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

His look is far too perceptive, but he says only, “It is unfortunate, I think, that you do not plan to make the court your home.”

I curtsy and murmur my thanks, since agreement seems like it might be a dangerous commitment.

With a soft hiss of laughter, the king finally dismisses me.

Chapter

54

I leave the king’s library in hope of finding the children. From there, I promise myself I’ll go check on Melly. I am bone tired and want so much to see my cousin—to make sure she is well, despite her morning sickness, and just to sit with her, even if I cannot speak of what has happened. But making my way to where the children are being kept through unfamiliar hallways proves impossible, and it is not long before I’m thoroughly lost.

I close my eyes a moment, turn around, and try to find my way back, but even that does not work. Eventually I find myself facing a gallery of paintings. I remember this hall vaguely from a short tour Mina gave me on one of my first days: these are the portraits of the royal family and those closest to the crown.

I almost turn back, but then I realize the nearest portrait is that of the king, ten years younger, with a surprisingly plain-faced woman sitting beside him, and between them a boy who would one day grow into the prince I know. The queen died a year ago, her death so sudden many considered it a mystery, or the workings of a curse I never took seriously. A curse that bears a name, and whom Stonemane and the Cormorant are working to oppose.

This palace is so full of secrets it beggars the mind. I walk a few steps farther down, and here is a portrait with another family of three, sharing some of the same physical traits as the royal family, but different in the details. The plaque beneath identifies them as the lord and lady of Cenatil, the boy their son, Garrin. Like Kestrin’s family, they are posed upon a sofa, this one red with a floral pattern rendered in gold leaf.

I tilt my head, studying the shape of the flowers, the starlike petals. Where have I seen those before? Somewhere recently . . .

The truth comes to me so suddenly, I stumble back, my stomach dropping. No. No, it can’t be. I turn away from the portrait, then back again, staring at the flowers. Asphodel. And now that I look, they are engraved in the frame as well.

It’s a coincidence. Nothing more. It must be. But every sideways clue, every oddity Kirrana and I uncovered, has brought us closer and closer to the wider truths we are fighting for. I reach out to touch the wooden frame, trace the curve of a flower there, cool against my fingertips. Asphodel. The same flower that graces Berenworth’s seal.

This is a palace filled to the hilt with deadly games and twisted betrayals. For this is a portrait of Garrin, who volunteered to protect Alyrra and Kestrin from the ramifications of the investigation by taking it on himself, who consistently tried to downplay the threat the snatchers pose to the common people, who left Matsin and me to be locked in a hold and cut down rather than find one more piece of evidence.

What fools Kirrana and I were, assuming that the Circle would be the top of it. No, Berenworth is backed by one of the most powerful lords after the royal family, a man in line for the throne himself, who benefits from every child sold into slavery. A man whom Alyrra and Kestrin trust to investigate the snatchers and assess Berenworth’s role in the disappearances. And a man to whom I have explained nearly all the details of what I know, and how we learned it. I’ve armed him with everything he needs to hide the truth . . . except for the very final details of what Kirrana and I found.

I start forward, my foot aching with each step. I need to find the princess, tell her all this at once. But if I tell her about Garrin, then . . . then what? There are the mages involved, and who is to say the crown itself is not involved? I don’t believe Kestrin knows, but what if the king does? I can’t wrap my mind around the ramifications of what I’ve learned, but I need to tell someone. I need to make sure I’m not the only one who knows. And the only person I can trust right now with this is Alyrra.

I’ll tell her, and if she cannot do anything, then I’ll tell Bren as well. Perhaps there is a place for thieves—at least honorable thieves—when the government has betrayed their people so deeply.

The next servant I see, I ask for directions back to the royal wing. He directs me to familiar halls, and from there I head toward the back hall with its stairway up to the guard room. I pass a few servants, a young noble on his way somewhere, and then, as I round the corner to the stairway, I see a young page crouched on the ground. He looks up as I pause, his face set in hard lines and furrows.

“Are you all right?” I ask, moving toward him.

“F-forgive me, kelari,” he says, ducking his head. “I’ve just turned my ankle.”

I know that pain well enough. “Let’s have a look,” I say, coming to a stop beside him, my mind running through how I can tell Alyrra. Will the asphodel be enough of a connection to convince her?

The boy proffers me the injured ankle. It isn’t swollen yet, but when I ask him to rotate his foot, he winces and freezes up. I can’t tell if it’s only a strain, or something worse. My usual patients are horses.

“Can you stand?” I ask, glancing toward the back stairway, then the other direction. There’s no one to hand him off to,