“Bren,” I say, suddenly terrified. There are four of them. How can he possibly get away safely?
“Run.”
I turn tail and flee down the nearest alley, my uneven gait loud in my ears. I hear a shout behind me. Bren snarls in response, and then I can hear nothing but the uneven thud of my own feet on the packed earth. I reach the corner, my breath coming short and hard.
A hand closes on my tunic, yanking me back. I stumble as the man behind me wrenches me against him. He is tall and barrel-chested and stinks of sweat. I try to twist away, Matsin’s lesson from this morning flashing through my mind, and then the man’s other hand comes up to press a knife cold and sharp against my throat.
And then there’s no running at all.
Chapter
27
Barrelchest marches me back down the alley, one arm twisted behind me and the dagger sharp and unforgiving at my neck.
“Got her,” he announces as we near the fight.
Until that moment, Bren was doing well. Even against three men. One of them crouches on the ground to the side, his hand wrapped tight around his arm, dark liquid dribbling down to the cobblestones. The other two have Bren retreating toward us, blades flashing as they attempt to storm him, and yet he continually maneuvers one behind the other so that they cannot reach him together. He moves like a dancer—until he sees me in Barrelchest’s grip.
Swearing a black streak, he steps back, raising his blades in a move that has the other two men stepping back as well. “What do you want with her?”
“Her?” the leader asks. “Nothing at all. Unless she’s something to you. You’re the one requiring a lesson.”
Barrelchest shifts his hold on his knife, the point cutting into the tender skin below my jaw. I inhale sharply, pressing back against his bulk because there’s nowhere else to go.
Bren eyes the men speculatively. “I think,” he says slowly, as if pondering his words, “you had better take us to visit your master.”
The man with the goatee laughs. “The Scholar doesn’t take to trespassers. He’ll be less kind than we will.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Bren says. “How exactly do you plan to teach your lesson?”
The leader shrugs. “I think we beat you till you can’t stand, and then we take that girl of yours and escort her—”
“I think not,” Bren says, his voice cutting through the man’s. I swallow hard, wishing I could pull away from Barrelchest. I don’t want to know how that sentence would have ended. “You had better take us in now.”
The leader hesitates, staring. This isn’t what he expected. “You go in to meet the Scholar, you’re dead.”
Bren shrugs, palming his daggers. They vanish without a trace. “That’s up to the Scholar. Lead the way.”
“I’ll take those,” the leader says, gesturing as if to point to the disappeared daggers.
“Off my dead body,” Bren agrees. “Should you be so lucky. Lead the way.”
“Not with your blades at my back.”
“Oh no? And what of your blades?” Bren grins, to all appearances perversely enjoying the situation. Eventually, one of the men goes ahead, followed by Bren and the leader side by side, and Barrelchest and I bring up the rear. He allows me to walk beside him, but he keeps his hand at my back, the dagger’s point pressing into the fabric of my tunic. The wounded man, his arm temporarily bound, slips away, no doubt to seek out a healer.
Barrelchest doesn’t have patience for my limp, shoving me along in front of him whenever he grows aggravated with my slowness. Bren keeps up a muted conversation with his companion, as if they were the best of enemies, and if it weren’t for the one glance he darts my way as they turn a corner, his face going eerily hard and ungiving as his gaze skims Barrelchest, I’d think he didn’t much care how I came along. No one we pass dares a glance at me—or Bren.
Surely this isn’t how people disappear? Being walked down the street with a threat at their backs, and no one looking twice or speaking up? And yet there is no arguing with the fact that we walk unimpeded right to the Black Scholar’s lair.
I don’t know where I thought the Black Scholar would make his headquarters: a tumbledown old building, or perhaps private rooms in an inn. I am completely and utterly wrong. The Black Scholar’s place of work is a library with soaring ceilings and wide windows. This late at night, heavy velvet curtains have been drawn across the windows. They reflect a red so deep it is nearly black. Shelves line the walls, or stand back to back, marching into the rear of the room, and, if they are not full, they are certainly well-populated with books. Here at the front, a large table sits surrounded by chairs. And by the window stands a single armchair accompanied by an ornate circular side table, two books at rest on its surface.
