I look up blankly. I don’t want to see Bren again. Perhaps that’s just the coward in me, because I know I need to apologize and I don’t know how. But he wouldn’t arrange to meet me without good reason; avoiding him isn’t an option. I take a shaky breath. “My answer is yes.”
The boy bows and departs, leaving me alone with Bren’s note and a tangle of shame and anxiety I want nothing more than to forget.
Chapter
38
I surface to the stillest part of the night, glad that I’d drunk two extra glasses of water to make sure I’d wake. Any later, and I might miss Bren altogether.
I collect my skirt from the chair by my bed, pulling it up over my sleep pants. My nightshirt is long enough to pass as a tunic; I have no wish to attempt to get it up over my head one-handed just now. Instead, I drape a nice shawl over it, strap on my bone knife in its sheath—because that only seems wise—and head out.
The guard room quads eye me with interest but allow me to pass without question. Captain Matsin appears to be off duty, for which I give a silent moment of thanks. I have, as promised, left a short note for Mina on my desk. Should something go wrong, she’ll spot it easily. Hopefully, though, I’ll get back in plenty of time to remove it before she wakes.
Out past the women’s residence I pause, shrugging deeper into my shawl. It’s dark here, and my instincts say not to wander farther into the shadows. I probably shouldn’t be out here at all, a woman going to meet a man alone in the dark of the night. It reeks of impropriety. But that’s not really how things stand. As long as no one takes note, and I don’t run into trouble, it should be fine. So I stay near the main path and scan the darkness for Bren.
“Rae.”
I pivot, peering into the dark. There’s a man-shaped shadow leaning against the far building. He shifts forward and a fall of moonlight brings into sharp relief the contours of his face, the inky blackness of his hair.
“Bren,” I whisper.
He turns, a liquid darkness in the gray of the night, and moves silently down the side path. I follow after him, settling my shawl over my shoulders more firmly as I go, as if the chill I feel has anything to do with the cool spring night. I am seeing more of Bren in his element now, somehow having infiltrated the palace walls. And while he hasn’t entered the palace proper, his ability to come this far tells me that the Scholar might do so as well, or send his men.
“Over here.” Bren’s voice, pitched low, only just reaches me through the night air. I follow the sound of it to an open-air stairway. He leads me up and up, patient with my slow progress, and then along a hallway to a second, smaller service stair up to the roof.
In the moonlight, all I can make out of our surroundings are the small platform we’ve come out on, cluttered with broken furniture, and across from us, the palace proper with its own roofs, most rising higher but some below us, spreading out in a multilayered weaving of floors and courtyards.
Bren hops up onto the shingles that spread out past the platform and holds out a hand to me. At least the roof he stands on is relatively flat and wide. Even if I trip, I’m not likely to come to any harm before I manage to catch myself. Still, I slide my feet out of my slippers before clambering up, knowing I’ll have a better grip barefoot.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re almost there. Don’t stop now.”
His hand still waits for me. I grimace and take it, knowing I’ll likely need the help to keep my balance. He laces his fingers between mine, leading me along the roof to where it butts up against an adjacent building and then curls around the corner of it and under an overhanging balcony, protecting us from sight.
I hadn’t realized how intimate a handhold can be. Here, with the sky stretching above us, and the roofs wide and silent around us, and Bren’s hand warm around mine, it feels as though we are alone together while the whole world sleeps. That his hand is there when I inevitably wobble only makes the moment more real.
I’m almost grateful when we reach our destination. Bren releases me to remove a small pack from beneath his cloak. He spreads a thin blanket on the tiles where we stand, hidden from view by the slightly higher roof running beside it, and gestures grandly. “Won’t you sit, veriana?”
“I’m not a lady. Remember that whole country thing?” I say, easing myself down onto the blanket. I rearrange my skirts over my feet. I know he saw my foot that night after I escaped Bardok, when I fell out of bed and he helped me back in, but it’s easier to cover it. Even if my skirts still lie flat over one foot and curve over the bump of the other.
