The Theft of Sunlight

by Intisar Khanani

  “Are you all right?” Artemian asks.

  I nod into the folds of my skirt, but I’m not. Tears have begun to leak out my eyes, God only knows why. I sniffle, try to blink my eyes clear. Why would I cry? That stupid boy-man, laughing at me. Baiting me.

  “I don’t think he meant to hurt you,” Artemian offers, which only makes things worse.

  “Well, I meant to punch him,” I inform my skirts wetly.

  “It was . . . impressive. I don’t think he’s been taken by surprise like that in a long time.”

  “He should have expected it,” I say, voice shaky. I spouted all kinds of nonsense last night. And he thought it was funny. Only he’d been gentle then. I remember being surprised by his kindness.

  And he saved my life.

  So what if he baited me with my foolishness? How could I let my anger, all this resentment I’ve been harboring, come out at him like this? How could I attack the one man who has helped me against the snatchers, who made sure his men were there to pull me to safety when I leapt from that window?

  I think of the foreign prince, of the violent wrath in his expression as he lunged for his sister. The way his hand hurtled toward me, fury and cruelty wrapped up together. I don’t want to be him. I don’t want to be anything like him. I don’t want this anger inside me; I don’t want to hurt those around me even if they hurt me. I don’t want to be that kind of person.

  Artemian says, “He was worried about you.”

  A sob lodges in my throat, choking me. I close my lips around it fiercely. I have no right to be weeping now, as if I am the one who has been wronged. I force a shaky breath, wipe my face on my skirts.

  Artemian tries again. “He wasn’t sure we’d be able to get you away from the Black Scholar so easily.”

  “Easily?” I echo. There hadn’t been anything easy about jumping out of that window or running down the alley with my arm cut open.

  “Red Hawk has been negotiating his relationship with Bardok Three-Fingers for some time.”

  I look up sharply, my face still damp. “Wait—you mean Bardok knew?” Artemian meets my gaze steadily. I remember Bardok’s gleeful laughter as I kneed the Scholar, the way he bent over as if consumed by the hilarity of the situation, never attempting to reach for me. And it was his guard who told me to jump, though it was Red Hawk’s men waiting in the street below. “Of course.”

  Bren did so much for me. And all I did was judge him and attack him.

  “Neither Bardok nor Red Hawk like how strong the Black Scholar’s grown,” Artemian says slowly. “Now that you’ve gotten involved, you’re going to have to be careful.”

  I make myself focus on him. He’s right, of course. The Black Scholar is one man I don’t want to meet again. Actually, I’d be perfectly happy to never meet either the Scholar or Bardok again. And I certainly don’t want to meet Red Hawk. That would be five kinds of mortifying, after what I just did to Bren. Nope, definitely don’t want to meet Bren again either.

  “Also, you should be aware that Red Hawk sent word about you to the princess.”

  “He . . . did?”

  “You spent one night as the Black Scholar’s hostage, and a day and a night with us. She needed to know where you were.”

  “That long?” I ask, rubbing my face. “I didn’t realize . . .”

  “You were unconscious—or asleep—a long time. We were worried.”

  Maybe worry makes people say ridiculous things too. Maybe Bren drew out the stupidity of our conversation because he was glad I was awake—which is a stupid idea in its own right. Bren might not want me dead, but there’s no reason to think he cares for me. Certainly not after I suggested he marry the village shoplifter. And not now. Never now.

  I press my lips together and glare at my lap fiercely, in the hopes of driving away any more tears. Still, one useless, pointless tear drips over my eyelid and down my cheek. Perhaps Artemian won’t say anything.

  “Here,” Artemian says, holding something out.

  I expect it to be a kerchief, but when I look up, I realize it isn’t that at all: it’s a small, well-made bag. He’s doing better than consoling me; he’s changing the subject.

  “What is it?” I ask, taking the bag.

  “I believe you wanted the Blessing cup and stone? Bren sent out for them yesterday while you were recovering.”