A slim hand reaches out and places a third book on the table. I start, not having seen the man sitting in the armchair. Given that he’s dressed in a long black robe, I suppose it’s no surprise I didn’t notice him at first, even with the lamplight to brighten the room. He rises, his eyes barely registering me. They are focused, instead, on Bren.
“What have we here?”
“One of Red Hawk’s men, sir. Found him trespassing—”
“Is that so?” The Black Scholar frowns, crossing the distance between us with the faint swish of fabric. Like his hands, he is long and slender, the robes draping elegantly over his figure. His eyebrows are dark, accenting well-shaped eyes. His carefully trimmed mustache and beard set him apart from the rougher looks of our captors. His manner is cultured, urbane.
The leader of our little escort hesitates and keeps quiet, aware that there is more going on here than he knows. Though what that is, I couldn’t say either.
“Evening,” Bren says, clearly amused.
The Black Scholar raises a hand to adjust his robes, sliding his fingers over the trim at the front. His clothes beneath the robes are black as well. I stifle a shudder—scholars may certainly wear clothes and robes like his, but their tunics and pants are typically light, and their robes range from the soft blue of winter sky to the earthen brown of rich farmland; I can think of only one time I ever saw a scholar wear anything close to this: an elderly man who elected to wear a muted gray. Black looks terribly harsh in contrast, as if there were no space for uncertainty here, no place for thoughtful debate. There is only the black of his robe, absolute.
“Indeed it is,” he says, as if Bren had made a comment on the time of day. He gestures toward the men who brought us in. “You may go.”
“But, kel . . .”
“I said, you may go,” the Scholar snaps. Barrelchest releases his hold on me, retreating to the door.
“Kel,” the leader tries again. “The man is armed.”
“Of course he is. Even if you managed to take his daggers, I doubt you could have completely disarmed him. Not without killing him.”
Bren offers the Scholar a slight bow. What, was that a compliment to him? I try to catch his eye, but he acts as if I’m not even there.
The Scholar’s men make no further argument, though they glance at each other surreptitiously as they leave.
“Hold,” the Scholar barks just as the leader reaches the door.
“Kel?”
“Double the guards at the doors and below the windows.”
“Yes, kel.”
Bren tuts softly as the door closes. “What of the roof?”
“It’s sealed off,” the Scholar says. “Though you may certainly attempt it.”
I swallow hard. This is sounding much worse than it did a moment ago. Bren chuckles, waving away this offer as if it were a tray of sweets he has no interest in trying.
“And who, may I inquire, is this delightful young lady?” the Scholar asks, turning to me. I feel my stomach drop to my knees.
“I—um . . .” I glance toward Bren.
“Her name’s Silaria, but she goes by Ria.”
The Scholar holds up one long-fingered hand to silence Bren, watching me wi
th eyes as hard as gemstones. “And what were you doing in this part of town, dear Ria, in such auspicious company as our friend’s here, in the dark of the night?”
“I—I was trying to find someone,” I stutter, trying not to think of how very many armed men the Black Scholar must have, considering the orders he just gave. I gesture toward Bren, wary of sharing the name he gave me. “He offered to help me.”
“Did he?” the Scholar murmurs, his face inscrutable. “I see. And did you end up finding your someone?”
I risk another glance at Bren, but his expression offers me nothing. “Yes,” I say, my hands wrapped into fists around my skirts.
“Do tell.”
I take a slow breath. Bren is one of Red Hawk’s men, and he’s already told me how dangerous it is for him to be trespassing on the Scholar’s territory. I know how to lie—I’ve always lied as necessary to protect Niya—and I’ll do the same for Bren now. I make myself meet the Scholar’s gaze and say steadily, “I live in the country, kel, but I’ve been visiting family in the city the last week or two. For the royal wedding. Just after I arrived, a good friend wrote, saying her cousin was snatched here. I started looking for the child’s mother to offer my support. I was asking everyone I could, and someone introduced us”—I nod at Bren—“and he helped me find her. The mother, I mean.”