“True enough.” He takes out a packet and passes me something. I accept it without thinking, then stare in confusion at what I hold: flaky, light dough baked to perfection, stuffed no doubt with spiced chicken. I sniff it. Definitely chicken.
“What is this?” I ask.
“A chicken tasty.”
“I mean all of this.” I gesture with the tasty to the blanket beneath us, the rooftop with its hidden spot.
“A trysting place.”
“What?”
Bren’s shoulders shake. “Well-known among the servants, and therefore not policed by the guards and safe for us to use. But this isn’t a tryst.”
“I should hope not.”
He laughs out loud at that.
I take a calming breath. I don’t know why his words have discombobulated me. “What is this really, Bren?”
A pause, and he says lightly, “A peace offering. For the country girl who knows how to punch.”
I feel myself flushing and am grateful for the dark. “Why?”
He doesn’t need to bring me a peace offering. If anyone should apologize, it should be me. And why would he care, anyway? I wasn’t supposed to see him again.
Bren looks down at his chicken tasty. “You’re as prickly as a burr,” he says ruefully.
It isn’t an answer, and he knows it. Even if it’s true.
Finally, he mutters, “I’ve done enough things wrong that I know when I need to set things right, and I know that if I don’t do it sooner, later most likely won’t come. So, peace offering.”
“Oh.” I look down at my own tasty, thinking of his life. How each day is uncertain as the last, how he’s had to fight to survive in ways I can’t imagine. How he’s likely watched friends die, and lived with regrets he can’t put to rest. That he doesn’t want me to be one of those regrets leaves me strangely unable to answer him.
“Oh,” he agrees, his voice laughing at me. He takes a bite of his tasty, and I make myself follow suit. It’s delicious, the bread flaky and tasting of butter, the chicken bursting with spices and tender enough to nearly melt on my tongue.
“These,” I say, “are incredible. Peace offering accepted.”
“They’re the best in the city,” Bren agrees. He produces a flask and two small cups, offering one to me. It’s mint tea, still hot.
I take it, cradling the warmth of the cup in my hand.
“Also . . . ,” he says, and looks at me, mischief in his eyes.
“Yes?” I ask warily.
“What’s that on your finger?”
I blink, looking down, and find my grandmother’s ring glinting back at me from my pinky. I set the tea down and touch it disbelievingly. “How did you—?”
Bren chuckles. “Thief, remember?”
I look up at him. “I thought thieves didn’t un-thieve things.”
“Let’s say that being taken hostage and nearly killed because you were in my company probably entitles you to another punch or two. I figured returning the ring might save my face.”
“I shouldn’t have punched you,” I say, my cheeks burning. Bren seems to have a unique ability to put me in a constant state of deep mortification. “You did get me out alive. I just—” Just what? Couldn’t stand his laughing at me when I’ve been laughed at by others all my life? Why should it have mattered so much? “I’m sorry,” I whisper. As apologies go, it has nothing on Bren’s returned-ring, chicken-tas
ty, predawn-picnic extravaganza.
“It’s fine, Rae. I believe Artemian has wanted to punch me for quite a while. He rather enjoyed watching you do it. Unfortunately for him, no one believes his story, at least not in my hearing.”
I scrub the smile from my lips, because I can’t just laugh this off. “Bren. Would it have been all right if I angered you and you punched me instead?”
“No.” His voice is suddenly hard, brooking no argument.
“Then why is it fine if I punch you?”
He looks at me, and the silence spreads out between us until I feel like I’m drowning.
“You see,” I say, my voice hoarse in my throat.
“No,” he says again. “Rae, there are certainly times when a woman punching a man is an irredeemable act of violence. When she is stronger, or more vicious, and she uses her actions to abuse him. But that wasn’t what happened.”
“I wanted to hurt you.” There it is, the truth I can’t hide from.
