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

I agree with Mina’s suggestion, and dip a quick curtsy before retreating from the dais. Havila throws me a considering glance as I step down, but she says nothing. I weave my way through the crowded hall to one of the food tables, where a servant offers me a napkin and a cup of water to clean my hands. A subtle check assures me that my wound has not begun to bleed again.

I look up as the prince makes his second entrance.

“Do you dare return?” Havila thunders from the dais.

“I come bearing gifts,” he calls, “with my head bowed in repentance!” His head is, in fact, thrown back, chin lifted as he grins across the hall at Havila. I like this impudent, boyish prince more than I would have thought possible, especially given the laughter shining from Alyrra’s eyes, all thought of her mother’s anger banished.

“We shall see what your repentance is worth. Approach!”

He crosses the length of the hall to his bride. This time, each of his attendants carries a tray. I give a moment of thanks that brides don’t have to give gifts in return; I’m relatively certain my arm couldn’t bear that kind of weight for long.

“Can you see what they have?” one of the women near me asks of her friends.

“The last tray has a gold belt. The rest, I cannot tell.”

“That will be for the wedding procession,” the first says, beaming. “I cannot wait to see it!”

Havila continues to preside over the dais, playing the role of family matriarch as she considers each gift, likening them to cheap baubles, and then, in an act of charity, allowing that they might be enough. The outlander queen watches this all with raised eyebrows and faint bemusement, utterly unaware that she has failed to take up her own role in the festivities. Her whole demeanor suggests she comes from a land of finer customs. I doubt that very much. From what I’ve heard, their hall is strewn with rushes and bones, with dogs padding underfoot. One does not dare enter wearing anything but boots.

I wait till Havila dismisses a very merry Kestrin, his attendants passing off his gifts to Alyrra. I should be up there, but it doesn’t occur to me that I’ve been missed till Kestrin turns to leave, his eyes sweeping over the hall and coming to a stop at me.

I dip my head. When I look up again, he’s passed on. I hurry back to the dais. By the time I reach it, Havila has stepped down.

“You,” she says, reaching out a hand to stop me, “are both foolish and very thoughtful. There might have been a better way to change the subject, you know.”

“But it was so very effective.”

“Reminding everyone of your purported clumsiness?” She sighs. “I suppose the fact that you were pushed must be shared about a bit more.”

“Well, but that’s not really—”

“Don’t you dare!”

I swallow and offer a tentative smile.

“Now go on up there and be helpful, you little fool.” Havila gives me an affectionate pat and moves off, cane tapping with each step.

I wake early the following morning from liquid dreams, all darkness and shadow and bright blades. I sigh as I sit up. I never used to have such dreams.

It’s early yet, the sun risen but everyone still abed after the late night we had. With no chance of sleeping again, I prop up my pillow and reach for the archer’s journal.

Her words grow darker, more desperate as the days pass and the defeats continue. I come to the final entry, laboriously written, the letters pressed hard into the page, as if she were in pain.

I have betrayed my king. I meant only to leave—desertion is no small crime, but my heart is dead from all I have seen, and he refuses to speak with the Fae messengers, putting them to death. If we will not parley for peace, we will be slaughtered. Already so many lost: the swordsmen, the archers, captains, and whole troops of quads. I am the last of my quad. And while the invaders are kind in their conquests, leaving those who do not bear arms unharmed, still, many die who mean only to defend their homes. So I left to find my sister and our parents, and take them into the mountains until this evil time is past.

I rode out at dawn, the sentries letting me pass without a word, used to my coming and going. Not three hours later, the Fae caught me. They dragged me from my saddle, and there were too many to fight. I did not try. Perhaps they would have let me go had not one of them recognized me.

“The king’s archer.” Not anymore! But they would have thought less of a deserter. They argued then, about a punishment, a death that had been decreed for the king and those in the highest circle of command. As if he had left me anything to command, reassigning my men to Mendar! It was an empty position I held, for he knew I doubted him. The Fae argued, and I knelt among them stupid with weariness.

I did not understand until they pressed me up against a tree and, raising my right hand above my head, impaled it there with a dagger. I screamed then, screamed for their mercy, told them I had a sister and parents to care for. They were angry. It is easier to kill when you do not know such things about your enemy. They caught my left hand, meaning to do the same to it, and in desperation I demanded that they take me to the sorceress who leads them.

That stopped them. They argued while I hung there, blood trickling down my arm and over my chest. And then they took out the dagger, stanching the flow of blood with linen and magic, blindfolded me, and took me to their army’s camp. Their general saw me first, demanding to know what my message