It’s not as gathered as I would have liked, but I haven’t spent a lifetime thinking up these lies. All I can do is hope I don’t trip myself up.
“All in the last week?” he asks mildly.
I nod, looking him in the eye as if I had nothing to hide.
“News certainly travels fast to and from the country.”
“The royal couriers,” Bren says easily, which is just as well, as my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. “Ria’s town is on one of their busier routes.”
“Of course. And you”—he inclines his head toward Bren—“were only being helpful.”
Bren grins. “You know me well enough to know I only get involved in things I have an interest in.” The way he says interest sounds more like a stake in a profitable venture than a question of personal curiosity. And how would the Scholar know him that well?
The Scholar returns Bren’s smile, his features suddenly wolfish as he bares his teeth. “Would this interest have anything to do with entering my neighborhoods?”
Bren spreads his hands. “I would not need such a paltry excuse as this to come here, if I wished—and if I meant to cause trouble, I would have brought a few friends along.”
Which he did, but apparently, they are still safely hidden.
“Something else, then.”
“It would seem so.”
Bren and the Scholar face each other, their expressions slightly bemused, and for the space of a few breaths, no one says anything, as if a silent discussion were taking place between them. I eye Bren narrowly, wondering what I am missing.
Then the Scholar smiles, a cold twist of his lips. “Well, my boy, I don’t much like finding you trespassing on my neighborhoods. I will have three things from you by sunrise tomorrow: what Red Hawk’s interest is in this young lady’s story; his word that his men will keep to his streets in future.” The Scholar pauses, tilting his head to assess me. “And one hundred gold coins.”
I gape at him. A hundred gold coins? That’s a prince’s ransom! Perhaps if we pooled all my jewelry with Melly’s, and Filadon dipped into his own purse—but how would Bren even know to go to them? He’ll go to the princess, or at least send a page to her. The thought brings intense relief. Alyrra will help.
“That may be more than his interest,” Bren says softly, and brings all my newfound hopes crashing down. “At least be reasonable.”
“I am,” the Scholar replies, clasping his hands in a strange parody of an earnest student. “I have taken this whole situation very seriously. I suggest you find out your answer. You have, as I said, until sunrise. If that isn’t reasonable, I don’t know what is.”
Bren nods and moves to the door, offering me a single apologetic glance. A feeling like lead in my veins fills me, deadening my nerves and slowing my thoughts. He is leaving. Without me. And he won’t come back. Not after that look. I take one step to follow him, and find my wrist in the cool, long-fingered grasp of the Scholar. “Now, my dear, we must wait till morning.”
“But—”
“Ah-ah,” he tuts as if I were a naughty child. “You are my guest tonight.”
“My family will worry, and . . .” I cut myself off only just in time. It would be strategically suicidal, at this point, to mention the princess.
“I’m sure your friend can get them a message,” the Scholar says, sounding bored. His grasp tightens a little, exerting the slightest of pressure, but his point is clear enough. He has no intention of letting me go.
I turn to Bren, who is now carefully avoiding my glance as he opens the door. “You will send them a message?” I beg. If he will only get in touch with Alyrra, she’ll pay the ransom. If nothing else, she’ll know I will find a way to repay her, even if I must spend the rest of my life doing it. Only it’s too late for a page to be allowed to disturb her, and she doesn’t usually rise until well past sunrise. . . .
“I’ll let them know,” Bren says, nodding at the guards, who look in at us with interest.
“Conduct him out,” the Scholar says, indicating Bren. “And one of you please tell Irayna to ready the guest room.”
I stand stock-still, every sense screaming at me to follow Bren, to grab him and shake him and demand he take me with him. But I can’t move. Even without the manacle of the Scholar’s cool fingers wrapped about my wrist, my feet are rooted to the ground, as if I no longer had legs at all but stood upon a single immovable trunk. Bren has left me as surety against the Scholar’s demands. Surety against one hundred gold pieces, with no way to pay them. He won’t come back.