  “Thank you,” I manage, and set the bag on my lap, trying not to think of Bren being even more helpful while I recuperated, just before I punched him.

  Artemian doesn’t speak again until he leaves, offering me a kind farewell and stepping down from the carriage a block away from the palace so that I might enter the walls on my own.

  Chapter

  32

  “You’re back!” Mina exclaims as I step into our bedroom.

  I offer her a weak smile.

  “Is your friend all right?”

  I blink at her, bewildered. She can’t mean Bren. “Uh, just fine.” I say.

  Mina’s eyes narrow as she turns to put away a folded tunic. Without looking at me, she says, “We heard a friend of yours needed help and the princess gave you leave to see to them.”

  It’s almost accurate, if you consider the brickmaker’s boys my friends. Maybe.

  “Yes,” I say after a moment, since this story must have come from the princess. Who else would have made it up? Bren, perhaps, what with his “friend of a friend” phrasing, but even that would have been routed through his letter to the princess. Or was it Red Hawk who wrote to her? I can’t recall.

  Mina says, “A letter came for you while you were gone. It’s on your desk.”

  “Thanks.” I consider the distance to my desk. It’s not that much farther, considering how far I’ve already come. Still, I take a moment to gather my strength.

  “You missed quite the musical evening last night.”

  “Mmm. The princess enjoy it?”

  “Apparently her people don’t have a tradition of insulting one’s in-laws through song right before the wedding.”

  “Only time for it,” I say. “Can’t do it afterward.”

  “That’s what Zayyid Kestrin told her. She was very amused. Two of our best musicians closed the evening with dueling insults that led into a love ballad—Rae?”

  I am almost to the desk, but the room has started swaying strangely. I stumble trying to keep my balance.

  “What’s wrong?” Mina asks sharply, starting across the room to me.

  “Dizzy,” I manage, one hand reaching for the back of the chair. I grab it and steady myself. As Mina reaches me, I plop down into the chair, the cloth bag with its cup and opal falling to the floor beside me.

  She crouches beside me and puts her hand on my wounded arm, hidden beneath my sleeve. I inhale sharply, stiffening with the unexpected pain.

  She plucks her hand away as if burned. “What is it?”

  I shake my head, waiting until I can breathe again. “Hurt my arm. I’m all right. I’ll just sit here a bit.”

  “Let me see.”

  I let out a shaky breath in what is meant to pass for a laugh. “Whatever for? There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Then you won’t mind my seeing,” Mina says firmly.

  She waits, kneeling beside me as implacable as stone.

  “You’d make a good mother,” I grumble, and carefully tug up my sleeve. Without the bandage, there’s nothing blocking Mina’s view of my wound with its very many stitches. Her expression shifts from slightly annoyed to aghast, lips parted in horror as if I had placed the foreign prince’s head on a tray before her. “It’s just a cut,” I say, and tug my sleeve down again.

  She stands up, hands on her hips. “How many stitches are there?”

  “Enough,” I say with a certain amount of humor. “Going to read that letter.”

  She doesn’t answer. I focus on turning to the desk and am grateful to find that the envelope, sealed with a blob of wax, is easy to open one-handed. By the time I glance over to Mina, she’s go
ne.

  The letter is from Mama, and I know at once she’s received my letter and Filadon’s about what happened with the foreign prince.

  My dearest Rae,

  I have spent the night tossing and turning, thinking about your last letter and whether I should urge you to come home as soon as the wedding is past. I doubt you would be able to step away from your duties as attendant before the celebrations are finished, though I would rather I saw you here tomorrow. But I know you, Rae. I know that you did not agree to serve as a royal attendant for a lark. I know you did not choose such a post for yourself, even if you should have. And I know you will not walk away from such a duty lightly.

  Whatever your reasons for choosing to serve our new princess as attendant, I trust you in them. I trust you to stand by the values and principles your father and I taught you, to do what is right—not just what is easy and desirable, but what is ethically right. I trust you to take care of those around you, to fight for those who need you, fiercely protective sister and friend that you are. But, Rae, I also urge you to take care of yourself. You may know how to care for princesses and horse farms, how to protect those you love, how to do what needs to be done. But I worry that you do not yet know how to truly care for yourself. So be careful, my heart. And come home as soon as you are ready. I will be waiting.

