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

slowly, as if pondering his words, “you had better take us to visit your master.”

The man with the goatee laughs. “The Scholar doesn’t take to trespassers. He’ll be less kind than we will.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Bren says. “How exactly do you plan to teach your lesson?”

The leader shrugs. “I think we beat you till you can’t stand, and then we take that girl of yours and escort her—”

“I think not,” Bren says, his voice cutting through the man’s. I swallow hard, wishing I could pull away from Barrelchest. I don’t want to know how that sentence would have ended. “You had better take us in now.”

The leader hesitates, staring. This isn’t what he expected. “You go in to meet the Scholar, you’re dead.”

Bren shrugs, palming his daggers. They vanish without a trace. “That’s up to the Scholar. Lead the way.”

“I’ll take those,” the leader says, gesturing as if to point to the disappeared daggers.

“Off my dead body,” Bren agrees. “Should you be so lucky. Lead the way.”

“Not with your blades at my back.”

“Oh no? And what of your blades?” Bren grins, to all appearances perversely enjoying the situation. Eventually, one of the men goes ahead, followed by Bren and the leader side by side, and Barrelchest and I bring up the rear. He allows me to walk beside him, but he keeps his hand at my back, the dagger’s point pressing into the fabric of my tunic. The wounded man, his arm temporarily bound, slips away, no doubt to seek out a healer.

Barrelchest doesn’t have patience for my limp, shoving me along in front of him whenever he grows aggravated with my slowness. Bren keeps up a muted conversation with his companion, as if they were the best of enemies, and if it weren’t for the one glance he darts my way as they turn a corner, his face going eerily hard and ungiving as his gaze skims Barrelchest, I’d think he didn’t much care how I came along. No one we pass dares a glance at me—or Bren.

Surely this isn’t how people disappear? Being walked down the street with a threat at their backs, and no one looking twice or speaking up? And yet there is no arguing with the fact that we walk unimpeded right to the Black Scholar’s lair.

I don’t know where I thought the Black Scholar would make his headquarters: a tumbledown old building, or perhaps private rooms in an inn. I am completely and utterly wrong. The Black Scholar’s place of work is a library with soaring ceilings and wide windows. This late at night, heavy velvet curtains have been drawn across the windows. They reflect a red so deep it is nearly black. Shelves line the walls, or stand back to back, marching into the rear of the room, and, if they are not full, they are certainly well-populated with books. Here at the front, a large table sits surrounded by chairs. And by the window stands a single armchair accompanied by an ornate circular side table, two books at rest on its surface.

A slim hand reaches out and places a third book on the table. I start, not having seen the man sitting in the armchair. Given that he’s dressed in a long black robe, I suppose it’s no surprise I didn’t notice him at first, even with the lamplight to brighten the room. He rises, his eyes barely registering me. They are focused, instead, on Bren.

“What have we here?”

“One of Red Hawk’s men, sir. Found him trespassing—”

“Is that so?” The Black Scholar frowns, crossing the distance between us with the faint swish of fabric. Like his hands, he is long and slender, the robes draping elegantly over his figure. His eyebrows are dark, accenting well-shaped eyes. His carefully trimmed mustache and beard set him apart from the rougher looks of our captors. His manner is cultured, urbane.

The leader of our little escort hesitates and keeps quiet, aware that there is more going on here than he knows. Though what that is, I couldn’t say either.

“Evening,” Bren says, clearly amused.

The Black Scholar raises a hand to adjust his robes, sliding his fingers over the trim at the front. His clothes beneath the robes are black as well. I stifle a shudder—scholars may certainly wear clothes and robes like his, but their tunics and pants are typically light, and their robes range from the soft blue of winter sky to the earthen brown of rich farmland; I can think of only one time I ever saw a scholar wear anything close to this: an elderly man who elected to wear a muted gray. Black looks terribly harsh in contrast, as if there were no space for uncertainty here, no place for thoughtful debate. There is only the black of his robe, absolute.

“Indeed it is,” he says, as if Bren had made a comment on the time of day. He gestures toward the men who brought us in. “You may go.”

“But, kel . . .”

“I said, you may go,” the Scholar snaps. Barrelchest releases his hold on me, retreating to the door.

“Kel,” the leader tries again. “The man is armed.”

“Of course he is. Even if you managed to take his daggers, I doubt you could have completely disarmed him. Not without killing him.”

Bren offers the Scholar a slight bow. What, was that a compliment to him? I try to catch his eye, but he acts as if I’m not even there.

The Scholar’s men make no further argument, though they glance at each other surreptitiously as they leave.

“Hold,” the Scholar barks just as the leader reaches the door.

“Kel?”

“Double the guards at the doors and below the windows.”

“Yes, kel.”

Bren tuts softly as the door closes. “What of the roof?”

“It’s sealed off,” the Scholar says. “Though you may certainly attempt it.”

I swallow hard. This is sounding much worse than it did a moment ago. Bren chuckles, waving away this offer as if it were a tray of sweets he has no interest in trying.

“And who, may I inquire,