The Theft of Sunlight

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The Theft of Sunlight Page 13

by Intisar Khanani


  “Yes?”

  He catches my hand and lifts it, as if he were going to bow over it again—only he doesn’t. Instead, he gives my hand a slight shake and my sleeve falls back to reveal the ring of bruises there. His fingers tighten around mine as I try to pull away, a firm pressure, not hurtful but very much there.

  “You ought to learn how to fight.”

  The words are quiet, surprisingly gentle. He drops my hand and, with a dip of his chin, departs. I stare after him, cradling my bruised wrist against my body even though it doesn’t hurt. That was what he was asking about, at the beginning. Only he started by questioning my limp instead of my bruises. Well, I’m glad. I wouldn’t have wanted to tell him the truth, or to have to lie.

  It isn’t until I reach the palace that I realize there was a third thing I should have considered: a thief is still, at heart, a thief. My coin purse is missing, and with it, a good quarter of the money I had left to me.

  I doubt learning to fight will help defend against that.

  Chapter

  18

  “It’s outrageous,” Mina says with quiet fury as she shimmies out of the tunic she wore this afternoon and into a far more heavily embroidered one for dinner. “The foreign queen brought along the impostor’s father. The princess had to stand there and greet the man whose daughter betrayed her and stole her position.”

  I stand in the doorway, all thoughts of thieves and snatchers driven from my mind. “What?”

  “You should have seen Zayyid Kestrin’s face! Truly, if he could have put a sword through the man, I think he would have. But Alyrra didn’t show a thing. Just smiled and nodded as if all were well, and then took Kestrin’s arm and patted it to bring him back to himself.”

  “Did it work?”

  “What?”

  “Patting his arm?”

  Mina pauses in pulling up her skirt. “Actually, yes. He went all still, and then he gave that Verin Daerilin a smile that”—she shudders—“I would never want aimed at me, and bid everyone welcome as well.”

  “Why did the impostor’s father come?” I ask, moving to sit down on my bed and work off my boots. “That seems impolitic at best.”

  “At best,” Mina agrees, and it occurs to me I have never seen her this animated before, this angry, even if her actions are still small and controlled. It’s there in her voice, in the emphasis she places on words when her voice is usually so neutral. “Apparently it is a long enough journey that they had already departed their hall when the king’s messenger reached them on the road. He claims he stayed with the party in order to make amends.”

  “Hmm.”

  Mina hurries over to her dressing table. “Can you check in on Alyrra? She wanted company. Zaria is with her right now.”

  “Of course,” I say, looking down at my feet, hidden behind the side of the bed from Mina. Yet again, blood and the watery discharge from burst blisters stain the bandages. “Is it acceptable to go dressed as I am?”

  “Your hair is fine,” Mina says generously. “I would just pull on a quick change of clothes and go.”

  I nod and slide my feet into a pair of slippers before she sees them. I can pull a skirt off or on easily enough regardless. I discard my riding clothes in favor of a regular skirt and matching tunic, bind a fresh sash about my waist, and head over to Alyrra’s rooms.

  Alyrra seems drawn and quiet. I pour her a cup of tea while Zaria helps her decide which of the two outfits laid out for her inspection she should wear this evening.

  “That’s someone at the door,” Zaria says suddenly, and I realize the faint tapping I’d heard was a knock on the door to the suite.

  “I’ll see who it is.” I head through the inner sitting room to the outer, where someone raps on the door once more.

  I open it to find a pair of pale-faced men with closed expressions.

  “Fetch my sister,” the first says in heavily accented Menay. He is tall and broadly built, with hair the color of darkened straw. Between the gold chains hung about his neck and his foreign clothing—a stiff, tightly cut tunic with puffed sleeves, and pants that appear sewn onto his legs—I’ve no doubt that this is the foreign prince I’m looking at.

  “I said, fetch my sister,” he repeats, his voice curt.

  “Zayyid,” I say. “If you will come in, I will let her know you are here.”

  He pushes his way in, barely waiting for me to get out of the way. I turn and hurry from the room.

