of them finds you!”

  “Marcus,” said Nalah, fiddling worriedly with the edge of the black cloak. “Keep an eye on Halan? Make sure she stays safe.”

  “We’ll keep our promise,” Soren said smoothly. “No harm will come to her.”

  And what are your promises worth, Soren Ferro? Halan thought, her sadness sinking under a flood of fear and anger.

  “You promised. Some of your friends don’t seem so keen,” said Nalah. “Marcus?”

  “Yeah, of course,” said Marcus, with a serious nod. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”

  “All right. I’m ready,” said Nalah, and she and Darry headed up the stairs.

  Soren watched them go. Then he turned, and walked right toward Halan.

  Panicking, Halan leaped across the room and threw herself down on the cushions, closing her eyes just as the door swung open and Soren walked in. She lay as still as she could, pretending to be asleep.

  “Get up, Your Highness,” said Soren. “I know you’re awake.”

  Halan sat up as gracefully as she could and glared at him. Did he know that she’d been eavesdropping? “Are you really going to keep your promise, Lord Ferro?” she demanded. “Or now that my tawam’s gone, are you going to kill me, after all?”

  “I keep my promises,” said Soren lightly. “But I’m afraid Seyed is right that you could make trouble for us if you managed to escape. Which you’ve already managed to do once.”

  “Then what are you going to do to me?” Halan asked, getting to her feet and tilting her chin in what she hoped was a gesture of regal defiance.

  “I have a plan,” Soren said, with a slight smile. “Don’t worry—it will only hurt a little.”

  He reached into a pocket in his robe and pulled out a piece of midnight-blue silk about as long as his hand, so fine it was almost transparent. It waved and undulated in the air as he unfurled it. The ends were sewn to a delicate silver chain.

  Halan took a step back, not wanting to find out what kind of magic the silk contained. But Soren advanced with his hands held up, like an animal trainer approaching a caged tiger.

  “What are you doing?” Marcus exclaimed, coming up from behind. Halan’s gaze flickered from the silver chain to his face, and she found that it was full of genuine alarm. “I promised Nalah you wouldn’t harm her!”

  “Marcus, stay out of this,” said Soren, not taking his gaze from Halan’s face. “As I said, this won’t injure her. It’ll just make things simpler. Besides, it’s no more than she deserves as a member of our esteemed royal family.”

  Deserves? What do I deserve? To be tortured? To be mutilated?

  Halan felt a cold, icy fear like nothing she had felt before. She backed against the wall, her palms slick with sweat against the cold sandstone, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Soren closed in on her, the veil close enough to touch. She lashed out, batting his hands away, and tried to duck under his arm. But Soren was too fast. He caught her with one arm across her chest and held her still while he slipped the silver chain over her head. It rested behind her ears, and the midnight silk slowly settled over her face.

  “What is this?” Halan snarled. “Get it off of me!”

  Soren let her go, and Halan reached up to tear off the veil, but as soon as she dug her hands under her hair to push the chain off her head, it squeezed tight around her temples, her head filling with throbbing pain. Halan staggered, letting out a groan of agony, but she didn’t stop tugging at the chain.

  “Don’t try to remove it,” said Soren quietly. “It won’t hurt if you leave it alone.”

  Reluctantly, Halan let go of the chain. The pain stopped, but her face felt strange, prickling and tingling all over. Her skin seeming to tighten and loosen, rippling over her skull.

  “What—what have you done to me?” Halan cried, raising her fingers to her face. She was shocked to find she couldn’t feel the fabric of the veil—it was as if it had cleaved completely to her face and melted into her skin. The midnight blue was a film across her vision for a moment longer, then everything turned back to its normal color.

  Marcus, openmouthed and as white as a ghost, was staring at her. “What have you done?” he whispered, turning to Soren.

  “It’s called the Veil of Strangers,” said Soren. “Nobody can remove it but me. Take a look,” He went to the rack piled with weapons and brushed the dust off an old metal shield, holding it up so Halan could see herself.

  But it wasn’t herself she saw. The girl looking back at her had a face that was twisted and pitted with scars. Halan jerked away from the mirror in shock, and saw the girl do the same.

  “Now, even if you did escape, your own father wouldn’t recognize you,” said Soren. “You can learn what it’s like to be a victim of the Dust—to be looked on with pity and scorn.”

  Halan’s eyes filled with tears and she tugged at the silver chain again, but only got another blast of searing pain at her temples.

  “You said you wouldn’t hurt her,” Marcus admonished Soren, under his breath.

