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

reward, I hope,” Jasmine says. “After all you went through with the foreign prince.”

It’s the first truly nice thing she’s said to me. “It will be good business for my family,” I agree.

Jasmine nods. “Sounds about right. The reward ought to fit the recipient.”

“What sorts of rewards would you expect?” I ask curiously.

Jasmine glances at the other two, and then Mina says, “Marriage proposals to choose from, and of course wedding gifts. That would be at the end of our tenure as attendants. In the meantime, though, just gifts of fine fabrics and jewelry, perhaps a riding horse or the like.”

“Ah.” It’s just as well Filadon negotiated a business agreement. I’m certain I wouldn’t want the royal family to pressure someone into marrying me to please them. Not only would such a man no doubt come to hate me if I agreed to it, but that would leave Niya alone, and then we’d both be miserable.

The other attendants carefully don’t look at me, and I take the opportunity to rise and set aside my plate—though, technically, a servant will clear it for me. “I’m going for a walk, since the princess won’t need us for lunch,” I announce.

Mina nods. “We’ll see you then.”

In our room, I gather a bit of embroidery I begged off of Melly, stuff it into the bag with the Blessing cup and stone, and make my way to a small courtyard hidden away from the busier parts of the palace. About an hour ago, I sent off a short note by page. I am hoping that it won’t go unanswered.

I take a seat on a stone bench alongside the arched galleries that line it, adjust my shawl, and take out my embroidery as if I’ve come out to sew in peace. It’s ridiculous, but I am just country-bred enough that anyone who sees me will ascribe it to my peasant tendencies, and look no further.

Melly’s embroidery project is a small handkerchief with a flowery border. As it turns out, my arm wound does not like to be tugged at continuously as I sew. I do it anyway, because the healer-mage said normal movement was important, but the wound takes a mundane task and elevates it to pricklingly uncomfortable. I’m also much slower than usual. By the time I finish outlining my first flower, I’ve begun to wonder if the letter will be answered at all. By the time I’ve finished the second, I’m only here because I can’t bear to give up. Although I do set the sewing down on my lap.

So, when I hear a set of slippers approaching from the right, I look up with a sense of absolute relief to see Stonemane with his ebony hair and pale skin and infinite eyes. He wears Menaiyan clothes once more, quiet colors for the morning: a sky-blue tunic and beige pants, topped with a loose, open-fronted embroidered coat of darker blue to ward off the spring chill.

“Oh good.” I wave for him to come sit beside me. “I’m so glad you were able to come.”

He bows from the neck and seats himself at the other end of the bench, eyeing me with some bemusement. “How are you, kelari?”

“Well enough. Can you do that little trick of yours? I have a question for you.”

Stonemane grins and the effect is devastating, his eyes bright and the unknowable years shrinking away until he looks halfway young. “And you’re not even going to ask how I am. Very well.”

He taps the bench with his finger, and that strange stillness rolls out from him again. I stretch my jaw, grateful to have this moment to gather myself and set aside Stonemane’s beauty. By the time the stillness dissipates, I am ready.

“I wondered if you could look at some things for me. I believe they’re enchanted, but I need to know how.”

“I assume there is a particular reason why you are not going to the mages who are sworn to the royal family?”

“There is,” I agree. “I’m finding there’s only so many people I trust nowadays. I don’t know any of the mages. I do know you.”

He tilts his head, his gaze bent on me, assessing. “Are you asking a favor of me?”

I pause. Now that’s dangerous ground. One doesn’t deal in favors with the Fae, or so claims every tale I’ve heard of them. “No,” I say with forced lightness. “It’s a riddle. Aren’t you curious?”

“A riddle,” he echoes, a hint of self-derision in his voice. “Because we are all of us unnaturally curious about riddles.”

“Well, it’s a rather unnatural riddle. Look.” I fish the opal from the bag. “This is used to bless children who have been stolen and then escaped.”

He eyes me strangely. “You have a particular blessing for that?”

“We have a very important blessing for that. But I don’t think it works the way we’ve been told.” I hand him the stone. He takes it only because I’m shoving it into his hand.

“And I should involve myself in this because—?”

I really have no argument I can think of, so I appeal to the only thing I have left: his honor. “Because if Bean were stolen, you will have failed your obligations as a guest.”

This startles a laugh from him. “I believe I’ve upheld my obligations as a guest quite admirably.”

He means that he hasn’t told a soul about Niya. And I’m grateful for that, but if he won’t offer to look at the cup and stone of his own accord, I’ll make whatever arguments I can. “You can always do more,” I say reprovingly. “Tell me, what does that opal in your hand actually do?”

He sighs. “I suspect I might actually have been safer from you back when you feared me.”

“That’s what comes of giving girls knives,” I observe. “And you don’t really mean that. You are perfectly safe right now.”

“One must consider the political context as well as the physical,” Stonemane says almost gently. There’s a hint of regret in his eyes, in the faint tightening