  “Who is it?” Alyrra asks, at the door to her bedroom. She glances toward the door to the outer room, but from this angle she can’t see the men.

  “I think it is your brother, zayyida. And another man with him.”

  “What does the second man look like?”

  “Tall, of a larger girth, and somewhat older. His hair is reddish brown. More red, I think.”

  “Ah,” she says as Zaria stiffens. “That will be Daerilin. I’ll ask you both to stay with me. Let us go see what they want.”

  The men stand before the couches, silent and clearly displeased. As Alyrra steps out with the two of us behind her, the foreign prince greets her with a voice that drips contempt. It takes me a heartbeat to figure out why I can’t untangle his words: he speaks their own western tongue, with all its sounds shoved to the front of the mouth. I glance toward Zaria. Her brow is furrowed, and her head is tilted, as if that might help her better understand.

  The other man, Daerilin, says something and Alyrra’s voice answers, soft with shock. And then I do understand, for Daerilin says the impostor’s name: Valka.

  I hear Zaria’s quick intake of breath, but she makes no move. Alyrra’s brother breaks in, his words harsh, contemptuous. Then the lord speaks again, demanding. They watch Alyrra with bristling anger, and even though Zaria and I stand to either side of her, just behind her shoulders, she bears the brunt of their wrath alone.

  For a long moment, Alyrra remains silent. My hands curl into fists. They have come here demanding to know something about the impostor—and they very clearly don’t care what Alyrra has been through. She says something slowly, quietly. Daerilin snaps back at her. Snaps.

  I take a jerking step forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Alyrra, and all three turn their regard to me.

  “Amraeya,” Alyrra says, her voice just slightly uneven. “Please summon a quad for me. Use the bell pull.”

  I dip my head and cross the room to the bell pulls, giving the blue one a single deft tug. Hardly more than a moment later, a quad shoves open the door, their swords drawn and their expressions grim. I recognize their faces, Captain Matsin’s most of all.

  “At ease,” Alyrra says. “I did not mean to cause alarm. I merely require your services as an escort. My brother and Lord Daerilin wish to visit the impostor. Will you take them to her?”

  The soldiers stare. Matsin clears his throat. “But, zayyida—”

  “Where she is now,” Alyrra says firmly, overriding his protest. “They wish to see her at once.”

  “Zayyida,” Matsin agrees, his voice flat. But the impostor was already executed before I came, wasn’t she? I thought she was hanged. And how could this—this despicable excuse for a brother come here with such a request?

  “You call her ‘impostor’?” the foreign prince demands in Menay.

  “I call her what she is,” Alyrra replies coolly. Then, to the soldiers: “Please stay with our guests through their visit and escort them home after. I would not want anything to happen on their way through the city. Report to me once you return.”

  “Where have you been keeping her?” the foreign prince demands.

  “You will see,” Alyrra says, gesturing toward the soldiers. Captain Matsin bows, and with a rustle of clothing the men leave, the prince swearing under his breath, loud enough for all to hear.

  “Zaria?” Alyrra turns to us, her face paler than usual and two bright spots burning in her cheeks.

  “Yes, zayyida,” Zaria says, her eyes wide.

  “Valka will have been bu
ried by now, won’t she?”

  Zaria nods emphatically. “The king granted your request. I’m sure it was done at once.”

  “Then at least it won’t be too gruesome. Let us finish dressing.”

  Zaria hesitates. “Zayyida, should we—is there anyone we should inform?”

  Alyrra looks at her, her lips parted to refuse, and then she blinks. It is as if she has never before had anyone who would care to know before now. What sort of mother does she have—what family is this?

  “I will write a short note for Kestrin. Amraeya, will you summon a page for me?”

  By the time the boy arrives, the note is signed and sealed, and he departs with it at once. Not ten minutes later, Kestrin knocks at the door. Alyrra meets him in the inner sitting room. Zaria and I hover by the door, for it isn’t quite proper for them to be alone.