  “I promised no ropes, and no killing,” said Soren, putting down the shield. “I didn’t say anything about pain.”

  He walked out of the room.

  Halan sank down on the cushions and stared at her reflection in the shield.

  Does this really happen to innocent people? she thought, running a hand along the pocked, uneven
skin. Does Father know?

  But then Halan dropped her hand. I can’t get distracted by doubts, not now. What am I going to do? Father and Mother won’t know me. I won’t be able to get back into the palace. Even if I escape, how can a strange, scarred peasant ever get to the king?

  She clenched her fists, trying not to let panic overwhelm her, and then suddenly realized that Marcus was still there. He knelt down next to her, and she saw that his expression was full of the last emotion she would have expected: compassion.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had no idea he’d do that. I’m sorry that they have to keep you here like this. If you’re as much like Nalah on the inside as you are outside,” he added, with a friendly smile, “you don’t deserve any of this.”

  I don’t deserve any of this, Halan repeated in her mind, though there was something hollow about the words. I’m glad someone here believes that. She stared at Marcus, who met her gaze evenly. He didn’t seem disturbed by her horrible new face at all. He seemed as comfortable as if he was still looking at his best friend.

  Well, she thought, a new plan forming in her mind. Maybe this situation isn’t hopeless, after all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nalah

  Dearest,

  I’ve been thinking about what you said at court last night. You are quite right, it is a disgrace. This is the Magi Kingdom, the land of the Thauma. We simply cannot have a queen with no powers! But what is to be done? Could the king be persuaded to adopt a more suitable heir?

  —DB

  My Lord,

  I have burned your letter. Please never write such things again. The king prizes his daughter far above your life or mine and we all owe her our unwavering loyalty.

  Let us continue our discussion of that other matter in person.

  —RA

  Letters between Lord Belah and Lady Alizadeh, copied and given to the palace by the messenger who delivered them

  Nalah stumbled down the still-empty street, illuminated by the early morning light. The sun was already beating down on her, and she felt too hot underneath Halan’s thick black cloak. She saw the road up to the palace ahead of her, the guard post at the bottom surrounded by men wearing glinting helmets and carrying swords. In the daylight, the palace looked even more imposing. It seemed to rise forever into the clouds—a collection of sandstone buildings piled one on top of the other, punctuated by domed towers, its arched windows staring down like a hundred watchful eyes at the city below.

  She’d rolled in the dust so that her clothes looked rumpled and dirty, and even gone as far as to tear the hem of her cloak. But she didn’t have to fake feeling tired or scared. Her hands trembled all by themselves.

  Tam is up there.

  She was walking straight into her enemy’s lair, and she still wasn’t sure exactly what she was facing, or what she’d have to do to free the rebels and stop Tam. Everything in her was screaming to turn around and go back.

  You have to go on. Papa is up there too.

  So she forced herself to breathe evenly, and kept walking. Nalah found her resolve strengthening as she drew closer to the guard post. Soren might have his own agenda, but that didn’t mean he was wrong. Nobody should live in the poverty that the poorest Magi subjects endured while the Thauma nobles lived in the lap of luxury. It reminded Nalah of the injustices in New Hadar, but sort of reversed.

  And the Dust! The Hokmet enforcers were terrifying enough, without the threat that at any moment they could unleash a storm of burning-hot metal. This place was truly broken, and if Nalah could help the rebels take over and restore some peace, some balance, then maybe there was hope for her world someday as well.

  I’ll do what I have to, to end the injustice and make sure Tam gets what he deserves, she thought. I just hope I can keep my promise to Halan and not have to hurt him. The idea of betraying her tawam filled Nalah with dread.

  A chime rang out above her, and Nalah looked up to see Cobalt swooping past, catching the morning sun on his feathers as he circled overhead. It steadied her to know he was up there. If anything happened to her father, Cobalt would make sure she knew about it. She took a deep breath.

  Well, here goes nothing.

  She stumbled forward, waving an arm. “Guards!” she yelled. “Help me!” She waited until she saw them look her way, then collapsed to the ground in a pretend faint.

  She kept her eyes closed until the running footsteps reached her, then let herself groan and blink as someone strong scooped her up in his arms.

  “Alert the king!” the guard shouted back to the others. “The princess has been found!”

  A little while later, Nalah sat on the couch in Halan’s rooms, the warm breeze coming in through an open window, filling the huge space with the scents of jasmine and sun-baked stone. All together, the princess’s bedroom, bathroom, and dressing area were nearly the same size as Nalah’s entire house back in New Hadar. They were filled with exquisitely carved wooden furniture, soft silk upholstery, and the most impossibly large bed that Nalah could have ever imagined.

