The Theft of Sunlight

by Intisar Khanani

  Kestrin waves away the guards who rode out with us, now standing watch around the carriage and the edges of the graveyard, then glances back at us. “Kelari Amraeya, you will accompany us?”

  I nod, for all that his tone makes it clear it’s a command and not a question. Kestrin’s attendant takes the prince’s cue and falls back to wait beside the carriage.

  I walk on, my leather slippers with their embroidery slowly picking up mud and the hem of my skirt growing heavy with dampness as it brushes over the low grasses here. I’ve never minded getting wet before, but I’ve never worn such fine clothes in the rain either. I can only hope they withstand the outing. If I have to get a new outfit each time it rains, I might just need to drop a pitcher of juice on Alyrra and get myself dismissed.

  Ahead of me, Kestrin and Alyrra come to a stop before an open grave. I stare, but there’s no mistaking it: not the mound of soil beside the hole, not the shovel left upon the ground, and certainly not the hole itself, gaping wide.

  I swallow, glancing over my shoulder. Kestrin’s attendant remains by the gate, waiting patiently. The soldiers—three quads for a total of twelve men—remain alert, some of them watching the road, and no fewer than four of them watching the royals from afar. This was planned, right? Clearly it was. But the idea of leaving a body unburied for hours just so someone could come look at it seems horribly wrong.

  I stop a short distance away and keep my eyes on the ground at my feet. I don’t want to catch even an accidental glance of what lies inside the grave. It will just be a shrouded body, I tell myself. It’s not as if I would know who they were.

  “He was a good friend,” Alyrra says, her voice uneven. “I thank you for allowing this.”

  “Would that I could have protected him,” Kestrin says. He stands near her, but there is an awkwardness to his stance. He wants to comfort her, but it is not his place—not until they are married.

  Alyrra lifts a hand, wipes at her face. She’s crying; a quiet, steady sort of weeping. I plunge my hand into my skirt pocket and pull out a kerchief. Hobbling forward, I offer it to Alyrra.

  She takes it with a watery smile. I drop my gaze and find myself looking into the grave, at a horse’s head. A tingle of shock runs through me as I stare at the thing, for it is only the head and a portion of the neck nailed to a wooden plaque. The eyes and lips are sewn shut with dark thread, the mane stringy and tinged with black, the cheeks stained gray with damp. It is a ghastly sight.

  I take a quick step back, looking away so Alyrra won’t see my revulsion. It’s not the horse’s fault. Or the princess’s—at least, I doubt it, given that she clearly mourns what’s been done to the creature.

  “Farewell, Falada,” the princess says, and I’m grateful she didn’t notice my reaction.

  Princess. The word drifts up from the grave, soft as a spring breeze. My gaze jerks back to the horse’s head, only now its eyes are open and seeing, the stitching gone. Its lips, however, do not move, even as its voice murmurs, Farewell.

  I don’t know what magic this is, what could possibly cause a horse’s head to open its eyes and send words up from its grave. Nothing comes back from the dead, or so I’ve always been taught.

  “Farewell,” Alyrra says again, as if there were nothing strange here whatsoever. Kestrin stoops and lifts a sheet from where it lies folded at the foot of the grave. At Alyrra’s nod, he shakes it out and bends, letting it go as it flutters down to cover the head. With a soft sigh, Alyrra turns and moves past me, toward the carriage.

  Kestrin falls into step with her. I stare at him, and he flicks his fingers toward the carriage, reminding me to move, before returning his gaze to the princess.

  Right. Move. Because I did not just see some grisly horror within the grave, nor then see it transform and hear it speak.

  The ride back passes quietly. Alyrra does not seem given to conversation, and Kestrin, after a few quiet words, lets her be. I am grateful for the silence, grateful that I do not have to listen or respond to anything, for my mind is too busy wrestling with the reality of what I’ve seen.

  By the time we arrive at the palace, I have made up half a story to explain the inexplicable: the impostor had the princess’s horse killed, its head nailed to a plaque as a reminder to the princess to keep her silence, or distance, or whatever it was the impostor wished. It seems possible, but does not even begin to explain how a disembodied horse’s head opened its eyes and spoke.