Bren rubs a hand over his hair, grasping the back of his head for a moment, and then says, “I like to push people. I especially like to push you, Rae. Because you’re clever and you push back. And I was glad to see you that morning, looking your usual prickly self, and so I pushed you more than I should have. Artemian told me you wept half the way back to the palace.”
I look away, toward a dawn that seems like it will never arrive. Is this why Bren came? Because he found out how I fell apart? “He shouldn’t have told you that.” My voice is small, shaky.
“In a fight between you and me,” Bren says with inexorable calm, “I would always win. We both know that. So your hitting me—it’s a sign of trust, in its way, that you could lash out and know that I wouldn’t hurt you back. It wasn’t abuse.”
“You’re right. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me back.” It hadn’t even occurred to me. “That doesn’t change the fact that I wanted to hurt you.”
“And you’d do it again?”
“No.”
“Then it is not all that you are, and it doesn’t have to define you. It’s something you did, which you regret. It is not actually you.”
I look at him, his words clicking together in my mind: that this is the difference between me and the foreign prince, for his is a practiced violence, and mine was a single act, regretted. That I am not the same as him, for all that I was willing to let my anger ride me as it does him. I am and can and will be different; I do not have to let this break me. I nod, a jerky, stiff motion. It is all I can manage.
Bren exhales softly. He leans forward, reaching across the blanket to pick up my half-eaten chicken tasty and offer it to me. “Here. Please eat.”
I take it, looking down at it, then back up at him. It is a peace offering in every sense, and I want this so much, the forgiveness, the calm, the quiet between us. “Thank you.”
He nods and leans back against the wall, his eyes turning to the brightening horizon. With one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee and his arm draped over it, he seems completely at rest. Always before, there was a readiness to his stance; now, even though he likely could leap to his feet if need be, he seems at ease.
I eat slowly, sip my mint tea as the details of the night world slowly gain clarity. It’s a gentle quiet that surrounds us, the world coming awake with the sounds of birdsong and city bustle, still somewhat distant from the palace. There’s something wonderful in the simplicity of the moment. I wish I could hold on to it forever.
Eventually, though, the dawn grows brighter and the details of the world come into focus. “How are the boys?” I ask softly. “Are they all on their way home now?”
He nods, his body shifting into that loose readiness I’ve come to recognize. “All but one, the eldest. He says he’s an orphan and won’t go to what family he has left. They were particularly unkind, it seems.”
“Then . . . what will he do?”
Bren shrugs casually. “I’ve found him a place. He’ll be fine.”
That does not sound half as comforting as Bren may want me to think. “What sort of place?” I ask suspiciously.
“He’ll be a servant, that’s all. What did you think?”
“A servant like the page who works here?” I ask. “You mean he’s one of Red Hawk’s boys now?”
“And if he is?” Bren demands. “He’s safe, and fed, and free to leave. Can you do better?”
I grimace. I can’t, especially not now that he’s already in Red Hawk’s fold—having Melly hire him would only put my cousins at risk. “Being allied with thieves is hardly safe,” I say finally.
“It’s the best I could manage,” Bren says.
I look away. He’s a thief; why would I expect him to keep this boy from the life he himself has chosen? I can’t, and it’s my own fault for not questioning him more thoroughly to begin with. I clear my throat. “You said you needed to talk to me about something.”
A pause and then Bren says, “What are the princess’s plans for handling what you’ve learned?”
“She has involved Zayyid Kestrin and Verin Garrin. They’re unsure about the Circle’s involvement in the Darkness.”
“They are involved though, aren’t they?”
“It’s hard to say.” I let out a slow breath. I can’t tell Bren everything, even if he knows most of it.
“Because you need a mage to tell you, and they’re all part of the Circle.” Bren smirks. “Also, because the royals want to keep the Circle happy.”
I glance askance at him.
“Politics,” Bren says with a hint of contempt.
