I look up as the prince makes his second entrance.
“Do you dare return?” Havila thunders from the dais.
“I come bearing gifts,” he calls, “with my head bowed in repentance!” His head is, in fact, thrown back, chin lifted as he grins across the hall at Havila. I like this impudent, boyish prince more than I would have thought possible, especially given the laughter shining from Alyrra’s eyes, all thought of her mother’s anger banished.
“We shall see what your repentance is worth. Approach!”
He crosses the length of the hall to his bride. This time, each of his attendants carries a tray. I give a moment of thanks that brides don’t have to give gifts in return; I’m relatively certain my arm couldn’t bear that kind of weight for long.
“Can you see what they have?” one of the women near me asks of her friends.
“The last tray has a gold belt. The rest, I cannot tell.”
“That will be for the wedding procession,” the first says, beaming. “I cannot wait to see it!”
Havila continues to preside over the dais, playing the role of family matriarch as she considers each gift, likening them to cheap baubles, and then, in an act of charity, allowing that they might be enough. The outlander queen watches this all with raised eyebrows and faint bemusement, utterly unaware that she has failed to take up her own role in the festivities. Her whole demeanor suggests she comes from a land of finer customs. I doubt that very much. From what I’ve heard, their hall is strewn with rushes and bones, with dogs padding underfoot. One does not dare enter wearing anything but boots.
I wait till Havila dismisses a very merry Kestrin, his attendants passing off his gifts to Alyrra. I should be up there, but it doesn’t occur to me that I’ve been missed till Kestrin turns to leave, his eyes sweeping over the hall and coming to a stop at me.
I dip my head. When I look up again, he’s passed on. I hurry back to the dais. By the time I reach it, Havila has stepped down.
“You,” she says, reaching out a hand to stop me, “are both foolish and very thoughtful. There might have been a better way to change the subject, you know.”
“But it was so very effective.”
“Reminding everyone of your purported clumsiness?” She sighs. “I suppose the fact that you were pushed must be shared about a bit more.”
“Well, but that’s not really—”
“Don’t you dare!”
I swallow and offer a tentative smile.
“Now go on up there and be helpful, you little fool.” Havila gives me an affectionate pat and moves off, cane tapping with each step.
I wake early the following morning from liquid dreams, all darkness and shadow and bright blades. I sigh as I sit up. I never used to have such dreams.
It’s early yet, the sun risen but everyone still abed after the late night we had. With no chance of sleeping again, I prop up my pillow and reach for the archer’s journal.
Her words grow darker, more desperate as the days pass and the defeats continue. I come to the final entry, laboriously written, the letters pressed hard into the page, as if she were in pain.
I have betrayed my king. I meant only to leave—desertion is no small crime, but my heart is dead from all I have seen, and he refuses to speak with the Fae messengers, putting them to death. If we will not parley for peace, we will be slaughtered. Already so many lost: the swordsmen, the archers, captains, and whole troops of quads. I am the last of my quad. And while the invaders are kind in their conquests, leaving those who do not bear arms unharmed, still, many die who mean only to defend their homes. So I left to find my sister and our parents, and take them into the mountains until this evil time is past.
I rode out at dawn, the sentries letting me pass without a word, used to my coming and going. Not three hours later, the Fae caught me. They dragged me from my saddle, and there were too many to fight. I did not try. Perhaps they would have let me go had not one of them recognized me.
“The king’s archer.” Not anymore! But they would have thought less of a deserter. They argued then, about a punishment, a death that had been decreed for the king and those in the highest circle of command. As if he had left me anything to command, reassigning my men to Mendar! It was an empty position I held, for he knew I doubted him. The Fae argued, and I knelt among them stupid with weariness.
I did not understand until they pressed me up against a tree and, raising my right hand above my head, impaled it there with a dagger. I screamed then, screamed for their mercy, told them I had a sister and parents to care for. They were angry. It is easier to kill when you do not know such things about your enemy. They caught my left hand, meaning to do the same to it, and in desperation I demanded that they take me to the sorceress who leads them.
That stopped them. They argued while I hung there, blood trickling down my arm and over my chest. And then they took out the dagger, stanching the flow of blood with linen and magic, blindfolded me, and took me to their army’s camp. Their general saw me first, demanding to know what my message was, thinking I was a courier from my king. He would have killed me as equal payment for the messengers my king has slain had I not asked for the sorceress.
She sent for me that evening. By then I was weak with pain, though a Fae healer had seen to my wounded hand. I am thankful that my best hand, my left, is still whole. I do not know that my right will ever hold a bow again. Nor do I care.
I saw the sorceress. All the rumors are true. All the stories of the darkness of her gaze, the coldness of her voice. To look upon her is to look upon one’s own death. She looked upon me and knew me to be desperate, and she laughed. I felt like nothing, like scum, filth upon the earth. I hated her for it, and yet I thought—I am here. Let me ask what it is their messengers wished to say. This I can do. For my sister.
