Chapter 3
Nikolai
The carriage rolls too smoothly over the afternoon sand, unnaturally serene. It must be low tide, not that I can see the edge yet. That’s days away. But even inside the glittering glass window of the white velvet coach, the hairs on my arms prickle and rise, warning of a distant dust storm.
Or maybe those faraway dunes are as calm and sleek as glazed honey, and it’s just my unease conjuring up the static. I wouldn’t put it past the desert.
My fingers twitch around the thick leather book. I direct a glare at my hands until they still, any trace of nerves firmly out of sight. I can’t have the sand taking pity on me and spitting me out somewhere unexpected.
To be fair to my twitching hand, I shouldn’t be meeting sandsmugglers at all.
I open the book for the umpteenth time, skimming the ciphered pages. I wouldn’t believe the claims about it if I wasn’t intimately familiar with just how fiercely it was guarded. I shudder.
I made it out. I don’t have to think about that anymore.
Still, my plan to meet the sandsmugglers is every bit as perilous.
It would be easier to suppress my fear back at the Halls. Out here, with a deceptive sense of privacy, tension coils in my stomach like a snake. I remind myself that smugglers are just like any other seedy gang of relic hunters. Glorified bandits, really. And I have a plan.
I need this trade. Every patchwork scrap of history I’ve scrounged over the past three years has pointed to the shards. Not that I know what kind of shards they might be. Shards of memory? Some kind of talisman?
No point feeding the desert’s wild imagination by speculating.
It’s not like I can control where the desert takes me. I’ll end up where I need to be.
As it turns out, I don’t have to imagine for long. The meeting place appears after mere hours, and my eyes widen. I’m half-convinced it’s a mirage.
A white oak tea table stands with its dainty legs half-sunk in sand.
Around it, dozens of throws and pillows of red satin, circular seating mats, and nearly transparent silks drape overtop everything in a gauzy impression of luxury.
Surrounding the whole picturesque affair, rough crates and dark wooden chests, also swathed in shimmering silks, rise in a semicircle to protect against the wind.
The setup looks like something out of a painting—or a joke. It’s utterly unnerving.
As I roll closer and the gray-robed figures come into view, I’m forced to believe my eyes. This deep in the desert, if things turn unpleasant, no one will ever find my body. I steel myself: Just relic hunters.
I can’t reveal my face.
Still hidden inside my carriage, I run a hand through my hair, transforming the soft golden-blond waves into a too-shiny mass of blue-black. I blink my eyes blue and sharpen the point of my jaw and newly black eyebrows. Finally, I drag an overly wide smile across my face.
The mask is well-practiced, fitting easily and hiding the tension beneath.
I almost feel sorry for the true bearer of this face.
The carriage rolls to a stop, and I roll my shoulders back before tightening my fingers around an amulet. I’m skilled, but I’ve never attempted something of this level. Every part of my plan has to work. I don’t doubt that this rendezvous could turn deadly faster than a sandstorm.
I don’t let myself hesitate. I conjure an illusion of the book, tuck it under my arm, and toss the door open.
Hopping out, I inhale a deep, dramatic breath of desert air. It’s oppressively hot, practically rippling with tension of its own, but I imagine stepping into a cool oasis, tugging on a glimmer of magic to persuade my senses.
Two men in gray robes step forth, hoods drawn low, wrapped to reveal nothing but narrowed eyes.
A shiver tries to crawl up my spine at how boldly they wear the gray silks, and the twitch in my hand turns into an elaborate gesture as I make a show of dusting off my own brilliant blue robes.
Lifting my chin to face them, I stretch my smile thin, meeting their stares with the same beady scrutiny they’re giving me.
“We didn’t think you’d come,” one says, giving me a slow, assessing look.
I stretch my grin even wider. “Then you underestimated me.”
“The book?” the other sandsmuggler prompts, gaze fixed on the tome held loosely beneath my elbow.
“Here it is,” I lie. With polished ease, I extend the thick leather-bound volume. My stomach knots, but I keep my grip gentle.
Everyone is silent as they accept the illusion, examining it. My heart pounds in my chest. Everything rides on this.
One sandsmuggler passes the book to the other, who inspects it more closely.
He turns it over, lifts it to his nose, sniffing the leather, then flips it open to a random page.
I keep myself from watching too carefully as I recreate each line of the text, every word I ferociously memorized in the few frantic hours I’ve had with the real thing.
My amulets hum where they’re bound to my biceps and thighs, ticklish against my skin as I draw on their power, but I ignore the sensation.