  “You are well?” Kestrin asks, crossing the room to Alyrra. He comes to a stop opposite her, his gaze running over her as if he might discover some harm done to her. Bruises, I think, remembering her reaction to my wrist. That is the sort of man her brother is. My stomach tightens into a knot.

  “I am perfectly fine. Though I would prefer not to see my brother again tonight.”

  Kestrin nods sharply. “I’ll see to it. I’m going to assign Matsin and his quad to you for the rest of your family’s visit. The quads you have are all good men, but Matsin knows your family.”

  “He does,” Alyrra agrees. “I would rather not hide, Kestrin.”

  “You won’t.” The words are fierce. “Should your brother be fool enough to try anything here, he will learn what Menaiya is made of.”

  I stiffen, startled by the restrained fury in his voice. Alyrra does not answer.

  “Forgive me,” Kestrin says after a brief silence. “I spoke in anger. But I will not allow such a man to trifle with you.”

  “I appreciate that,” Alyrra says finally. “But this is my battle to fight.”

  “Then I will stand by you.” Moving forward, he takes her hand and presses it between his own. “I am here for you.”

  “I know it, verayn,” she says. My lord, a typical conjugation of “verin,” but it feels like something more here, her voice heavy with emotion.

  He squeezes her hand. “Kelari Amraeya?”

  I blink, surprised to find the prince has turned his attention to me. I wasn’t sure he even saw us here. He trains his gaze on me, regal and powerful and not the sort of man I might argue with. Zaria remains perfectly still beside me.

  “You are the newest of our attendants, so I will just mention this: an attendant can be dismissed only by the person they serve. You understand?”

  “Completely.”

  “Good. I shall be counting on you—on all of the attendants—to maintain your posts regardless of what may happen.”

  I can only hope that whatever it is Kestrin fears might truly be prevented by our presence.

  Chapter

  19

  That evening and the following morning pass quietly, with no sign of the foreign prince or the impostor’s father. Mina and Zaria attend Alyrra at breakfast. I watch Mina upon their return, but she glances at me only once, with a minute shake of her head. It tells me nothing at all, other than, I suppose, not to ask anything aloud, which I wouldn’t have done regardless.

  Alyrra sends Mina and Zaria out to dress, and drifts over to gaze at the silk tunic and skirt made specifically for the wedding ceremony this afternoon. The pale pink tunic and deeper rose skirt are exquisitely embroidered with gold thread and pearls. Her fingers brush over the embroidery, flip the hem of the tunic. She seems pensive.

  Today’s ceremony is the smallest of the celebrations to take place: the formal wedding itself, preceding the various banquets and festivities that celebrate it. She won’t be considered actually married until the end of the week, when the final wedding processional and feast are held. After all, a wedding that only lasts a day is hardly a wedding at all.

  Unless, perhaps, Alyrra is used to other traditions for a wedding, or a different sort of dress from what lies before her.

  “Do you miss the type of clothes you used to wear in Adania?” I ask, remembering Mina’s description from last night of the queen’s strange long dress, with its tight bodice and many-layered skirts.

  Alyrra shakes her head. “No. I prefer the dress of Menaiya.”

  “No one would fault you for occasionally wearing something from your own home. At least, I don’t think so. . . .” Then again, what do I know? It would be wiser, perhaps, to ask Mina.

  Alyrra just grins. “No, thank you. Your clothes are much more comfortable.”

  “Comfortable?” I repeat, taken aback. The outfit before her is so heavy and stiff with embroidery, I’d hardly call it that.

  “They’re easier to breathe in. I don’t have to worry about being able to move. Admittedly, I often adapted my clothes after my mother had them made so that they gave me a little more space.”

  “That’s . . . huh.”

  She chortles with laughter. “Amraeya, you must work on your ability to cover your disbelief.”

  “Well. You just told me your people care more about how a woman looks than if she can breathe. Pardon me if I don’t know how to be polite about that.”

  “We are not completely backward.”

  “I did not say a word about being backward. But I think it’s just as well you came here. And not only because now you can breathe.”

  “No, of course not,” she agrees, and wipes her eyes. “But I do breathe easier here, and for that I’m grateful.”