She wants our king in payment for the evils he committed in her own land. She wants him, and in return she has agreed to withdraw all her forces, to order a retreat to her lands. She offers no surety. But then, they are winning. She need offer nothing. She told me the death that I nearly suffered—my hands pinned above me and my belly slit open—was the death he visited upon the generals and captains he took hostage. All they have done, all they have brought to our land, is but a reflection of what he brought to them.
So I agreed. I took her message not only to the king, but also to his son, the prince; and to his advisors; and to the Circle of Mages. All know her demands. Someone of them will bend, will give him over, and in betraying him, save our land. Already the Circle discusses it.
I have done this, knowing that I brought treachery with me. But the king is mad with vengeance; he neither sees nor cares what becomes of his land. What am I writing? I am trying to ease my own guilt. In the end, if our king is betrayed, I can only say: I have done this. Right or wrong, or both, I have done this. Would that I were not a coward. Every morning and every night I will live and breathe this memory, this betrayal. Would that the Fae had slit my throat when they found me, that they had not given me the chance to sell my liege.
I have only one thing left to write. After this, I return to the remains of my home, to begin the search for my family. My wounded hand makes me unfit to hold a bow, and has earned me an honorable discharge rather than execution as a deserter. The irony almost makes me laugh. So I am leaving. And here is what I would record, that it not be forgotten. I learned the sorceress’s name, and as any mage will say, names have power. Should ever we need it, here is a record: Sarait Winterfrost.
I sit a long time, staring down at the book. I’m not sure what I expected: some sort of heroic end, some great act of courage by the archer to set things right. As if things could be set right by a single person, when all her world appeared to be burning down around her. Instead, I have an account of failure and sorrow, of a single act that may have brought about the end of the Fae Attack, but only through betrayal.
I know the stories, have read the histories: when the king died unexpectedly—and, acco
rding to some, without leaving a body behind—his closest advisors and vassals sent messengers to the Fae generals begging their mercy. Within three days, there was peace. Within a week, the Fae departed altogether. It is precisely the retreat the sorceress promised.
What I hold in my hands is the explanation I never wanted to read. How is it that one can try so hard and yet fail so completely? Here is a woman whom I have come to respect, whose treatment by her liege outraged me, and whose decision at the end makes me ill. Not because she betrayed her king, or perhaps not only that, but because I understand it. And I do not know what I would have done differently.
Chapter
35
I take breakfast in the common room with the rest of the attendants, Alyrra having opted for her own private breakfast in her rooms. Our self-defense lessons, the second of which I spent escaping from the Scholar, will resume again after the wedding. Zaria nurses her cup of tea, and Jasmine and Mina keep up a comfortably slow conversation about what bits of gossip they gathered last night, and if there is anything the princess should know about.
Just as we are finishing up, a page arrives with a sealed envelope for me, bearing a note from Filadon.
The crown will, of course, cover those expenses incurred during your stay in Tarinon, he writes. Prince Kestrin has also expressed interest in developing an ongoing business agreement with your father regarding stock that might be acquired for the royal stables. I assured him your father would be open to such a conversation.
Short as the letter is, I have to read it twice before I find myself moving from disbelief to laughter. It might not be the stud I asked for, but becoming a supplier for the royal stables will have many benefits, and I suspect it won’t be long before we can afford to purchase the services of a stud for our mares, if not buy the perfect stallion outright.
“What is it?” Mina asks curiously.
“My cousin—or rather, her husband,” I explain, folding the note and slipping it away. “I’d be afraid to be his enemy.”
Mina chuckles. “I’ve got family like that too.”
Zaria raises her cup of tea in silent agreement.
“You’ve received a reward, I hope,” Jasmine says. “After all you went through with the foreign prince.”
It’s the first truly nice thing she’s said to me. “It will be good business for my family,” I agree.
Jasmine nods. “Sounds about right. The reward ought to fit the recipient.”
“What sorts of rewards would you expect?” I ask curiously.
Jasmine glances at the other two, and then Mina says, “Marriage proposals to choose from, and of course wedding gifts. That would be at the end of our tenure as attendants. In the meantime, though, just gifts of fine fabrics and jewelry, perhaps a riding horse or the like.”
“Ah.” It’s just as well Filadon negotiated a business agreement. I’m certain I wouldn’t want the royal family to pressure someone into marrying me to please them. Not only would such a man no doubt come to hate me if I agreed to it, but that would leave Niya alone, and then we’d both be miserable.
The other attendants carefully don’t look at me, and I take the opportunity to rise and set aside my plate—though, technically, a servant will clear it for me. “I’m going for a walk, since the princess won’t need us for lunch,” I announce.
Mina nods. “We’ll see you then.”
In our room, I gather a bit of embroidery I begged off of Melly, stuff it into the bag with the Blessing cup and stone, and make my way to a small courtyard hidden away from the busier parts of the palace. About an hour ago, I sent off a short note by page. I am hoping that it won’t go unanswered.
I take a seat on a stone bench alongside the arched galleries that line it, adjust my shawl, and take out my embroidery as if I’ve come out to sew in peace. It’s ridiculous, but I am just country-bred enough that anyone who sees me will ascribe it to my peasant tendencies, and look no further.
