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

The Scholar reaches the shelves just as I slide the book in beside its brothers. He looks pleasantly surprised. “Histories?”

“You have an unusual collection,” I say, dropping my hand. The little journal feels like it’s burning a hole through my skirts.

“And you have unusual taste for a peasant.”

“I’m not a peasant,” I say coldly. “My father owns a horse farm.” And even if I were a peasant, why shouldn’t I be interested in histories?

“Does he indeed?” The Scholar offers me a predatory smile, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that I may have just raised the ransom the Scholar wants of Red Hawk. I bite my tongue, calling myself five kinds of fool, but he only gestures toward the door and the waiting maid. I pass him, keeping my eyes on the maid. She inspects me, her hands on her hips, that crooked grin growing more impudent by the moment.

“Your father raise lame horses too?” she asks.

My head jerks back. I glare at her, trying to ignore the hurt of her words. I know this is how people see me, so why does it keep hurting? Her grin grows wide enough to bare her gums, and I finally find words to cut her with in return. “He breeds horses. Children are raised, though clearly your parents didn’t bother with you.”

“What! You—”

“That will be enough, Irayna. Show our guest to her room and refrain from further insults, if you can. Maybe just try keeping your mouth shut.”

“Yes, kel,” she says, her face a mottled red beneath the brown. “Forgive me, kel.”

“Kelari Ria?” the Scholar continues, a speculative glint in his eye.

“Yes?” I ask warily.

“I take a light refreshment before I retire for the evening. You will join me for it, in a half hour or so?”

It’s not a request, not really. “As it pleases you.”

“I look forward to it,” he says, waving me on.

I can’t say I feel the same.

Chapter

28

The Scholar takes his evening refreshment in the library: a tray with tea, a plate of biscuits, and that is all. At his gesture, I sit down in an armchair newly placed opposite him, my hands tightly folded in my lap.

I have spent the last half hour alternately reading the journal and staring off into space as I try to imagine either an impossible escape attempt or what I might do when Red Hawk’s response comes in the morning. At least Bren should eventually be able to get word to Alyrra regarding what we learned from the boys and the Blessing, even if . . . No, I will get away from here somehow. The other possibility is far too terrifying to consider.

A cursory inspection of my room revealed no easy opportunities to escape. It is on the third floor of a smooth-faced building, so I can hardly jump to the ground nor climb safely to the roof. Irayna locked my door from the outside, part and parcel, I suppose, of being placed in this particular “guest” room. While I would like to think I’m capable of picking a lock, the reality is I have no idea how to proceed other than to stick things into the keyhole and jiggle them about. Which I will attempt, but not till later tonight, once everyone is asleep.

“I hope you have been made comfortable,” the Scholar says now, reaching to pour the tea.

“Quite, thank you.”

The Scholar smiles amiably and offers me a slender cup of tea, the scent of mint rising with the steam. To my surprise, he asks nothing further about my family, or Bren, or what we were doing in his territory. Instead, he asks me about books.

I blink back my astonishment, take a comforting sip of tea, and open myself up to the conversation. We debate the points made by Edhanburrah in his contentious The Descent of Anarchy, and I find myself enjoying the freedom with which I can voice my opinions—though I am careful not to speak too specifically about our own king. Baba and I brought a copy of the book back with us from the last Spring Fair, got from a local print shop there; my sisters and I read it together and debated its claims through half this past winter. Now the Scholar impresses me with his thoughtfulness, the way he pauses over his tea, considering his words, one hand caressing the cup. Watching him, I can almost forget the way that same hand held my wrist, offering the faintest of threats in the firmness of its grasp.

I rise to take my leave at the end of our conversation, the Scholar accompanying me to the door. “A delightful evening, Kelari Ria,” he says with a warm smile, surprising me yet again.

“You are an exceptional host,” I say, meaning it for the most part. If one overlooks his being my captor. “But, kel, may I ask one question?”

“You may ask,” he replies, his expression reserved once more.

“In the morning, if Red Hawk does not meet your demands . . .” I trail off.

“Let us hope he does.”

“But if he does not?”

His lips thin, his gaze dark, unbending. “I am afraid I shall have to kill you.”

His words are a shock of cold water, washing away the pretenses of a shared conversation over a cup of tea, the false security I had been lulled into by thinking him an actual scholar, a man of education and manners. Which he is. But he is also a thief lord. And a killer.

With a gentle push, he propels me through the doorway. I turn back to him, strangely unsteady. I have grown up with the idea that one can reason with one’s opponent, that manners and culture and civility lead to respect for each other’s lives. But that is devastatingly wrong, and the man I have just spent an hour discussing politics and philosophy with will kill me as easily as he will let me go, and cares not what I think of either possibility.

“Good night, kelari,” he says as a manservant steps forward