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

I follow him to a part of the palace I haven’t seen before. As he reaches a carved wooden door, he says helpfully, “This is the royal library.”

At least that allows me to prepare myself for the sight of a great many books. Or it should have, only I had no concept there were this many in the world. The walls of the great room within are not only lined with shelves, but there are shelves standing back-to-back to create aisles—and not just one or two, but at least two score, if not double that number. The Black Scholar has nothing on this library.

“How are there so many?” I ask as we cross the room.

“Any book brought to the city has to be turned over to the palace scribes to be copied before being returned. They’ve the same policy in all of the port cities as well for any book brought in by a traveler.”

Ah. I remember being asked at the city gates if Veria Sanlyn or I were bringing in any books. It had been an odd question, but easily answered in the negative, and I’d thought no more of it in my excitement to see the city.

“This way,” the page says, and I follow him down a back aisle to a hall where there is a series of private rooms. The room we enter is lined with books—there must be easily a thousand here, possibly more—and armchairs, and in one, the king sits, a book by his side, looking everything and nothing like the Scholar. A second, empty armchair faces him.

I curtsy and immediately wish I hadn’t, my ankle throbbing. But there’s no standing up now, without the king’s permission. I hold my curtsy as the page makes his own bow and departs. And still I wait as the king looks me over. Finally, he says, “Kelari Amraeya.”

I push myself up, half stumbling as my foot informs me that I cannot learn to bow fast enough. But that thought brings back memories of Diara, her throat gaping open, blood spurting through the half-light of the hold. My stomach turns and I make myself focus on the carpet underfoot instead, try to regain that tranquility I found in the temple.

“There is something we need to discuss,” the king says, gesturing to the armchair set at an angle to his.

I limp across to it, perch on the edge.

“You have put me in quite the quandary.”

Surely he isn’t referring to the snatchers? I look up, dread curling in my stomach. If the king is involved—

“My son tells me that you saw something he did not intend last night.”

“Last night?” I echo, bewildered.

“With the snake.”

Oh, that. It feels like a hundred years ago. “Tarin,” I agree.

“So,” the king says.

I once thought Kestrin capable of holding back every emotion, of appearing to harbor no more feeling than stone, but his father may as well be sculpted of ice. There is not even a memory of warmth in his eyes as he looks at me.

I wait, my shoulders tense. Kestrin wanted a hold on me, but Filadon promised me this morning that he would try to sort it out. I did not expect the king himself to take up the conversation, at least not so quickly, though perhaps I should have. Kestrin is his only son and heir.

“I understand,” the king says finally, “that you are loyal to Zayyida Alyrra, and to our family generally. But the secret you carry could unbalance the monarchy and quite possibly lead to shifts in power that would result in war. Simply put,” he says, turning one hand over, palm up, “your knowledge concerns me.”

I take a slow breath. It’s going to be a great deal harder arguing with a king than with Filadon. “Is my word not enough, tarin?”

“It is something,” the king says, and there is a regret in his voice that I don’t quite trust. “But it is not enough. There is little choice here, kelari.”

I wait. I know I could make this easier for him, ask him what he wants of me, but there is no reason I can imagine to politely aid someone in causing me damage to save themselves—even if I understand the wider reasons.

“Filadon promised Kestrin he has a hold on you that would even the balance,” the king says softly, watching me. “If you will give me that hold, then I need nothing further.”

I don’t even hesitate. “I cannot, tarin.”

He nods, as if he expected no different of me. “I have one other option. You have seen the Blessing to stave off the Darkness.”

I go still, my insides clenching. I shake my head at him, a denial that has nothing to do with his words.

“One of our court mages, a man whom I trust implicitly, can perform the task,” he explains. “If you wish, you may submit yourself to him. He will remove just those memories related to what you saw that night. You see the items there, on the table.”

I glance to the table, noting for the first time a silver tray bearing a pitcher and a familiar silver goblet, a low round bump beside them that must be an opal.

Submit myself. Have my memories destroyed, and hope that this mage only takes what he must. Or give up Niya. I shake my head again, but now I’m trembling, my hands gripping the fabric of my skirts.

“It is your choice, kelari,” the king goes on. “I will hold your secret in trust. There is no reason to resort to such measures.”

“No. Tarin.” As if there were any other answer to give. I could not put Niya in such a man’s power. “The hold Filadon has—I will take it to my grave with me. I would do the same with your son’s secret, if you would allow me to keep it. That is all I can offer you.”

It isn’t enough. I can see it in the slight crease of his eyes, a faint indication of regret that he