  Perhaps Filadon knows. But no. I might ask after a gray or white horse the princess once had, but I sincerely doubt the princess wants me spreading rumors about, or even confidentially inquiring after, horses that speak from the grave. Literally. If I want direct answers, I will need to ask her, or not ask at all.

  I grip my hands together in my lap, keep my gaze lowered, and remind myself that the creature at least did not seem evil. There was nothing dark or malicious in its look. In truth, when it opened its eyes, it was a sight less grim than when it slept with its eyes stitched shut. And it is clearly being buried. Whatever secrets it carries, whatever truths the princess wishes kept silent, they will end there, at that grave.

  At the palace, Kestrin escorts the princess up to her rooms, bidding her adieu at her door. I follow her in. She pauses a moment, her gaze going to the bell pulls along the wall, the green one to call her attendants, the blue to raise the alarm in the guard room, the cream for the servants. Then she turns to me, evidently deciding I am better than a bell pull, and holds out my kerchief.

  “Thank you, Amraeya,” she says. “You will want to change into something dry, I’m sure. I am going into my room. Send Jasmine and Zaria in to me, would you?”

  “Of course, zayyida,” I say, taking the kerchief. It is damp in my hand, a testament to her tears. Her eyes are faintly pink even now.

  I curtsy and let myself out, grateful to leave the princess and her secret grief.

  Chapter

  12

  I raise my hand to knock on the doorframe to Jasmine and Zaria’s room. The door is cracked open, but I don’t feel so friendly with the women within that I might just swing it open.

  “What was the prince thinking?” Zaria demands. I pause despite myself—surely they don’t know about the horse’s head too? But she goes on, “A cripple? To wait on the princess after all she’s been through? I would have been insulted.”

  “She doesn’t know enough to be,” Jasmine says lightly. “Imagine, an attendant who can’t even curtsy properly!”

  I let my hand drop, my cheeks burning with mortification. But I can’t curtsy any better; my foot won’t allow it.

  Jasmine says, “But then, perhaps it merely requires a different perspective. Our barnyard princess, lover of animals that she is, has taken in a little lame mongrel. Why should any of us be surprised?”

  My hands curl into fists at my side as Zaria titters in response. Barnyard princess? Lame mongrel? How dare they?

  “Oh, but Jasmine, think on it! This peasant knows nothing! And she’ll be an embarrassment to the princess wherever they go, hobbling about like a—well, like a lame dog. Why would the princess do such a thing?”

  “Why would the prince? Really, the girl grew up on a horse farm. As if dressing and attending a princess were akin to saddling a horse! I tried, Zaria. Truly, I did.”

  “Did you?” Zaria says, her questioning tone echoing my sentiments. What does Jasmine think she did other than mock the princess?

  “The walls! And I was so obvious about it! A peasant has no place in the palace proper. The only way to show such a creature the city from the palace is up on the walls with the common soldiers. And what does the princess do? Go running up there with her pet in tow. You would think she had more sense!”

  “Oh,” Zaria says uncertainly. “Is that what you meant?”

  No, it wasn’t. I remember clearly Jasmine’s snide amusement as we started off for the walls. That wasn’t what she meant at all; this is just the story she wants spread so that the princess will look a
fool rather than Jasmine herself appear malicious. Trickery is just another word for betrayal, Filadon said. And here it is, on the other side of the door from me.

  “What else could I have possibly intended?” Jasmine inquires lightly. “Well, there is no help for it. We shall have to put up with the cripple until a replacement is found.”

  “But didn’t your cousin—”

  “I am well aware that my cousin was passed over, Zaria. There is no need to bring that up. I am quite sure you would have been passed over as well, had you not already been established as an attendant. Then again, if the princess is looking for peasants, none of us should have been selected.” Jasmine heaves a sigh, and I hear a rustle of cloth as she moves across the room, toward the door.

  With a quick inhale, I raise my fist and rap on the doorframe, hard and loud, because retreat is not an option.

