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

attack the one man who has helped me against the snatchers, who made sure his men were there to pull me to safety when I leapt from that window?

I think of the foreign prince, of the violent wrath in his expression as he lunged for his sister. The way his hand hurtled toward me, fury and cruelty wrapped up together. I don’t want to be him. I don’t want to be anything like him. I don’t want this anger inside me; I don’t want to hurt those around me even if they hurt me. I don’t want to be that kind of person.

Artemian says, “He was worried about you.”

A sob lodges in my throat, choking me. I close my lips around it fiercely. I have no right to be weeping now, as if I am the one who has been wronged. I force a shaky breath, wipe my face on my skirts.

Artemian tries again. “He wasn’t sure we’d be able to get you away from the Black Scholar so easily.”

“Easily?” I echo. There hadn’t been anything easy about jumping out of that window or running down the alley with my arm cut open.

“Red Hawk has been negotiating his relationship with Bardok Three-Fingers for some time.”

I look up sharply, my face still damp. “Wait—you mean Bardok knew?” Artemian meets my gaze steadily. I remember Bardok’s gleeful laughter as I kneed the Scholar, the way he bent over as if consumed by the hilarity of the situation, never attempting to reach for me. And it was his guard who told me to jump, though it was Red Hawk’s men waiting in the street below. “Of course.”

Bren did so much for me. And all I did was judge him and attack him.

“Neither Bardok nor Red Hawk like how strong the Black Scholar’s grown,” Artemian says slowly. “Now that you’ve gotten involved, you’re going to have to be careful.”

I make myself focus on him. He’s right, of course. The Black Scholar is one man I don’t want to meet again. Actually, I’d be perfectly happy to never meet either the Scholar or Bardok again. And I certainly don’t want to meet Red Hawk. That would be five kinds of mortifying, after what I just did to Bren. Nope, definitely don’t want to meet Bren again either.

“Also, you should be aware that Red Hawk sent word about you to the princess.”

“He . . . did?”

“You spent one night as the Black Scholar’s hostage, and a day and a night with us. She needed to know where you were.”

“That long?” I ask, rubbing my face. “I didn’t realize . . .”

“You were unconscious—or asleep—a long time. We were worried.”

Maybe worry makes people say ridiculous things too. Maybe Bren drew out the stupidity of our conversation because he was glad I was awake—which is a stupid idea in its own right. Bren might not want me dead, but there’s no reason to think he cares for me. Certainly not after I suggested he marry the village shoplifter. And not now. Never now.

I press my lips together and glare at my lap fiercely, in the hopes of driving away any more tears. Still, one useless, pointless tear drips over my eyelid and down my cheek. Perhaps Artemian won’t say anything.

“Here,” Artemian says, holding something out.

I expect it to be a kerchief, but when I look up, I realize it isn’t that at all: it’s a small, well-made bag. He’s doing better than consoling me; he’s changing the subject.

“What is it?” I ask, taking the bag.

“I believe you wanted the Blessing cup and stone? Bren sent out for them yesterday while you were recovering.”

“Thank you,” I manage, and set the bag on my lap, trying not to think of Bren being even more helpful while I recuperated, just before I punched him.

Artemian doesn’t speak again until he leaves, offering me a kind farewell and stepping down from the carriage a block away from the palace so that I might enter the walls on my own.

Chapter

32

“You’re back!” Mina exclaims as I step into our bedroom.

I offer her a weak smile.

“Is your friend all right?”

I blink at her, bewildered. She can’t mean Bren. “Uh, just fine.” I say.

Mina’s eyes narrow as she turns to put away a folded tunic. Without looking at me, she says, “We heard a friend of yours needed help and the princess gave you leave to see to them.”

It’s almost accurate, if you consider the brickmaker’s boys my friends. Maybe.

“Yes,” I say after a moment, since this story must have come from the princess. Who else would have made it up? Bren, perhaps, what with his “friend of a friend” phrasing, but even that would have been routed through his letter to the princess. Or was it Red Hawk who wrote to her? I can’t recall.

Mina says, “A letter came for you while you were gone. It’s on your desk.”

“Thanks.” I consider the distance to my desk. It’s not that much farther, considering how far I’ve already come. Still, I take a moment to gather my strength.

“You missed quite the musical evening last night.”

“Mmm. The princess enjoy it?”

“Apparently her people don’t have a tradition of insulting one’s in-laws through song right before the wedding.”

“Only time for it,” I say. “Can’t do it afterward.”

“That’s what Zayyid Kestrin told her. She was very amused. Two of our best musicians closed the evening with dueling insults that led into a love ballad—Rae?”

I am almost to the desk, but the room has started swaying strangely. I stumble trying to keep my balance.

“What’s wrong?” Mina asks sharply, starting across the room to me.

“Dizzy,” I manage, one hand reaching for the back of the chair. I grab it and steady myself. As Mina reaches me, I plop down into the chair, the cloth bag with its cup and opal falling to the floor beside me.

She crouches beside me and puts her hand on my wounded arm, hidden beneath my sleeve. I inhale sharply, stiffening with the unexpected pain.

She plucks her hand away as if burned.