  All my love,

  Mama

  I am not going to start crying again. I fold up the letter with shaking fingers, sniffing repeatedly as if that will help me keep my emotions in check. I miss Mama, suddenly and overwhelmingly. I want nothing more than to curl up on a cushion next to her, or let her hold me, or even just to walk into the comfort of our kitchen and help Mama make breakfast.

  But the truth is I don’t want to go home either, because then I would end up telling Mama that I punched the man who saved my life. That instead of protecting, I lashed out, and I feel broken inside now, turned into someone I don’t want to be. She will be disappointed in me, even if she still loves me, because I didn’t stand by what she taught me. I betrayed it in a moment of sheer pride and spite.

  I look up numbly as Mina swings open the door, ushering in both the princess and a second figure in flowing robes. I blink, but Mage Berrila ni Cairlin remains, looking as competent and businesslike as she did when she saw to my bruised face. With the princess beside her then as well.

  I stumble to my feet, my good hand gripping the back of the chair to anchor me. “Zayyida?”

  “Don’t you dare curtsy,” Alyrra says sharply. “I’m glad you’ve returned. Veria Mina informs me you are hurt, though. I’ve brought Mage Berrila to take a look.”

  “But”—I shoot Mina a hard look—“my arm’s already been seen to.”

  “Not by a healer-mage,” Berrila says with amusement, “if Mina’s description is to be believed. Let’s see your arm then, kelari.”

  She sets down a black bag beside the desk and takes charge of me at once, ordering me back into my chair with my arm propped on the desk. The princess, meanwhile, moves around so she can watch as Berrila eases up my sleeve.

  I hear Alyrra’s sharp inhale, but she doesn’t speak.

  Berrila’s brow lowers as she inspects the cut, and then she transfers her glower to me. “Was this done by someone here, kelari?”

  “Not in the palace, no.”

  “Hmph.”

  Alyrra quietly asks Mina to close the door. “I believe what is said in this room should stay here.”

  “It’s better, I think, if no one knows about this,” I say, nodding toward my arm. If I can keep word from getting out about my wound, the Black Scholar may not connect Alyrra’s limping attendant with his clubfooted captive. That could only be a good thing.

  “That will mostly be on you,” Berrila says, “and the princess.”

  “Me?” I glance toward the princess, but she remains quiet, her expression neutral.

  “Acting like you’re unhurt when half your arm is patched together is a rather tall order. But I’ll see what I can do to help you. You and your twenty-seven stitches. Quiet now.” Berrila cradles my hand in hers, and a strange coolness spreads up my arm.

  I don’t realize I’ve been clenching my teeth until the constant low pain of the wound fades and I can feel my jaw aching. As I watch, the skin draws together perfectly beneath the stitches, a faint blue glimmer outlining the edges of the skin for only a moment before fading to the thinnest of threads.

  Berrila remains still, her eyes focused on my arm, the coolness of her magic flowing through my body, easing the aches and bruises I’ve collected. I lean my head against the high back of my chair and let myself breathe.

  “There,” Berrila says finally. She gently tugs at the stitches in my arm. I tense, but not only does it not hurt, the stitches come away in her fingers like so much fluff. The magic has already separated them and pushed them out of my skin.

  “Use your arm gently. You want your skin to stretch as it would for normal use; you do not”—she eyes me darkly—“want to tear through the magic holding your skin together. It is not actually healed. Be gentle.”

  I dip my head meekly. “I understand.”

  Berrila swivels to Mina, who has watched this all silently from a few paces away. “See that she gets plenty of rest and doesn’t try to lift anything heavy. I’ll leave a tea for her to drink, which should help with the blood loss, if you’ll see it brewed for her.”

  I hope fervently it’s altogether different from what Bren’s healer gave me.