  “Yes?” Jasmine swings open the door.

  “You’re wanted,” I say briefly. “Both of you, in the princess’s rooms.”

  “Veria,” Jasmine says, voice sharp.

  I smile and dip my head, as if she were addressing me rather than schooling me in how to address her. Then I turn my back on her and start toward the room I share with Mina.

  “You will address me as veria,” Jasmine says, her voice pitched to carry.

  I turn back to her with a false smile plastered across my face. “Of course, just as you will address me as kelari,” I say. “What else would we call each other?”

  She blinks at me, taken aback, and I seize the opportunity to slip into my room before she manages to snap a reply. Mina looks up from her desk, a letter half-written before her. “Are you back, then?”

  I nod, though the answer is perfectly apparent. I can hear Jasmine muttering in the hallway, Zaria’s voice responding.

  Whatever they’re saying, I don’t want to hear it. I start across the room toward my own desk.

  “Amraeya? Are you all right? You seem to be . . .”

  Haunted by an undead horse’s head? Paying the price of listening at doorways? I look toward Mina tiredly. “Yes?”

  She watches me, eyes narrowed. “Is your foot hurting you?”

  I grimace and sink into the chair. “A bit.” I cross my leg over my knee, slip off the still slightly muddy slipper, and inspect my foot. The skin is an angry red where the top of the shoe rubbed, and there are blisters already forming along the side of my foot.

  Mina’s breath hisses between her teeth.

  “Do you know where I can get some bandages?” I ask lightly. “I don’t think the cobbler quite made these shoes right.”

  “You should, perhaps, see a healer,” she says, her voice that same detached polite tone she uses with the princess. But a faint line has appeared between her brows. Does she not allow herself to worry about others? Or rather, to show her concern?

  “Is there—where would I find one?” I ask.

  Mina smiles faintly. “We’re in a palace. There’s even a healer- mage, though she won’t see everyone. Do you wish to ask the princess to refer you?”

  “No, they’re just blisters.” As long as they don’t get infected, I can manage. Mina nods and gives me directions to where I can find one of the resident healers, and then shoos me off.

  I start back to the royal wing sometime later, my foot wrapped in bandages and my ears full of admonishments for wearing such shoes—in the pursuit of beauty! As if, the healer’s look said, I could attain such heights. I was more than happy to leave her care and hobble my way toward the royal wing. I take the back way there, up the stairs to the guard room so that I don’t cross paths with Jasmine if I can help it.

  There’s only one group of four guards in the room—a standard quad. They are all steadily watching the doorway as I step through, as if they heard the uneven sound of my ascent, however quiet it seemed to me.

  I offer a smile that is more grimace than anything, and head for the connecting doorway. One of them rises and moves to intercept me. I nod as the man reaches the doorway at the same time I do. He looks vaguely familiar. Did I see him this morning at the graveyard?

  “Kelari Amraeya,” he says, dark eyes flicking over me. “Is all well?”

  “Yes, kel,” I say uncertainly. “Is it not allowed to use the stairs?”

  I specifically remember Mina recommending them as a less visible approach to the royal wing. I’d rather not think she misinformed me. Unless it was a different set of stairs she pointed out. . . .

  The soldier gestures me through the door and steps out after me. “Not at all. It is only that the stairs are designed to amplify the sound of anyone coming up, that we may not be taken by surprise. We are not used to the sound of your step.”

  “I see,” I say dryly.

  The guard continues to walk with me. He wears the light armor of the royal guard, leather and studded velvet. He is easily a head taller than I am, with deep brown eyes and a generally pleasant face, though now the skin around his eyes is tight, and his jaw is set. The look of him puts me on edge. At least the door to the attendants’ quarters is right here.

  “The princess seems pleased with you,” he says, turning his head to catch my gaze. The silver ring through his left ear glints in the light of the luminae lamps, the inset sapphire glittering blue. A highly placed captain, then, and not just a guard.

  “Thank you,” I say, unsure what response he expects from me.

  He comes to a stop before me, just blocking the door.