“I see,” the first sandsmuggler says, examining the book for a second time. It’s been an eternity under the beating sun.
“And the shard?” I make myself say, aiming for an ease I don’t feel.
“Bring it out,” he says.
The two men part, and a third figure steps forth, holding out a bundled gray cloth and muttering a hushed, “Beneath our master’s blessing.”
I can’t tear my eyes away from the bundle. My fingers itch to snatch it. Instead, keeping my hands calm, I accept the parcel gracefully and peel away each layer with the careful air of casual interest. I’m barely breathing.
The last slip of fabric unfurls, revealing a slim triangular shard of mirror the size of my palm. It reflects its surroundings with a blueish tint—a reminder of its home.
The home I’ll bring it back to.
“Incredible,” I whisper, the awe slipping into my tone. I rewrap it quickly, slipping it into my robes.
“Too good to be true, you might say,” the sandsmuggler muses. His eyes narrow further. “Fascinating that you’re capable of stealing such a book… but you also underestimated us.”
My chest locks, but I keep my voice even, drawing an innocent crease between my brows. “I would never—”
“You think it isn’t obvious?” The sandsmuggler grabs the cover of the ancient book in his hands and rips it clean off. I cry out, taking a step back—toward the carriage. The noise of tearing parchment comes too late, discordant with the supposedly precious artifact lying discarded on the sand.
The illusion exposed.
“Wait,” I say, my pulse quickening. “It’s not what it seems.”
The sandsmuggler’s laugh is a deep, rumbling roll. “It’s exactly as it seems. You think we weren’t prepared for your lies? Wouldn’t know the exact translucency of ancient parchment, and refraction between the pages? The scent of dust on oiled leather?”
My eyes go wide. “Only the masters can—”
“They teach you how to fill the page, but not the edges. It’s all in the periphery,” he scoffs. “We know your tricks.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, taking another step back, but the three sandsmugglers fan out fast, hemming me in. Carefully, I reveal my empty palms to indicate surrender.
“You and your little school of pampered glassfeeders. You don’t realize how many of us already swarm your precious Halls, stealing your secrets. Our numbers are growing.”
His words play out slowly in front of me, the seconds stretched by my racing pulse.
“You’re right,” I say, swallowing. One of my hands jerks to cover my heart—to shield the sweaty leather tight against my chest. He follows the motion, and I freeze.
“Now that,” he sneers, “is the book.”
“I don’t know what you—”
Hands seize my arms. Others wrench the collar of my robes apart, exposing the leather tome strapped to my dampening skin. A knife flashes, and I stop breathing.
The sandsmuggler chuckles behind his wrappings, then slices the straps, ripping the book free. When he shoves me back and gestures for my release, I stumble back, my hands visibly shaking. My breathing speeds up.
“I did steal it for you,” I rush, plastering my innocent smile back on too late. “And brought it here.”
“You just thought you’d sweeten the deal?” He flips open the book. This time, the scrape of each dry page rasps as true as the desert itself as he paws through priceless hundred-year-old parchment. “Too bad we were one step ahead of you.”
I frown, then my eyes widen. I claw at my pocket and pull out the gray cloth wrapped around the shard, fingers fumbling as I unwrap it. But when the cloth tumbles open, it collapses. I clasp at nothingness, desperate.
No shard.
No memory of the piece of mirror ever being there.
I stare at it. “But your master gave his word. He can’t—”
“We brought it to you, as promised.” He chuckles darkly. “You just won’t be leaving with it.”
His eyes betray his sneer, and I grimace. I’m forced to watch as he passes the book to the third sandsmuggler, who whisks it away among the crates. I have to look away, for fear of appearing desperate.
My throat dries and my mind races. I have to be very, very careful. If they think they have no use for me, they’ll kill me without warning.
“How did you know I had the real book?” I whisper, gambling on his confidence. I hold my breath.
He chuckles, a rough noise, then steps forward to slap me painfully on the back. I cough. “I admire your audacity, boy. There might be hope for you, if you join us.”
A prickle of hope lifts my head. I have to keep him talking, without appearing to be trying too hard. The silence stretches.
He takes the bait.
“I knew you’d seen the real thing.” His eyes sparkle, his voice smug. “Knew you had it. Your mistake was giving up your leverage so quickly. Always keep the truth under lock and key.”
He pulls a metal chain out from around his neck, revealing the twinkle of a copper key, before tucking it back down the front of his tunic. I can’t tear my eyes away from it.