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

loss. The mages fell in battle as well as the soldiers. But worse, far worse, were the deaths of the princes and princesses, and the king’s brothers. They do not die in battle. None of them. They simply disappear, as if they had never been, or as if they had sunk into their bedclothes, or stepped from the trail to be swallowed by the earth.

The king is mad with rage. I would that he feared the Fae more, but each loss just drives him harder against them. He will no longer speak to us, holding council with only Mendar from among our numbers, him and the mages, and the quad of captains over what remains of our second army. I should have spoken before, when I knew his first plan was flawed. I should have counseled him when we met in Ajroon, that a new strategy would be needed against the Fae. I should have argued that the sorceress must be stopped at all costs, let the Fae army do what it wishes. She is their true strength. But I have held my silence too long, and now when I speak he brushes me away.

We will die soon. I think often of my sister. I know she will be safe, for the Fae kill no children. I hope that our parents are safe with her. I hope my family will not hate me for having failed them.

I look up finally, consider the deep darkness through the window. Then I slip the book back into my pocket, untie my sash, and use my teeth to snap the knot of red thread showing through the back of the sash. I tug the thread out, and on the other side a tiny red diamond comes undone, delivering up to me my bone knife. It appears as a sudden weight upon my lap, the onyx and mother-of-pearl handle gleaming in the lamplight.

The blade is too wide by a hair to slip into the keyhole, nor do I suspect it would do much good regardless. There will be guards and more locked doors to contend with if I attempt to flee down the hallways and out through the building itself. No, my only hope is the window.

The rope takes barely a half hour to make, used as I am to braiding. I tie knots at intervals, to give my hands and legs purchase. I push the bed next to the window to serve as my anchor, positioning it so that even if my weight lifts it from the ground, it will remain firmly on this side of the window.

Then I blow out the lamp and wait. Once my eyes have adjusted to the dark, I peek from the window, searching for guards. The shadows lie deep and still, and it is impossible to determine what is darkness and what might be a man standing watch. In the end, I can only hope that the man I saw has left.

I wrap my knife in a final strip of fabric, just long enough to cover it properly, and then I lay it flat against my stomach, rolling the top of my skirt over it. I tug my sash down over its slight bulk to keep it in place. It is not ideal, but if I am caught, I do not want to lose my knife as well.

I wait a quarter of an hour longer, counting out the minutes with prayers, and then I lower the rope out the window. Far away, I can hear a dog barking, but here all lies quiet.

Taking hold of the sill in one hand and my rope in the other, I swing my feet over the windowsill, and freeze. It is so very far down, the road made of stone cobbles. If I slip, if I lose my grip on the rope, I will die. As certainly as I will die come morning, if Red Hawk cannot ransom me. Perhaps I should wait. Perhaps Bren will come through for me, and I don’t need to attempt something as foolhardy as this . . .

And perhaps this is the only chance I will get. I wind my legs around the rope and carefully lower myself off the sill, gripping the rope in sweat-damp hands. Don’t look down, I tell myself. One hand at a time. That’s all.

I can’t use my feet very well, so I keep the rope wound between my legs and use each knot as a resting spot, if only for a single breath. My whole body is shaking with tension by the time I pass the set of windows below my own. As I near the street, my arms shudder with effort.

I drop to the ground, stumbling slightly, and turn.

A man stands just behind me, smiling. I neither saw nor heard him approach, and now the shock of it freezes me in place.

“Took you long enough,” he says, reaching for me.

I try to run. I manage no more than two limping strides before a hand closes around my arm, yanking me back. I open my mouth to scream, but there is already an arm across my throat, as strong and unforgiving as an iron bar.

I manage a strained, gasping breath and am jerked backward as the man begins to walk. I scrabble to keep up, my feet backpedaling as he drags me effortlessly across the cobbles and around the corner to the Scholar’s front door.

This time, I doubt there will be any windows for me to climb out.

Chapter

29

The cell I am locked in is the sort of thing I only ever expected to meet in tales of pure criminals. Here is the horror of a cold stone room, bars forming a barely visible cage across one wall, the taint of captivity and despair in the air itself. There is no hint of light here.

I huddle in the farthest corner, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness as the sentry departs in company with a second guard who