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

one else takes notice, and since I have no idea of our destination, I keep my silence.

The carriage turns and the fields give way to a graveyard larger than I have ever seen. Great plots of land, lined with low stone boundary walls and filled with row upon row of graves, each marked by a few stones laid at the head. This must be where all the dead of the city are buried. The carriage rattles along, the first drops of rain spattering against the glass windows.

“We’re almost there,” Kestrin says, and the carriage falls silent.

We come to a stop by a plot with a slightly higher wall, the stones nearly black, unlike the more typical gray stones used to build the other walls. I clamber down after the prince and princess, pulling my cloak’s hood up to shield myself from the gentle rain. Of all the places I’d imagined we were going, a graveyard was not among them.

Kestrin and Alyrra proceed through a wrought-iron gate held open by a footman. I glance uncertainly toward the other attendant. He nods his chin toward the gate and then steps forward himself. Right, then, to the graves we go.

We remain a good distance behind the royals, coming to a stop when they do. They stand before yet another seemingly anonymous grave, their voices nearly inaudible. It takes me a moment to realize it is the most recent of all the graves here, for there are no more after it, nor is there another row behind us. It is the last grave in a smaller yard, whose wall is more carefully crafted than all the rest. We have a tradition of burying all of our dead in this manner: a few stones at the head, no marks of distinction. But the graveyard itself creates a subtle distinction, one that must mean something. Just as the way that Alyrra and Kestrin face the final grave here means something.

“Is that the queen’s grave?” I ask softly, my eyes flicking to where the royal couple stands.

Kestrin’s attendant gives a single silent nod.

Here lie generations of kings and queens, princes and princesses. One day, the king and Kestrin and even Alyrra will be buried here. Today, Alyrra has come to pay her respects to her betrothed’s late mother.

I stand patiently, keeping most of my weight on my good foot. My newly made slipper is tight on my turned foot, its shape not quite right, and already I can feel where it’s rubbed away a layer of skin along the top of my foot. I’ll no doubt have blisters as well, along the side of my foot that rests against the ground. If only we’d chosen to ride through the rain, I could have at least worn my old riding boots, polished to a shine and a perfect fit. Never mind. There’s nothing to be done now but try not to limp more than usual.

Eventually, Kestrin and Alyrra turn and start back to the gate. But when they reach the carriage, they pass it, crossing the road to the opposite graveyard and following the wall to an opening: no gate here.

Kestrin waves away the guards who rode out with us, now standing watch around the carriage and the edges of the graveyard, then glances back at us. “Kelari Amraeya, you will accompany us?”

I nod, for all that his tone makes it clear it’s a command and not a question. Kestrin’s attendant takes the prince’s cue and falls back to wait beside the carriage.

I walk on, my leather slippers with their embroidery slowly picking up mud and the hem of my skirt growing heavy with dampness as it brushes over the low grasses here. I’ve never minded getting wet before, but I’ve never worn such fine clothes in the rain either. I can only hope they withstand the outing. If I have to get a new outfit each time it rains, I might just need to drop a pitcher of juice on Alyrra and get myself dismissed.

Ahead of me, Kestrin and Alyrra come to a stop before an open grave. I stare, but there’s no mistaking it: not the mound of soil beside the hole, not the shovel left upon the ground, and certainly not the hole itself, gaping wide.

I swallow, glancing over my shoulder. Kestrin’s attendant remains by the gate, waiting patiently. The soldiers—three quads for a total of twelve men—remain alert, some of them watching the road, and no fewer than four of them watching the royals from afar. This was planned, right? Clearly it was. But the idea of leaving a body unburied for hours just so someone could come look at it seems horribly wrong.

I stop a short distance away and keep my eyes on the ground at my feet. I don’t want to catch even an accidental glance of what lies inside the grave. It will just be a shrouded body, I tell myself. It’s not as if I would know who they were.

“He was a good friend,” Alyrra says, her voice uneven. “I thank you for allowing this.”

“Would that I could have protected him,” Kestrin says. He stands near her, but there is an awkwardness to his stance. He wants to comfort her, but it is not his place—not until they are married.

Alyrra lifts a hand, wipes at her face. She’s crying; a quiet, steady sort of weeping. I plunge my hand into my skirt pocket and pull out a kerchief. Hobbling forward, I offer it to Alyrra.

She takes it with a watery smile. I drop my gaze and find myself looking into the grave, at a horse’s head. A tingle of shock runs through me as I stare at the thing, for it is only the head and a portion of the neck nailed to a wooden plaque. The eyes and lips are sewn shut with dark thread, the mane stringy and tinged with black, the cheeks stained gray with damp. It is a ghastly sight.

I take a quick step back, looking