  Halan had not been exaggerating the loveliness of her surroundings in the palace. The ceilings were vaulted and painted with a beautiful deep blue sky full of yellow stars. The floors were covered with rugs so deep that when she stood on them, Nalah lost sight of her toes. She ran her hand over the cushion beside her and suppressed a sigh. It was like sitting on a cloud. I wouldn’t want Halan’s life, she reminded herself. Even the most wonderful cell is still a prison.

  While the guard was carrying her, she’d tearfully told him the story Soren gave her: that she’d been hit over the head and kidnapped, but escaped when a careless rebel was looking the other way.

  The guard had escorted her straight to Halan’s luxurious rooms, to be bathed and dressed by Lilah, the handmaiden. She’d stumbled through the polished, mirrored halls of the palace, led by the guard. People in plain cotton servants’ clothes and others in elaborate, colorful robes had turned to watch her, and she had tried not to meet any of their eyes.

  It had been a deeply strange experience, to have a girl help her off and on with even the simplest bits of clothing. She stayed silent the whole time, grateful that she’d worked being hit on the head into her story, so it wouldn’t seem suspicious that she was a little dazed.

  It was very unlikely to ever happen, but she wished she could go back to Halan’s bath, sometime when she wasn’t terrified of being exposed as an imposter. Her jittery nerves had meant she couldn’t really enjoy the perfectly warm water, the lovely scented oils, or the soft towels.

  Now she was wearing one of Halan’s silver silk nightdresses, her feet tucked into a pair of white fur slippers, and the court doctor was looking her over. He had a bushy mustache and a bag full of little Thauma instruments—he pressed one to her throat, another to her heart. Nalah tried to breathe evenly and folded her hands in her lap.

  Don’t panic. He can’t tell you’re not Halan. He can’t tell you’re a Thauma.

  “Your Highness, the king and queen,” the servant announced.

  Nalah didn’t have time to be afraid. Tam strode through the door, dressed once more in elaborate robes and a golden turban like she’d seen in her vision. Despite his noble bearing, his shoulders were hunched with worry. Their eyes met, and Nalah did her best to smile at the man who had manipulated her, tried to kidnap her, and stolen her father away and locked him in a cold cell.

  He’ll know I’m not her, said a frightened voice in her head. He’s met us both, he’ll know!

  But Tam didn’t so much as blink. As soon as he locked eyes with Nalah, he exclaimed, “My daughter!” He dashed to her side and threw his arms around her. Nalah forced herself to hug him back and hold on tight.

  Then, over his shoulder, she saw a woman enter the room.

  It took every last ounce of self-control not to pull away from Tam and run into this stranger’s arms.

  Because the woman was her mother. And yet, she wasn’t. The queen had Rina’s pretty fac
e, her long black hair and deep bronze skin. But of course she was older than Rina had been in the photograph that Nalah knew so well. The queen was dressed in a blue satin dress that dragged along the floor behind her. She didn’t rush to Nalah’s side. Instead she hovered in the doorway, her heavily kohl-ringed eyes watery and her fingers twisting nervously together.

  Nalah’s heart was filled with love, and fear.

  King Tam pulled away from the embrace and held Nalah at arm’s length. “My love, did they hurt you?”

  “No, Father,” Nalah said, her voice slightly choked. “That is—they thumped me on the head. But otherwise, I’m fine.”

  “Where did they take you?” Tam asked.

  Nalah was prepared for this. “They blindfolded me, but I managed to get a glimpse of where I was. I think they have a secret hideout, in the old sewer tunnels underneath the woodcarving district.”

  This was an essential part of Soren’s plan. The search for rebels in the sewers would be long, distracting, and fruitless.

  Tam turned to the guard who stood at the door. “I want those tunnels searched,” he snapped. “I want anyone you find there thrown in the dungeons. For questioning,” he added, turning back to Nalah with a smile.

  Nalah smiled back at him.

  I can see now. You really do love Halan. She’s probably the only thing you love as much as your own power. You’ve never let her see your true colors.

  “You poor thing.” Tam leaned in and kissed Nalah’s forehead. Nalah forced herself not to recoil.

  Kidnapper. Murderer.

  Tam pulled away and looked at her, but the love in his eyes was gone. Instead, a cool, assessing look had come over his face. Nalah swallowed and tried to look pitiful. Does he know? Does he suspect? Maybe she’d stiffened too much when he’d hugged her. Maybe the thick makeup they’d applied to her face wasn’t enough to disguise her tiny scars.