“Your slippers,” my attendant says patiently.
Gritting my teeth, I slide out my feet, ignoring her hiss of shock, and pass the slippers to her. She takes them gingerly. I turn my back on her and finish undressing. My turned foot may feel better, but it’s still pink and covered with the remains of blisters. There’s nothing to be done but hope no one looks down. It’s a stupid, pointless hope, but I find that I can occasionally be quite good at those.
But it isn’t my foot that draws attention in the changing room; it is Alyrra—or her scars, to be exact. I knew she had a few, a pale curving scar over her knuckles, and another thin scar on her right arm, but as she undresses, three, four, five more come to light. These are not the small scars of nicks and scratches; each of these bears witness to a larger accident in its own right . . . or not an accident at all. I press one hand against my bruised cheek and look away. This is all wrong.
But no one says a word; whatever story is written on Alyrra’s body, she is a princess and that is a question even Havila won’t ask. Instead, the older noblewoman leads the party into the main room, where an actual pool of faintly mineral-scented water waits, steam rising from its surface. Our own bathhouse in Sheltershorn contains a room of benches with buckets to be filled with heated water, and drains in the floor to take away the water.
Melly finds me and, after a quick embrace, points out where a few older women are gathered to one side. “They can’t manage the steps, so there are buckets there. You can use them as well, if you’d like.”
Rather than plunge my foot in the near-scalding water of the pool? “Thank you,” I say with undisguised gratitude, and go off to join the women. Havila remains by the large pool, a servant hurrying to bring her a stool, and there she sits while an attendant washes her down, chatting with the foreign queen who cannot quite bring herself to enter the pool and eventually calls for her own stool.
The rhythm of the bath, though more elaborate, is familiar to me: bathing, scrubbing our skin raw with goat-hair mitts and black soap, entering the steam room with its heated stones, and then a massage—though here, there are attendants to massage us, and no one trades massages with their friends, just as no one has to scrub themselves. But, like home, this is a social time, a time to catch up and reminisce and share stories.
And, like home, there are all different types of bodies here, tall and short, thick and thin, though palace folk tend toward more curves.
“You’ve such strong muscles!” my attendant tells me, drawing a couple of amused looks, but beyond that, I feel strangely comfortable here. After all, there is Havila with her cane, laughing and demanding joking tribute and ordering the court around her, Alyrra tucked safely beneath her wing, and the foreign queen beside them, her expression reserved but not contemptuous.
Yes, I realize with some surprise. That is what has put me at ease: Havila, strong and capable and granting no concession to those who might see her weak knee as a vulnerability. She owns her body even here, where all can see it, and I find myself in awe of her.
I close my eyes as my attendant applies a thin clay mask to my face, and try to imagine not caring what others think of me—to be so sure of my power and place that I can demand others’ respect and ignore those who do not grant it. But I am not Havila. I will never be a noblewoman of her rank or stature. And my deformity came at birth, not with age.
“Try to relax,” my attendant says, laying a hand on my shoulder.
I nod and rest my head against the warmed stone I lie upon. But my body tightens again, as if anger were a thing I am used to cradling within me. I can’t seem to find a way to lay it down, to let go of the resentment within me. Why must I always be made aware of how others see me? I don’t want to keep carrying this sense of being judged and found lacking. I don’t want to be made to feel less just because my foot is turned one way instead of another. It still bears me forward every day of my life.
“Time to wash off,” my attendant chirps.
I sit up and follow her to a rinsing station: a bench before a tap that offers a stream of hot water. Alyrra has already moved back to the room with its soaking pool. I rub away my clay mask and continue after her, pretending that somehow, before I leave the baths, I will be able to wash away the things I no longer wish to carry.
It is a nice dream.
Chapter
25
It is nearly evening when we finish at the bathhouse. After the final rinse in the pool, there were refreshments, mint tea, biscuits, and pastries. No one dared depart until the princess did.
Dinner tonight will be a private affair, and Alyrra has given both Jasmine and me the rest of the day off. We share a quiet meal in the common room before retiring to our respective bedrooms. I’m delighted to find a letter waiting on my desk: the first from home that I’ve received. I devour the cheerful missive from Mama, with interjections from my father duly noted, and little messages added at the bottom from my sisters.
I smile as I read. Bean is ever so glad I’ve left, as she is going to Spring Fair for the first time, departing in a few days, though a glance at the date on the letter tells me they must have left by now. The fair itself will be preceded by a celebration for the royal wedding on the day of the wedding processional. So she will have that pleasure as well, even if she did not make it to the king’s city.
Mama and Niya are looking forward to a quiet couple of weeks at home; they have hired extra help for the horses, and Mama mentions the likelihood that they’ll get the spring washing done so that they can put away all the heavy blankets and winter cloaks. Ani, my mother says, is doing as well as can be expected. Niya and Bean have made a point to visit her twice, and her other friends in town have also been keeping her company. Mama has encouraged her to write to me, so perhaps I will hear from her soon.
I begin a response at once. I have only just finished that and begun a letter to Ani when a knock comes at my door.
