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

the sensation passes and it’s as if the hallway brightens once more.

“A guard against listening ears,” Stonemane says to reassure me. And then, in answer to my question, “Unless someone sees them at work, you should be able to pass off your sister’s wards as typical. Though they are certainly novel in their design. If the wards are activated, though, you would arguably have other, larger problems to deal with. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“If you can see all that, then . . .”

“Fae, remember?” he says, well-deep eyes rising to meet my gaze.

As if I could forget. “Would it be better not to wear the sash at all?”

“After your most recent experiences at court? I would recommend wearing it at all times.” Stonemane’s voice is deceptively blithe for how the planes of his face have hardened, his eyes reflecting no light at all.

I swallow. “Is the foreign prince . . . he’s not a mage, is he?”

“Not a drop of magic in his blood,” Stonemane says. “And now I had best go, before I commit some sort of political blunder.”

Such as warning me to ward myself against the foreign prince, because even if he doesn’t have magic, he might still find a way to use it against me?

“Thank you, verin,” I say, amused.

He dips his head, an answering smile upon his lips.

I continue on, managing to leave the palace without meeting anyone else I know. I slip out the side exit of the palace walls, nodding to the guards there, and make my way around to West Road. My turned foot aches a little, but it’s well cushioned and should weather a little walking just fine. The streets are quieter now, though there are still women walking about, mostly in pairs and trios, but their presence is reassuring. Just as I am trying to decide how to hire a guide to get me to the inn, Artemian steps out of the shadow of a nearby building.

“Hallo, Rae,” he says cheerfully.

“Oh, good,” I say with desperate relief. “At least you’ll know where we’re going.”

He laughs. “That I do.”

“Which is not the Tattered Crow,” I hazard.

“Not at all,” he agrees. “This way.”

We follow West Road another block before crossing over it to dive into the streets and alleys beyond.

As I accompany Artemian down a side street so old none of the pavers lie flat, I ask, “So what does it mean, precisely, to be the friend of a friend?”

Artemian glances at me, his mouth curved in a disbelieving smile pulled tight at one corner by his scar. “Tell me you’ve at least heard of Red Hawk.”

“And the Black Scholar and Bardok Three-Fingers, yes.”

“A friend of a friend means one of Red Hawk’s men. Or women.”

“He has women?” I’m not sure I like the sound of that.

“Certainly, but he treats them as he does his men. We’re all thieves, Rae. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

There is more to anyone than what they do to earn a living, but I don’t argue it with Artemian—that isn’t his point.

We turn down a street that looks vaguely familiar. “Are we—is this the way to the brickmaker’s place?”

“It is. We’d have preferred to keep to the west side, but it seemed best, in this case, to stay as close to where we started as we could,” he says, his voice all business now. “It’s getting cool. Perhaps we should put up our hoods?”

He tugs up his own cloak hood, and I do the same. We’re entering the Black Scholar’s territory again, and I don’t at all want to meet with a second thieving ring tonight.

We continue on a ways, turning a few more corners into unfamiliar streets. As we pass a pair of men chatting to one side, they nod to Artemian, then return to their conversation, but their eyes continuously scan the street. Lookouts.

“Why is it best for you to stay in someone else’s territory?” I ask, unable to tamp down my unease.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Because if you must trespass, it’s best to stay hidden and only move when you’re sure no one is looking. In here.”

Artemian knocks a quick pattern on a door, and a moment later it swings open to admit us. I stop on the threshold. There, gathered together in a knot to one side, are the brickmaker’s boys. Every single one of them, from the frightened seven-year-old to the boy with the infected cut on his hand, now black around the edges. Seated cross-legged beside them is an old woman, her hair braided back and three items set beside her: a bucket of water, a silver cup, and a white opal. She wears the sky-blue robes of a Speaker, the hem frayed.

On the other side of them sits Bren, his head bent as he speaks quietly with the boys.

“Ready, then?” the Speaker asks, looking from Bren to Artemian and me.

Bren gestures toward me, eyes on the Speaker. “If you would allow the kelari a few minutes to chat with the boys?”

“Of course, though I do not like to wait. Until they are blessed, their safety is not assured.”

I stare at Bren. “You—?”

He meets my gaze, and while his expression remains steady, his eyes glow with amusement. I no doubt look like a country idiot, staring at him in shock.

“We’ve spoken with the boys already, but I thought you might want to ask for yourself how each of them ended up here.”

He returns his attention to the eldest boy, just beside him. “The kelari is trying to stop the snatchers. She’s working for the royal family. Whatever you tell her, she’ll use to help other children.”

The boy and the others around him look up at me, and then away. They are waiting, and I realize in this moment that they do not yet believe they are free. They are still in someone else’s power, still held captive, and they will not truly believe they have escaped until they have returned to their families—if their families can be found. And even then, they will take some part of