The Scholar releases me, returning to his armchair, where he settles himself comfortably, his robes smoothed out upon his lap, the book once more in his hands. I watch him, head turned.
“I don’t suppose you country girls are taught to appreciate the finer arts,” the Scholar says with biting contempt, “but you are welcome to browse my library while your room is being readied.”
I stare at him.
He directs me toward the stacks with his eyes, then returns his attention to his book. There is no sound from outside, no boots passing along the hall, no voices drifting down stairways to us. Nothing. I wait, listening, as if by mere force of will I could make Bren come back and take me with him.
The Scholar turns a page, glancing my way as if amused. I close my eyes, gather my courage, and find myself thinking of Bean, who never sits still and never stops trying. She would have hollered at Bren, stamped her foot, and, if still finding herself captive, stomped over to the stacks to complain in a loud and carrying voice about the pathetic selection before her, regardless of its actual value.
My breath comes a little easier with that imagining. My feet drag themselves free, and while I don’t stomp over to the stacks, neither do I stumble. I trace the spines of the books before me, pull one out. Poetry.
He smote the dragon high
Twixt the ear and the eye
The Sword returned to bite his neck
And so fell foolish Recknameck
I stifle a groan. Bean would have burst out laughing at this rubbish. I slide the book back and make my way down the shelf, hoping only to pass time, distract myself from what might happen tomorrow morning if Bren doesn’t deliver up a hundred gold coins. But very soon I’m engrossed in what I find.
Recknameck is the worst of the books available, for the shelf holds also some of the great poets of old, ancient ballads, and—as I pass to the next shelf—histories, logbooks, and political treatises. I browse through the books, pulling out this red leather tome with gold leafing, then looking through that aged brown volume so worn the title stamped on the cover is nothing more than a series of ridges. As I pu
ll out another history, a small book no larger than my own hand falls from the shelf. I stoop to retrieve it.
The cover is weather-stained, the pages so thin they crackle as I turn them. Intrigued, I sink down where I stand, sitting cross-legged with my skirts in a rumple around me, and begin to read.
It is an account of the so-called Fae Attack roughly one hundred years ago. Not to misrepresent—they attacked because our own fool of a king attacked their land some twenty years before that, looting and pillaging before returning home. As long-lived as Faeries seem to be, their memories are equally enduring. They repaid his visit in kind, and it was during those bloody years that much of our royal family was slaughtered. And, as some claim, a curse was laid upon the Family, so that their numbers have continued to dwindle, leaving us now with only the king, his son, and Verin Garrin.
Zaria’s words about the real reason for the Fae delegation’s presence come back to me—a curse, she had said. Perhaps I should not have dismissed her words out of hand. Filadon hinted that Kestrin had not been able to look at issues such as the slavers because of what he termed “more pressing concerns”—and that Alyrra had helped him when he most needed it. Somehow.
It seems an unlikely possibility that there might be dark magic at work here. . . . Yet, for the royal family to welcome a powerful Fae mage, unsworn to Menaiya? There must be some hidden trouble, with a very real possibility that the Fae are at the heart of it. Still, it seems unlikely at best that the journal in my hands might shed some light on just what has haunted our royal family. Yet I can’t help being drawn into the account before me.
The journal is written in a light, elegant hand, the script flowing and perfectly formed. It takes me a few pages to discover the author’s identity: a woman archer among the king’s elite guard, part of a quad of archers who served in his bodyguard—unusual but not unheard of. What’s curious are the doubts she holds concerning her king.
We march for Lirelei today, she writes. The king remains adamant that a small show of force will drive back the marauders—that they are nothing more than pretty-faced pirates. I fear he underestimates them. Dare I suggest otherwise? Or will he think I criticize him? Fastu spoke out, albeit foolishly, and look where he ended: his bow broken along with his fingers and arms, left for a beggar in the street. Better not to speak. I will string my bow, and protect my people, and keep my tongue still.
The Theft of Sunlight Page 20