He doesn’t know the half of it. “I was able to use the stories the boys told us and the possible connection to the Circle to do some research,” I tell him, and explain what Kirrana and I learned. “It’s not evidence of anything, really,” I admit. “Just an indication that something is going on that needs to be investigated further. Have you heard of Berenworth before?”
“They’ve an office on the east side, run a lot of ships down to Lirelei, and upriver as well. That’s all I really know. Are they your only lead?”
“So far. I’m not sure what else we’ll be able to learn. It’s possible Berenworth is not actually involved. We don’t yet have proof.”
“I see,” Bren says, his gaze moving to the horizon. Out over the rooftops and past the line of the palace wall, the sky has begun to lighten, from darkest blue to gray-blue, the distant stars losing their brightness. “The princess is keeping you out of the city from now on, though, correct?”
“She’ll send Sage to Artemian if we need to contact you.”
Bren grunts and pushes himself to his feet. “Good. If you need to get in touch with me more directly, use the page I’ve been sending you. Now come; it’s getting close to sunrise. We need to get you back.”
I rise, brushing out my skirts as he packs up the evidence of our picnic. He escorts me back to the service stairs, and then continues on down the hall just a step ahead. I follow him down the second set of stairs, pause on the last step.
“There’s something else,” I say.
Bren turns, brows lifted. When I don’t go on, he takes a step back to lean against the wall, arms crossed, as if to assure me I have all the time I need.
“I accidentally took one of the Black Scholar’s books,” I admit. “I’m not sure if he’ll notice, but there probably isn’t a way to return it, is there?”
“You what?” Bren breathes.
“It was an old journal he had in his library,” I say, trying to sound casual, reasonable, as if I’ve done nothing wrong. “I was reading it, and I stuck it in my pocket without thinking, and I ended up taking it with me.”
“The journal,” Bren says.
Of course he would have seen it among my belongings when I’d stayed in his safe house. After a moment he lets out a low chuckle. My eyes dart to him, and I’m relieved to see he truly is amused—because how bad can it be if he’s laughing?
“Stealing from a thief lord, Rae. I should be recruit
ing you instead of trying to get you off the streets. If for no other reason than to see what you do next.”
“I didn’t mean to steal it,” I fret.
“No,” Bren agrees. He rubs his mouth. “We’ll have to hope he doesn’t realize the book is gone until you’ve returned to your family. How much longer are you planning to stay here?”
“Through the summer.”
Bren looks at me as if I’ve lost all reason.
“My cousin invited me!” I say defensively.
“Try not to leave the palace, ever. He’ll be looking for you anyway; if he realizes you stole something from him in addition to humiliating him in front of Bardok, he will be looking for you with everything he has.”
“I know,” I admit. “Do you think it’s possible the Black Scholar—or Bardok—is involved with the snatchers?”
“It seems unlikely.”
“Artemian said the Scholar’s been gaining in power.”
“He has, but it’s more likely to do with other things than with this.”
“Why?”
“Thieves’ honor,” Bren says slowly. “That would be encroaching on others’ territory, at a minimum.”
What he doesn’t say is “wrong.” I shake my head. “Do they use networks of street children too? Would they even care if the street children in their territories disappeared?”
Bren shakes his head. “That’s mostly Red Hawk.”
“So how do we find who’s working on the streets? Even if Berenworth—or some other organization—is transporting the children, they might not be the ones doing the actual snatching.”
“I already told you,” Bren says quietly. “Get a quad and catch someone.”
It’s a dead end for inquiry, in other words. At least for me.
“Any other questions?” Bren asks. “I feel like you must have a dozen more you’re not asking.”
“You want them all?” I ask, irrationally irritated. “Fine. Why did the Black Scholar let you go but keep me?”
“I’m Red Hawk’s right-hand man. I’m a little too dangerous to take hostage unless he wants a bloodbath on the streets. Or his doorstep. That ransom was really for me, not you.”
The Theft of Sunlight Page 29