I open it to find a page. He glances once toward the empty common room, black hair flopping over his forehead, and whispers, “A friend of a friend wishes to see you at once.”
“A—what?”
The boy flicks me a sharp look. “You know.”
I don’t.
He checks the common room once more, and mutters, “Red Hawk.”
Oh. “Himself? Or—?”
“His men,” the boy says, clearly peeved with my country stupidity. “You know the Tattered Crow?”
I nod. It’s where Sage and I met Bren for the first time. Though how I’ll find my way there alone, I can’t say. However, I’m not about to admit that as well.
The page bows. “At once, kelari. If you can.”
He departs, leaving me wondering just how accomplished Red Hawk is, that he has servants in the palace who carry his messages. Or Bren’s messages, as the case may be.
Never mind. I need to go; it’s already dark, and I do not want to be out on the streets alone late at night. Sheltershorn is safe enough, but I suspect the city is different. Perhaps I can hire someone to guide me; after all, the Tattered Crow is an established business and not itself a secret location.
I change quickly, slipping into a comfortable tunic and skirt set from home, and wrapping Niya’s story sash about my waist. Coins and my knife, I remind myself. And whatever protections her magic might offer, though I have no intention of being cursed tonight. I take along a few spare coins in my pocket, in case I’m able to hire a guide.
Down the back stairs, I head toward the side exit of the palace so any nobles won’t take note of my departure as they might in the main halls. As I turn down a quiet hall, though, I find that not all the nobles are congregated at dinner, for there, walking together, are Genno Stonemane and the Fae mage, Adept Midael. They are both dressed elegantly, their fashion more Fae than Menaiyan today, with long flowing robes trimmed in braid.
Stonemane catches sight of me at once, his brows rising, and then he turns and says something to his companion. Midael flashes me a singl
e curious glance, dips his head, and departs in the other direction.
I admit to being curious myself. I continue down the hall, aware of my uneven gait as Stonemane glides toward me, his robes rippling around him.
“Kelari Amraeya,” he says, dipping a bow.
“Verin,” I say, making my own curtsy. “You are well tonight?”
“I am.” He pauses, and I can feel his gaze resting on my cheek. I keep my eyes firmly on his chest, which is much less unnerving than the otherworldliness of his eyes. “I was glad to see you at the ceremony and dinner.”
Ah. He’s checking on me, as he hadn’t been able to before the whole of the court. It’s sweet in a wholly unexpected way. “Thank you,” I tell him.
He nods, his gaze flicking over me and then—pausing. “Your sash is . . . intriguing.”
Light and shadow! “Do you think so?” I say as lightly as I can. I was hoping Niya’s work was subtler than that.
He lifts his hand, tapping his opposite arm once. For a heartbeat, the sounds around me dim, the distant murmur of the world falling away, and then the sensation passes and it’s as if the hallway brightens once more.
“A guard against listening ears,” Stonemane says to reassure me. And then, in answer to my question, “Unless someone sees them at work, you should be able to pass off your sister’s wards as typical. Though they are certainly novel in their design. If the wards are activated, though, you would arguably have other, larger problems to deal with. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“If you can see all that, then . . .”
“Fae, remember?” he says, well-deep eyes rising to meet my gaze.
As if I could forget. “Would it be better not to wear the sash at all?”
“After your most recent experiences at court? I would recommend wearing it at all times.” Stonemane’s voice is deceptively blithe for how the planes of his face have hardened, his eyes reflecting no light at all.
I swallow. “Is the foreign prince . . . he’s not a mage, is he?”
“Not a drop of magic in his blood,” Stonemane says. “And now I had best go, before I commit some sort of political blunder.”
Such as warning me to ward myself against the foreign prince, because even if he doesn’t have magic, he might still find a way to use it against me?
“Thank you, verin,” I say, amused.
He dips his head, an answering smile upon his lips.
I continue on, managing to leave the palace without meeting anyone else I know. I slip out the side exit of the palace walls, nodding to the guards there, and make my way around to West Road. My turned foot aches a little, but it’s well cushioned and should weather a little walking just fine. The streets are quieter now, though there are still women walking about, mostly in pairs and trios, but their presence is reassuring. Just as I am trying to decide how to hire a guide to get me to the inn, Artemian steps out of the shadow of a nearby building.
“Hallo, Rae,” he says cheerfully.
“Oh, good,” I say with desperate relief. “At least you’ll know where we’re going.”
He laughs. “That I do.”
“Which is not the Tattered Crow,” I hazard.
“Not at all,” he agrees. “This way.”
We follow West Road another block before crossing over it to dive into the streets and alleys beyond.
As I accompany Artemian down a side street so old none of the pavers lie flat, I ask, “So what does it mean, precisely, to be the friend of a friend?”
Artemian glances at me, his mouth curved in a disbelieving smile pulled tight at one corner by his scar. “Tell me you’ve at least heard of Red Hawk.”
“And the Black Scholar and Bardok Three-Fingers, yes.”
“A friend of a friend means one of Red Hawk’s men. Or women.”
“He has women?” I’m not sure I like the sound of that.
