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

to introduce my cousin, Verin Garrin of Cenatil. Garrin, this is Kelari Amraeya, attendant to my betrothed.”

“Honored,” the man says, bowing. Garrin is handsome in a damning sort of way, his midnight hair falling just past his shoulders, his high cheekbones accenting the shape of his eyes and the length of dark lashes that are, no doubt, the envy of half the young women at court.

“And my remaining attendants, whom you have not met,” Kestrin goes on, and introduces them one by one.

I smile and nod and dip small curtsies, and find the prince watching me narrowly, his smile pleasant and his eyes sharp as onyx. He knows. He knows what Captain Matsin was ordered to do—he was part of the whole plan to test me—even if he doesn’t know about the bruises as yet, and he must see in my face that I don’t want to be here. He’s trying to show me some favor now, assure me of my place and establish it in the court, so that I would neither want to leave my position nor dare risk the embarrassment of walking away from it now.

Except I don’t care about the court. I would much rather have my horses and forget all this—this ugliness, and the otherworldly reality of undead horses, and the indisputable truth that even those one means to serve can betray, whether intentionally or not.

I dip a last wooden curtsy to the prince. As they start up the stairs, I turn to finally make my escape.

“She doesn’t seem pleased to be here.” Garrin’s voice floats down toward me.

“Let us hope we can convince her yet,” Kestrin returns.

I clench my jaw and keep walking. So many games. I can’t even tell whether I was meant to overhear that or not, but it seems likely. Why did I ever think such a position would be a good idea for me?

No reason, but that I felt sorry for the princess, to have attendants who would misguide her, to have come through such a harrowing experience and find herself alone yet again. It didn’t occur to me she might play her own games.

But that’s not altogether true. I had some strange, irrational idea that I might be able to influence things here in the palace, bring attention to the snatchers. And the princess did mention them up on the palace walls. But what do I actually know about palace life? How did I think for even a moment I could navigate a place like this and influence people so far above me? And not get caught up in games and manipulations and—and the outright ghastliness of the dead horse’s head. Though I don’t suppose anyone could have expected that. But I don’t want anything to do with it, not with the horse’s head, or the clever princess, or her scheming attendants.

I wend my way out of the palace, pausing only to ask a servant for directions, and keep going until I’m facing the wide cobbled space outside the palace walls. I turn slowly, unsure what I’m doing. There is West Road leading down to the stables where the princess once worked, the cobbles still damp from the rain earlier today. And in the opposite direction is East Road heading toward the merchant center, where Melly and I went shopping. Where I saw the boy with the Darkness.

I stand a long moment looking toward the road, and then I start walking. I don’t understand how politics work, or the palace, and I’m not sure I want anything to do with either. But at least I can ask questions here. The people of the city are bound to know more than we do in Sheltershorn. If I can learn anything at all, perhaps there might be some hope of tracking down Seri. Or keeping the snatchers from visiting Sheltershorn again.

Chapter

14

It takes me three-quarters of an hour to reach familiar streets, and another quarter of an hour after that to find the shop where the boy sat, the bowl of peas before him. Today he sits at the back of the shop, lost in the early evening shadows, a cat on his lap and a faint, gentle smile on his face.

“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asks. She is a small woman, her bearing confident, her hair braided back to reveal attractive features and an intelligent gaze.

I should buy something. I look around uncertainly as she waits. Her store is filled with lace and beaded trim, tassels and corded knots pre-fashioned into buttons. My fingers brush my pockets, but I don’t have my purse with me. No, I walked out of the palace in my attendants’ clothing, looking rich and without a coin to spare.

“Is something wrong?”

I look up with some embarrassment. “I seem to have left my purse at home. I’m sorry.”

She laughs, a kind sound that makes the boy look up, the smile on his face growing wider. “I’ve done the same before.”

“Do you mind if I sit down a moment before I go back? I didn’t think I’d be walking so much today.” I didn’t think at all, or I would have realized that my foot only felt so good because of that salve the healer gave me. With its numbing effect long since dissipated, I can tell my skin is not happy beneath the bandages.

“Of course,” she says, and offers me a seat on a small, round cushioned stool. “Have you been in before? I don’t know that we’ve met.”

“We haven’t,” I agree. “I passed your store the other day and decided I wanted to come back and see it.”

“But you’re not from the city? You have a bit of an accent.”

My cheeks warm. No doubt everyone I’ve met in the palace has noted it. “I’m from Sheltershorn. I’m visiting my cousin for the summer.”

“Ah! You’ve come for the royal wedding.”

We pass a comfortable few minutes chatting about the upcoming wedding and how business has been good for her given how a good