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

But where am I? The room offers no clues. It looks to belong to a wealthy, though probably not noble, family. A small band of mosaic runs along the top of the walls, and beneath the woven rugs layered on the floor, I catch the occasional patch of bare mosaic, neither overly fine nor crude. I lie on a low bed; beside me, a carved table bears a tray with a cup of water. Then there is the snoring woman, a window I have no intention of jumping out of, and a door.

I consider the door. It is cracked open, which means I won’t have to worry about locks. I could go out without waking the woman, and see if I can figure out where I am. Because if I need to escape, I suspect this is the best chance I’ll get.

Artemian brought me here, I remind myself, though I don’t remember much past the carriage. It must be a safe place, even if it is clearly not his own home. Still, I’m not sure I trust my assumptions enough not to check.

I sit up carefully, pushing back the blankets with my good hand. My temples ache, pounding loud enough to almost drown out the woman’s snores. I stay sitting, one foot flat on the rugs, the other as flat as it gets, until the pounding in my head recedes to a dull thud. It takes me another moment to remember what I’m doing. Then I push myself to my feet, take one step as the room spins on its axis, and my knees fold. I land with a yelp, my wounded arm glancing off the carpets and bringing tears to my eyes.

The woman shrieks, jumping to her feet, her eyes wild. I hunch down and bite my lip to keep quiet against the waves of pain.

“Who’s there?” she calls, still looking over my head.

“Me,” I say. It is almost a question.

She glances down, sees me, and her whole body shudders with relief. “Ah.”

The door swings open. I look up to see Bren poised in the doorway, a silver glint in his hand. I can’t help the rush of relief I feel when I see him: I must be safe after all. He glances from me to the woman, and his face transforms from angles and hardness to amusement. He palms his dagger with a flick of his fingers. “Kelari Bakira, is all well?”

The woman flutters her fingers at her breast, the motion at odds with her large physique. “I woke with a start, kel. My apologies. The young lady is on the floor.”

“So I see.” Bren meets my gaze, his lips curving into a smile.

“Hello,” I offer cheerily. His pants are rumpled, his hair unbound, and his tunic missing altogether, baring a lean, muscled chest. Kelari Bakira isn’t the only one I woke up.

“Hello,” he replies. He glances into the hallways, shakes his head and murmurs something, and I hear the faint sound of footsteps receding. He looks back in on us. “Kelari, would you fetch some food for our guest?”

“Yes, kel,” Bakira says, bustling toward him. “At once.”

He steps in, holding the door as she passes, and then closes it behind her. I take the time to readjust myself, making sure my skirts cover my legs and turned foot, trying not to giggle over the ridiculousness of looking proper in the company of a half-dressed man. Not that I haven’t worked beside our own stable hands many a sunny afternoon and thought nothing of their taking off their shirts. But this is different. I think.

Bren crosses the room and sits down beside me. “Felt like going for a walk?”

“I like walks,” I agree before I register what he’s actually saying. Why can’t I seem to think clearly tonight? Or is it still day? The shutters are closed, though, and no light leaks in through them.

Bren shakes his head. “Did you think you were still a prisoner?”

“I didn’t know where I was,” I admit, embarrassed. “I figured I would just check.”

“We left the door open so you wouldn’t worry.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” he agrees. We sit together in silence, Bren watching me from the corner of his eye. I should say something before he mocks me, but I can’t think what, my thoughts heavy in coming. Then he says, “I’m rather surprised you didn’t—though perhaps you did.”

“Did what?”

Almost despite himself, he says, “Attempt to escape the Scholar.”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

I look down to the carpet underfoot, trace the interwoven flowers and stems with my eyes. “I cut a bedsheet into strips, braided a rope, and climbed out a window.”

Beside me, I sense him tilt his head. There’s something that catches in my throat at the feel of that, and I don’t want to see the look in his eye. I don’t want his pity.

“A sentry caught you.”

“Yes,” I agree. “I am learning to defend myself, but I didn’t—I couldn’t—”

“You were no match for him,” Bren says. His words are soft, almost regretful.

“No.” I shift, my gaze drifting from the carpet to his bare feet, the line of his legs, the daggers tucked into the sash at his waist. “Are you—?” No, I can’t ask that. Only I want to know. I need to know.

“Am I?”

I make myself go on, voice unsteady. “Like that?”

He goes still, even his breath paused in his lungs. “Like what, exactly?”

“Do you take prisoners?” I ask, because I can’t not. “Do you—or Red Hawk—have cells you keep them in, beneath your homes? Do you kill people?”

My words bleed into the room, and the silence enfolds them. It’s a silence that holds far too many answers.

“I have killed,” Bren says finally, his voice cool. “But I like to believe it was not unjustly.”

Like to believe. There are so many things I would like to believe too. “You’re a thief,” I say.

“Yes.”

I turn to him, as if he could somehow remake himself just for this one conversation. “But isn’t that—it’s inherently unjust,” I plead.