“Certainly, but he treats them as he does his men. We’re all thieves, Rae. Nothing more, and nothing less.”
There is more to anyone than what they do to earn a living, but I don’t argue it with Artemian—that isn’t his point.
We turn down a street that looks vaguely familiar. “Are we—is this the way to the brickmaker’s place?”
“It is. We’d have preferred to keep to the west side, but it seemed best, in this case, to stay as close to where we started as we could,” he says, his voice all business now. “It’s getting cool. Perhaps we should put up our hoods?”
He tugs up his own cloak hood, and I do the same. We’re entering the Black Scholar’s territory again, and I don’t at all want to meet with a second thieving ring tonight.
We continue on a ways, turning a few more corners into unfamiliar streets. As we pass a pair of men chatting to one side, they nod to Artemian, then return to their conversation, but their eyes continuously scan the street. Lookouts.
“Why is it best for you to stay in someone else’s territory?” I ask, unable to tamp down my unease.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Because if you must trespass, it’s best to stay hidden and only move when you’re sure no one is looking. In here.”
Artemian knocks a quick pattern on a door, and a moment later it swings open to admit us. I stop on the threshold. There, gathered together in a knot to one side, are the brickmaker’s boys. Every single one of them, from the frightened seven-year-old to the boy with the infected cut on his hand, now black around the edges. Seated cross-legged beside them is an old woman, her hair braided back and three items set beside her: a bucket of water, a silver cup, and a white opal. She wears the sky-blue robes of a Speaker, the hem frayed.
On the other side of them sits Bren, his head bent as he speaks quietly with the boys.
“Ready, then?” the Speaker asks, looking from Bren to Artemian and me.
Bren gestures toward me, eyes on the Speaker. “If you would allow the kelari a few minutes to chat with the boys?”
“Of course, though I do not like to wait. Until they are blessed, their safety is not assured.”
I stare at Bren. “You—?”
He meets my gaze, and while his expression remains steady, his eyes glow with amusement. I no doubt look like a country idiot, staring at him in shock.
“We’ve spoken with the boys already, but I thought you might want to ask for yourself how each of them ended up here.”
He returns his attention to the eldest boy, just beside him. “The kelari is trying to stop the snatchers. She’s working for the royal family. Whatever you tell her, she’ll use to help other children.”
The boy and the others around him look up at me, and then away. They are waiting, and I realize in this moment that they do not yet believe they are free. They are still in someone else’s power, still held captive, and they will not truly believe they have escaped until they have returned to their families—if their families can be found. And even then, they will take some part of their prison with them, a trauma they may struggle against the rest of their lives.
I kneel beside Bren. One by one, they admit their stories. One boy joined a pair of travelers who promised to help him find work in the city and then sold him to a middleman whom the brickmaker bought him from. But every one of the remaining five were snatched from the villages where they lived, hidden in false-bottom wagons and then moved to riverboats. All five lived north of the city, and were brought down the river to Tarinon.
Riverboats and false-bottom wagons. No people yet, no names, but a mode of transport is something.
“We should proceed,” the Speaker says, one hand gripping the cup. She’s filled it, droplets of water shining on its side.
Bren nods, glancing back at me. “Rae?”
“Yes, go ahead,” I say.
I’ve never watched the Blessing to cleanse a child of the Darkness. It’s curiously simple. The Speaker presses the opal to the youngest boy’s forehead, murmuring a prayer, speaks another prayer over the cup, and passes it to him to drink from. What’s far more disturbing is
the shudder that runs through him around his third or fourth sip, the way his hand sags and the Speaker rescues the cup from his uncertain grip without letting a drop spill.
He looks around, his eyes huge and wary. “What’s happening?” he asks in a high, wavering voice. “Where is my mama?”
“We’ll send you home to her,” Bren says, one hand reaching to rest on the boy’s arm. “You’ll be all right now.”
I cannot quite place his tone, the timbre of his voice. There is an ache there that makes my own heart clench.
The Speaker moves on to the next boy, quickly dipping the cup into the bucket and beginning over again. He reacts with similar confusion, though he narrows his eyes as he looks at the other boys around him. Perhaps he has been with the brickmaker long enough that the Blessing does not reach as far back as the days when he was free.
On the third boy, something goes wrong. He grunts as he holds the cup to his lips, his whole body jerking. The Speaker leans forward, grabbing the cup and shoving it between his lips as his eyes roll back. And the other three unblessed boys are seizing up as well. I freeze as the men surge forward, each reaching for a different boy.
The Darkness. It’s rising up in them, and the boys cannot drink now, cannot control their bodies at all.
Bren grabs the third, half-blessed boy, holding his head straight as the Speaker pours a sip of water in his mouth, one hand locking the boy’s mouth shut so that, a moment later, he swallows. “Another,” Bren says roughly, opening the boy’s mouth. He’s shuddering but not seizing up anymore, and he’s able to take the next sip with only a little help.
But the other three boys are wheezing and crying out, their bodies jerking, their eyes rolling back. Artemian holds the eldest gently, allowing the boy’s body to twist.
The Theft of Sunlight Page 18