  Berrila turns back to me, reasserting her glower. “And if Mina has to come fetch me again, everyone will hear about it.”

  It would be a threat, except that she seems to be seriously worried for me. I dip my head, grinning. “Yes, Mage Berrila.”

  With a snort of amusement, Berrila gathers up her bag. I cannot imagine that such a woman really knows about the snatchers, or would protect them while caring so much about her patients. Perhaps I’m wrong. Or perhaps she doesn’t know. I blink away the thoughts. First, I have to ascertain that the Darkness really is an attack, then I can worry about who knows what.

  Alyrra walks with Berrila into the hallway, and I can hear the faint sound of their conversation as they stand just outside.

  “And thank you, Mama Mina,” I say politely to Mina.

  “Why didn’t you say you were injured?”

  Is that hurt in her voice? I look up, taken aback, but she’s smoothed out her features. Perhaps she’s just irritated.

  “I was hoping not to draw too much attention to it. And I felt fine for the most part.”

  “Fine except that you were falling down.”

  “Just a little off balance.”

  “Because you’ve taken a serious injury, Rae!”

  I blink at her, relatively certain I never gave her my nickname to use. Did she pick it up from Alyrra?

  “I’m sorry,” I say finally, since I don’t know what else I can offer.

  She lets out a sigh and turns away, shaking her head.

  A moment later, Alyrra steps back into the room. “Mina, would you give us a few minutes?”

  Mina dips her head and departs, shutting the door behind her.

  Alyrra waits until the faint sound of Mina’s slippers fades to quiet. Then she asks, “Rae, what happened?”

  “Mina said you received a letter?”

  “It didn’t say much, other than that you were injured but safe, and would be returned to us once you were ready. What do I need to know?”

  I tell her, as quickly and succinctly as I can, all I’ve learned from the brickmaker’s boys, how they were enslaved and transported. I don’t mention Niya’s sash. I don’t dare, because Alyrra is royalty, and she could demand it from me for study, and without a stronger story about where I got it from, I may not be able to protect Niya. Instead, I tell her that I’d been given the Blessing cup and stone on my way home.

  “I want to see what they actually do. The cups are purportedly charmed to remove any trace of illness from th
e children.”

  “But you don’t believe that.”

  “I . . . think there might be more than that at play.”

  Alyrra moves slowly to sit on the corner of the bed. “Why would you suspect that?”

  “I can’t say,” I admit. “But I believe the enchantments don’t need to remove memories.”

  Alyrra gazes unseeingly at the embroidered coverlet. “If that is true, this could get very difficult.”

  An understatement of epic proportions, if the Circle is involved. “I know.”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Alyrra says. “But it’s best not to make assumptions. We’ll need a mage not affiliated with the Circle to look into it. Do you have someone in mind?”

  I hesitate. “I thought I’d ask Verin Stonemane.”

  Alyrra raises her brows.

  “You remember how he met me my first day? He visited our ranch once, to buy horses. I think he’ll at least hear me out, and I can’t think of anyone else to go to.”

  “He’s an ambassador from a foreign government,” Alyrra says. “He’ll have to be very careful navigating any information that could affect politics here. But if you think he might assess them, it’s worth a try.”

  I nod, not at all sure he’ll help. I hadn’t considered his role, or the politics at play, especially between the royal family and the Circle.

  “Regardless, once you’ve spoken with him, I’d like to see the items myself.”

  “Of course, zayyida.”

  Alyrra’s eyes drop to my sleeve, still pulled up to bare the cut. “I also would prefer it if you did not go into the city anymore.”

  I hesitate, considering this. I don’t want to see Bren again, or risk meeting the Black Scholar, but I’m not sure I can do everything I need from within these walls. Then again, the Scholar will surely kill me if he catches me again. And this time, he won’t wait to do it.

  Alyrra, watching me, says, “I know you are committed to this work, Rae, but it’s too dangerous for you to go back out. If there’s any need to meet our contacts, I’ll send Sage.”