  I have the distinct feeling we are no longer talking about Adanian dress.

  I wait, but she doesn’t say anything, and I take the chance to change the subject to the one thing I can’t bring up around any of the other attendants. “Zayyida, I wanted to speak with you about another matter. We discussed it before, that other day in the wooded courtyard.”

  She nods, her smile giving way to a clear, focused look. “Excellent. Would you just close the door?”

  I nod and do as she bids. She takes a seat on a carved armchair with a brocade seat and back, and gestures me to its twin. I ease myself down and launch into a description of my meeting with Artemian and Bren, their advice for her to develop her own quads and look to changing the laws.

  “Who did the second man say he was?” Alyrra asks.

  “He called himself Bren.”

  “That’s . . . not particularly Menaiyan, is it?”

  I shake my head. “No, it doesn’t fit. It may just be an alias. Do you know . . .” I hesitate, try again, “Have you met Red Hawk himself? This man acted like Artemian’s superior, but he wouldn’t tell me anything when I asked.”

  “We’ve met,” the princess says. “Red Hawk was . . . quiet and serious, and dangerously sharp. He was also unexpectedly kind.”

  “Someone different, then, I suppose.” Bren had been more abrasive than kind. And I wouldn’t have called him quiet and serious by a long shot. “At any rate, he also intimated that some of the children who are snatched end up in the city.”

  “You mean they are enslaved here?”

  I nod. “He will arrange to show me one such place in the next few days, I believe. I’ll be able to tell you more then.”

  Alyrra nods, her face pale and her eyes bright with anger. “Well done, Amraeya. I’ll look forward to hearing more from you. I am working with Kestrin to recruit the men I need for my own quads, but I suspect for something like this, a royal quad assigned as my bodyguards will not do. I’ll speak to Kestrin about how it should be set up, though the actual work will have to wait until after the wedding.” She pauses. “That goes for the laws as well. If word gets out that I am looking to change laws before I am even properly wed, that could make things difficult—regardless of my intentions.”

  “It’s only a week,” I point out. “And by then, I may have more information for you.”

  Alyrra smiles. “I look forward to it.” She glances ove
r to her wedding clothes, sighs. “I should like a few minutes of quiet before getting ready for the ceremony.”

  “Of course, zayyida.”

  I rise and dip a curtsy, my foot aching, and slip away to wait in the outer sitting room. I settle on the sofa, carefully wiggling my feet loose in their slippers. I don’t want them off in case anyone enters, but I’ll take a moment’s respite.

  I look up as the hall door swings open and find myself staring at the foreign prince. I blink, as if clearing my eyesight might take him away again. But no, he strides into the room, his teeth bared in a dangerous smile.

  “Where is my sister?” he demands as I rise from my seat on the sofa, smashing my feet back into my slippers.

  “Zayyida Alyrra is resting—”

  “Good. Stay here.” He pivots, making for the door.

  “She doesn’t wish to be disturbed,” I say, my voice sharp. He can’t go in there—not alone, not unannounced, and not with that look on his face.

  He ignores me, stepping through the door and shutting it behind him. I break into a shambling run, remembering Kestrin’s reminder not to let myself be dismissed. I wish, suddenly and desperately, that another attendant were here. Even Jasmine I would be grateful for. But the entrance to the attendants’ suite is off the main hall as well, and it’s only me here.

  I push the connecting door open, but the inner sitting room lies empty.

  “Zayyida,” I gasp out as I hurry across to the wide-open door of the princess’s bedchamber. Oh, why can’t I run faster?

  As I near, I hear the foreign prince spit a word that I don’t need translated to guess the meaning of. The princess makes a small sound. She’s afraid. I push myself forward till I gain the door to her room. Brother and sister face each other, Alyrra beside the bed, the foreign prince a couple of paces before her.

  As I watch, he asks her something. She straightens her shoulders as she answers, looking more the princess—and he lunges for her.

  She throws herself to the side, but she’s not quite fast enough. His hand closes on her elbow, dragging her back viciously.

 

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