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

skirt and matching tunic, bind a fresh sash about my waist, and head over to Alyrra’s rooms.

Alyrra seems drawn and quiet. I pour her a cup of tea while Zaria helps her decide which of the two outfits laid out for her inspection she should wear this evening.

“That’s someone at the door,” Zaria says suddenly, and I realize the faint tapping I’d heard was a knock on the door to the suite.

“I’ll see who it is.” I head through the inner sitting room to the outer, where someone raps on the door once more.

I open it to find a pair of pale-faced men with closed expressions.

“Fetch my sister,” the first says in heavily accented Menay. He is tall and broadly built, with hair the color of darkened straw. Between the gold chains hung about his neck and his foreign clothing—a stiff, tightly cut tunic with puffed sleeves, and pants that appear sewn onto his legs—I’ve no doubt that this is the foreign prince I’m looking at.

“I said, fetch my sister,” he repeats, his voice curt.

“Zayyid,” I say. “If you will come in, I will let her know you are here.”

He pushes his way in, barely waiting for me to get out of the way. I turn and hurry from the room.

“Who is it?” Alyrra asks, at the door to her bedroom. She glances toward the door to the outer room, but from this angle she can’t see the men.

“I think it is your brother, zayyida. And another man with him.”

“What does the second man look like?”

“Tall, of a larger girth, and somewhat older. His hair is reddish brown. More red, I think.”

“Ah,” she says as Zaria stiffens. “That will be Daerilin. I’ll ask you both to stay with me. Let us go see what they want.”

The men stand before the couches, silent and clearly displeased. As Alyrra steps out with the two of us behind her, the foreign prince greets her with a voice that drips contempt. It takes me a heartbeat to figure out why I can’t untangle his words: he speaks their own western tongue, with all its sounds shoved to the front of the mouth. I glance toward Zaria. Her brow is furrowed, and her head is tilted, as if that might help her better understand.

The other man, Daerilin, says something and Alyrra’s voice answers, soft with shock. And then I do understand, for Daerilin says the impostor’s name: Valka.

I hear Zaria’s quick intake of breath, but she makes no move. Alyrra’s brother breaks in, his words harsh, contemptuous. Then the lord speaks again, demanding. They watch Alyrra with bristling anger, and even though Zaria and I stand to either side of her, just behind her shoulders, she bears the brunt of their wrath alone.

For a long moment, Alyrra remains silent. My hands curl into fists. They have come here demanding to know something about the impostor—and they very clearly don’t care what Alyrra has been through. She says something slowly, quietly. Daerilin snaps back at her. Snaps.

I take a jerking step forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Alyrra, and all three turn their regard to me.

“Amraeya,” Alyrra says, her voice just slightly uneven. “Please summon a quad for me. Use the bell pull.”

I dip my head and cross the room to the bell pulls, giving the blue one a single deft tug. Hardly more than a moment later, a quad shoves open the door, their swords drawn and their expressions grim. I recognize their faces, Captain Matsin’s most of all.

“At ease,” Alyrra says. “I did not mean to cause alarm. I merely require your services as an escort. My brother and Lord Daerilin wish to visit the impostor. Will you take them to her?”

The soldiers stare. Matsin clears his throat. “But, zayyida—”

“Where she is now,” Alyrra says firmly, overriding his protest. “They wish to see her at once.”

“Zayyida,” Matsin agrees, his voice flat. But the impostor was already executed before I came, wasn’t she? I thought she was hanged. And how could this—this despicable excuse for a brother come here with such a request?

“You call her ‘impostor’?” the foreign prince demands in Menay.

“I call her what she is,” Alyrra replies coolly. Then, to the soldiers: “Please stay with our guests through their visit and escort them home after. I would not want anything to happen on their way through the city. Report to me once you return.”

“Where have you been keeping her?” the foreign prince demands.

“You will see,” Alyrra says, gesturing toward the soldiers. Captain Matsin bows, and with a rustle of clothing the men leave, the prince swearing under his breath, loud enough for all to hear.

“Zaria?” Alyrra turns to us, her face paler than usual and two bright spots burning in her cheeks.

“Yes, zayyida,” Zaria says, her eyes wide.

“Valka will have been buried by now, won’t she?”

Zaria nods emphatically. “The king granted your request. I’m sure it was done at once.”

“Then at least it won’t be too gruesome. Let us finish dressing.”

Zaria hesitates. “Zayyida, should we—is there anyone we should inform?”

Alyrra looks at her, her lips parted to refuse, and then she blinks. It is as if she has never before had anyone who would care to know before now. What sort of mother does she have—what family is this?

“I will write a short note for Kestrin. Amraeya, will you summon a page for me?”

By the time the boy arrives, the note is signed and sealed, and he departs with it at once. Not ten minutes later, Kestrin knocks at the door. Alyrra meets him in the inner sitting room. Zaria and I hover by the door, for it isn’t quite proper for them to be alone.

“You are well?” Kestrin asks, crossing the room to Alyrra. He comes to a stop opposite her, his gaze running over her as if he might discover some harm done to her. Bruises, I think, remembering her reaction to my wrist. That is the sort of man her brother is. My stomach tightens into a knot.

“I am