The Theft of Sunlight by Intisar Khanani (story reading .TXT) 📕

He closes the distance between, his hand pressing hard over my mouth. “Quiet.”

Fear sends me jerking back a half step. I come up sharply against a wall that isn’t there, the air blocking me, Stonemane’s fingers, long and cool, still pressed against my lips.

We remain frozen like that, my heart thundering in my breast as I remind myself he is not the Scholar, never mind if he’s caught me, or if they both have slim, long-fingered hands.

Then he drops his hand and says, “Don’t ever speak that name out loud.”

I focus on this: his fear. “Is she listening?”

“Always.” He turns his gaze on me, and I finally understand the stories told of those who lose themselves in the eyes of the Fae. They swallow me whole, darkness flooding my senses until there is nothing but the fathomless depths, the faintest of glimmers like starlight lighting the abyss within which I float. I hear his voice from far away, from within the beat of my heart. “Tell me, how did you know it?”

The words slide up my throat, called forth whether I will them or not. “The Black Scholar—” I grit my teeth—become aware that I can do that—but the words are still pressing against my tongue, crowding into my mouth. And the darkness of his eyes holds me. I cannot see past it, cannot find my way out. “Stop,” I croak, the word heavy on my tongue, shoving past smaller, sharper words that I will not allow out. “Stop. Please.”

Reality snaps back into place around me with an almost audible crack: the courtyard, the morning sunlight streaming down on my shoulders, Stonemane standing a pace away, pale and grim and unhappy. Well, he can be as unhappy as he likes, I’m the one who was trapped.

He waits, and I keep my gaze on the mosaic underfoot, until my breathing slows to normal. “I read it in a book,” I tell him, my voice rough. “You could have asked.”

He gestures once, a twist of his hand before it drops back to his side.

“Find my friend,” I say, raising my gaze to his chin, “and you can have the book.”

Silence.

I slip my hand into my pocket and draw forth the journal, holding it up. My hand is not quite steady, but there’s nothing I can do about that. “Do we have a deal?”

“No one can know I helped you.”

“I understand.”

“Very well.” He gestures toward the abandoned bench, asks, “You have something of hers for me to use?”

I take four steps to the bench and sink down, immeasurably grateful for its support. I pass the kerchief with the hair I took from Kirrana’s brush to him. Stonemane seats himself silently. I watch as he snaps off a short length of hair, placing it on the bench. He marks the four cardinal points around it, each touch of his fingers leaving behind a faint glow. Then he holds his hand above it, palm flat and fingers spread. A faint rush of cool air fans my face.

I wait, watching as Stonemane remains focused on the bench. It seems no different in essence from what Niya attempted in Ani’s kitchen a month ago. And, like then, nothing changes. No . . . the hair glitters, and then in the blink of an eye, it flares to red-yellow and falls to ash.

“Warded,” Stonemane says, sitting back. “And powerfully so. I would guess the wards are not tied to her but to the place where she is.”

I close my eyes. I had hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that Fae magic would be able to reach Kirrana where our own mages might fail. But the snatchers have warded her too well. No, not her, but where she is. And I have been where slaves were held before. I cast my mind back to the brickmaker’s yard. If there were a ward protecting the boys from the Darkness, it would have been there too. I remember the prison cell of their room, and the kiln room, and the plaque above the door there. With a faint quickening of hope, I ask, “If you knew the shape of the ward, could you counter it?”

“Perhaps.”

“A moment,” I say and rise to move forward before remembering the invisible wall that had hemmed me in before. “Can I reach the fountain?” I ask, not looking at him.

“Of course.”

Of course, meaning he will expand the magic surrounding us to allow me? Or of course meaning that the wall at my back was there only for those moments, just as Kestrin blocked the viper from reaching Jasmine? I start forward again in silence, reach the water unimpeded, and return to draw the ward I recall upon the bench between us with wet fingers. “Like this?” I ask. It is not quite right, but it is as close as I can get.

Stonemane studies my work. “I don’t recognize such a sigil. I can put the question to the Cormorant. He has been making a study of the local forms of magic.”

“Thank you.” I sit a moment, then hold the journal out to Stonemane.

He takes it, and the exchange feels wrong, somehow. Ugly. Which it is—but I didn’t ask him to use his magic on me, try to force my answers when I would have simply told him. He must fear that sorceress very much. Sarait Winterfrost.

I look up as Stonemane gets to his feet.

“Does Alyrra know?” I demand. “About the sorceress?”

“She knows better than I do,” Stonemane says.

Good. I will worry about Kirrana and leave the sorceress to Alyrra and Stonemane. I turn my gaze to the fountain, waiting, but he doesn’t move on. He only stands there, hovering.

Finally, he says, “Forgive me, Rae. I . . . the one you named has been known to use others as her pawns. I had to be sure of you.”

Why do people who use force seem to think they are being reasonable? Matsin cornering me, and Alyrra ordering it; her brother asserting his power; the Scholar protecting his territory and his reputation? There