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

I shake my head, waiting until I can breathe again. “Hurt my arm. I’m all right. I’ll just sit here a bit.”

“Let me see.”

I let out a shaky breath in what is meant to pass for a laugh. “Whatever for? There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Then you won’t mind my seeing,” Mina says firmly.

She waits, kneeling beside me as implacable as stone.

“You’d make a good mother,” I grumble, and carefully tug up my sleeve. Without the bandage, there’s nothing blocking Mina’s view of my wound with its very many stitches. Her expression shifts from slightly annoyed to aghast, lips parted in horror as if I had placed the foreign prince’s head on a tray before her. “It’s just a cut,” I say, and tug my sleeve down again.

She stands up, hands on her hips. “How many stitches are there?”

“Enough,” I say with a certain amount of humor. “Going to read that letter.”

She doesn’t answer. I focus on turning to the desk and am grateful to find that the envelope, sealed with a blob of wax, is easy to open one-handed. By the time I glance over to Mina, she’s gone.

The letter is from Mama, and I know at once she’s received my letter and Filadon’s about what happened with the foreign prince.

My dearest Rae,

I have spent the night tossing and turning, thinking about your last letter and whether I should urge you to come home as soon as the wedding is past. I doubt you would be able to step away from your duties as attendant before the celebrations are finished, though I would rather I saw you here tomorrow. But I know you, Rae. I know that you did not agree to serve as a royal attendant for a lark. I know you did not choose such a post for yourself, even if you should have. And I know you will not walk away from such a duty lightly.

Whatever your reasons for choosing to serve our new princess as attendant, I trust you in them. I trust you to stand by the values and principles your father and I taught you, to do what is right—not just what is easy and desirable, but what is ethically right. I trust you to take care of those around you, to fight for those who need you, fiercely protective sister and friend that you are. But, Rae, I also urge you to take care of yourself. You may know how to care for princesses and horse farms, how to protect those you love, how to do what needs to be done. But I worry that you do not yet know how to truly care for yourself. So be careful, my heart. And come home as soon as you are ready. I will be waiting.

All my love,

Mama

I am not going to start crying again. I fold up the letter with shaking fingers, sniffing repeatedly as if that will help me keep my emotions in check. I miss Mama, suddenly and overwhelmingly. I want nothing more than to curl up on a cushion next to her, or let her hold me, or even just to walk into the comfort of our kitchen and help Mama make breakfast.

But the truth is I don’t want to go home either, because then I would end up telling Mama that I punched the man who saved my life. That instead of protecting, I lashed out, and I feel broken inside now, turned into someone I don’t want to be. She will be disappointed in me, even if she still loves me, because I didn’t stand by what she taught me. I betrayed it in a moment of sheer pride and spite.

I look up numbly as Mina swings open the door, ushering in both the princess and a second figure in flowing robes. I blink, but Mage Berrila ni Cairlin remains, looking as competent and businesslike as she did when she saw to my bruised face. With the princess beside her then as well.

I stumble to my feet, my good hand gripping the back of the chair to anchor me. “Zayyida?”

“Don’t you dare curtsy,” Alyrra says sharply. “I’m glad you’ve returned. Veria Mina informs me you are hurt, though. I’ve brought Mage Berrila to take a look.”

“But”—I shoot Mina a hard look—“my arm’s already been seen to.”

“Not by a healer-mage,” Berrila says with amusement, “if Mina’s description is to be believed. Let’s see your arm then, kelari.”

She sets down a black bag beside the desk and takes charge of me at once, ordering me back into my chair with my arm propped on the desk. The princess, meanwhile, moves around so she can watch as Berrila eases up my sleeve.

I hear Alyrra’s sharp inhale, but she doesn’t speak.

Berrila’s brow lowers as she inspects the cut, and then she transfers her glower to me. “Was this done by someone here, kelari?”

“Not in the palace, no.”

“Hmph.”

Alyrra quietly asks Mina to close the door. “I believe what is said in this room should stay here.”

“It’s better, I think, if no one knows about this,” I say, nodding toward my arm. If I can keep word from getting out about my wound, the Black Scholar may not connect Alyrra’s limping attendant with his clubfooted captive. That could only be a good thing.

“That will mostly be on you,” Berrila says, “and the princess.”

“Me?” I glance toward the princess, but she remains quiet, her expression neutral.

“Acting like you’re unhurt when half your arm is patched together is a rather tall order. But I’ll see what I can do to help you. You and your twenty-seven stitches. Quiet now.” Berrila cradles my hand in hers, and a strange coolness spreads up my arm.

I don’t realize I’ve been clenching my teeth until the constant low pain of the wound fades and I can feel my jaw aching. As I watch, the skin draws together perfectly beneath the stitches, a faint blue glimmer outlining the edges of the skin for only a moment before fading to the