  “There is something I hoped you could tell us. The second grave the princess visited this morning; what was in it?”

  I look up at him, taken aback, the memory of the horse’s head flashing before my eyes.

  “Yes, that expression,” he says. “You wore it at the graveyard as well, after you looked into the grave. What did you see there?”

  I swallow. “It was a grave, kel. I am not used to looking in one. That is all.”

  “That isn’t an answer,” he says quietly.

  The princess’s secrets aren’t mine to share. If the royals didn’t tell their guards what was within the graves, then, arguably, they don’t need to know.

  I make to step around him, one hand reaching for the doorknob. “I don’t see that it’s your concern.”

  He turns with me, his hand closing over it first. “It is, actually. It’s our job to keep the royal family safe. We cannot do that if we do not know whether she buried a friend or enemy, or something else altogether—and how they came to be there.”

  “They came to be there because they were dead,” I say, keeping my voice even despite the anger roaring through me. Is he actually trying to intimidate me? “Considering the prince was there as well, I suspect the princess will be protected. In fact, I suggest you bring up your concerns on how to keep the princess safe to her—I’m sure she’ll hear you out.”

  “There’s no need for that when you can answer us just as well,” he says, his voice low. “What was in that grave?”

  “Ask her yourself. I’m going in,” I say through clenched teeth, reaching to push his hand away from the doorknob. Instead, he releases the knob, his fingers closing on my wrist. I try to pull back, but his grip is too tight. He steps toward me, shoving my other shoulder so that I am pressed up against the door. His chest walls me in, one hand pinning my wrist to the door, the other resting beside my head. I fight back a surge of panic that overwhelms my anger.

  “Not yet,” he says, his voice deceptively mild. Behind him, I hear no sound of movement, no voice. My breath rattles in my chest. Either his whole quad planned this, or they haven’t yet noticed what their captain is doing. I’m not sure they’d stop him regardless.

  He tilts his face down, looking me straight in the eye. “It’s a simple question, my girl. I’d like to think we can trust you. What did you see?”

  My girl? Oh no. I’m not his girl, or the princess’s lame mongrel, or a fool whose mind is apparently as useless as her foot. I answer him, but not in the way he expects. I snap my kn
ee up into his groin, wrenching my hand free at the same time. He yelps a curse, reaching for me even as he hunches over, but I slam both hands against his chest and shove.

  I may be a royal attendant, but it wasn’t all that long ago I was working with horses, lifting saddles, and carrying bags of oats and barley. I send him backpedaling halfway across the hall, his eyes wide with surprise.

  I yank the door open and step through. “Stay out,” I snarl, and slam the door with all my strength.

  Chapter

  13

  The princess returns before dinner, bringing Jasmine and Zaria with her. Thankfully, I am not expected to attend her tonight. The graveyard was enough of a first day for me, and I am still slightly unbalanced after my hallway encounter with the captain. At least the salve the healer gave me has numbed the ache of my blisters.

  Alyrra seems pensive, having little to say about Mina’s selection of clothes for the evening. She only nods and thanks her, and asks us to select the jewelry as well. As she turns away, she pauses, her gaze catching on me—or rather, my wrists. I shift, pulling my hands up into my sleeves, but Alyrra reaches out uncertainly.

  “Amraeya—?”

  “Zayyida?” I ask, keeping my voice light and unworried.

  She looks up, her brows furrowed and her eyes wide and sickened.

  “Is there something wrong?” I ask, careful not to glance down to my wrists. Why did the seamstress insist on cutting the sleeves just short of my wrists to show off the gold bangles that haven’t yet been delivered? I don’t even like wearing bangles.

  Alyrra jerks her attention away, to Mina. “Mina, would you wait in the outer room for me a moment?”

  Mina casts me a worried glance. I shrug uncertainly. She dips her head and departs, closing the door behind her.

  “Amraeya . . . is your wrist bruised?”

  I hesitate.

  “Please, will you show it to me?”

  Alyrra looks unwell, her face decidedly pale and her brown eyes shadowed. Looking at her, I don’t know what to do. What are the ramifications of reporting what happened to me?