Melly’s embroidery project is a small handkerchief with a flowery border. As it turns out, my arm wound does not like to be tugged at continuously as I sew. I do it anyway, because the healer-mage said normal movement was important, but the wound takes a mundane task and elevates it to pricklingly uncomfortable. I’m also much slower than usual. By the time I finish outlining my first flower, I’ve begun to wonder if the letter will be answered at all. By the time I’ve finished the second, I’m only here because I can’t bear to give up. Although I do set the sewing down on my lap.
So, when I hear a set of slippers approaching from the right, I look up with a sense of absolute relief to see Stonemane with his ebony hair and pale skin and infinite eyes. He wears Menaiyan clothes once more, quiet colors for the morning: a sky-blue tunic and beige pants, topped with a loose, open-fronted embroidered coat of darker blue to ward off the spring chill.
“Oh good.” I wave for him to come sit beside me. “I’m so glad you were able to come.”
He bows from the neck and seats himself at the other end of the bench, eyeing me with some bemusement. “How are you, kelari?”
“Well enough. Can you do that little trick of yours? I have a question for you.”
Stonemane grins and the effect is devastating, his eyes bright and the unknowable years shrinking away until he looks halfway young. “And you’re not even going to ask how I am. Very well.”
He taps the bench with his finger, and that strange stillness rolls out from him again. I stretch my jaw, grateful to have this moment to gather myself and set aside Stonemane’s beauty. By the time the stillness dissipates, I am ready.
“I wondered if you could look at some things for me. I believe they’re enchanted, but I need to know how.”
“I assume there is a particular reason why you are not going to the mages who are sworn to the royal family?”
“There is,” I agree. “I’m finding there’s only so many people I trust nowadays. I don’t know any of the mages. I do know you.”
He tilts his head, his gaze bent on me, assessing. “Are you asking a favor of me?”
I pause. Now that’s dangerous ground. One doesn’t deal in favors with the Fae, or so claims every tale I’ve heard of them. “No,” I say with forced lightness. “It’s a riddle. Aren’t you curious?”
“A riddle,” he echoes, a hint of self-derision in his voice. “Because we are all of us unnaturally curious about riddles.”
“Well, it’s a rather unnatural riddle. Look.” I fish the opal from the bag. “This is used to bless children who have been stolen and then escaped.”
He eyes me strangely. “You have a particular blessing for that?”
“We have a very important blessing for that. But I don’t think it works the way we’ve been told.” I hand him the stone. He takes it only because I’m shoving it into his hand.
“And I should involve myself in this because—?”
I really have no argument I can think of, so I appeal to the only thing I have left: his honor. “Because if Bean were stolen, you will have failed your obligations as a guest.”
This startles a laugh from him. “I believe I’ve upheld my obligations as a guest quite admirably.”
He means that he hasn’t told a soul about Niya. And I’m grateful for that, but if he won’t offer to look at the cup and stone of his own accord, I’ll make whatever arguments I can. “You can always do more,” I say reprovingly. “Tell me, what does that opal in your hand actually do?”
He sighs. “I suspect I might actually have been safer from you back when you feared me.”
“That’s what comes of giving girls knives,” I observe. “And you don’t really mean that. You are perfectly safe right now.”
“One must consider the political context as well as the physical,” Stonemane says almost gently. There’s a hint of regret in his eyes, in the faint tightening of his features. He’s not going to help me.
No. That’s not acceptable. He can help. And I’m not paying any debts if I can avoid it. “I’v
e considered both,” I say firmly. “You have never been in any physical danger—”
“Not even from iron skillets?”
I gape at him. He grins again, darkly sly. “How did you—you couldn’t have heard that!”
“I . . . may be able to hear conversations that pertain to me whether or not I am there. You spoke of it as you were planning to smuggle me out of your house. I was concerned for my safety at the time. And yours.”
“Rude!” I cry, to cover my mortification. “And certainly not the behavior of an honorable guest.” I point at the stone in his hands. “You may put things right now, both as our guest and the guest of the king, whose subjects are being stolen by slavers. Your words can’t be overheard. I will tell no one your name in conjunction with what you tell me now. So tell me, what does that opal do?”
He considers it, brow creasing as he turns it over once, twice. “What do you think it does?”
I take a breath, let it out slowly. “An opal is usually used to strengthen memory. But the blessing this is used in removes memories.”
“Does it.”
“I’m not convinced that the memories need to be removed. I want to understand the spells themselves.”
Stonemane dips his head. “You are right about the opal. It is typically used to strengthen memories. In some cases, it is used to draw forth particular memories. Based on the enchantment wrapping this stone, I would say it’s used to draw forth all the most recent memories of the person it’s used on. But there’s nothing here that would destroy a memory.”
“I see. And this?” I hand him the cup. “It’s the second part of the Blessing. It’s filled with thrice-blessed water and given to the child to drink. If the Darkness is taking a child, this is what protects them. I’d like to know how.”
“The Darkness?”
“An illness that steals the light from a child’s mind. It leaves them a husk of themselves. It only affects those who escape the snatchers—the slavers who have taken them.”
The Theft of Sunlight Page 26