Defy the Night

by Brigid Kemmerer

  I wonder if those two are already dead. One has a stain at the front of the burlap, something soaking into the material. Blood, maybe, or vomit.

  I have to look away. My throat is tight.

  The road is mobbed with people, and I’ve already lost sight of Mistress Solomon. People mill and churn, and gossip runs high. The emotion of the crowd is overwhelming, pressing against me like something alive.

  “Look,” says a man nearby. “That one’s pissed himself.”

  I don’t want to look, but my eyes are traitors and they shift to the stage anyway before quickly flicking away. The man is right. I wonder how much terror you need to feel before that would happen.

  It’s not a hot day, but I feel sweaty and sick.

  The burlap is awful. The guards are awful.

  The king is awful. The prince is awful.

  I want to rush the stage. I want to grab a crossbow. I want to lie in wait and fire a bolt right into them both.

  It’s a ridiculous thought. I’d be dead before I got anywhere close. I swallow hard, and rage pushes away some of the emotion churning in my gut, replacing it with white-hot fury. It allows me to look up, to lock my gaze on those prisoners.

  If they have to die, I can watch it happen. I can remember them. My soul burns with a promise that things will get better. That they have to get better.

  I wish Weston were here. I’m better with the medicines, with the dosages and the treatments and our patients, but he’s better in the face of violence and danger. He’s cool and reserved when I’m hot and rattled.

  I look around the crowd, at the hundreds of people who’ve gathered, and I think he must be here somewhere. It gives me some comfort. I search the faces around me, looking for the ice blue of his eyes, for the faint freckles I know dust his cheeks below where the mask sits.

  Men are everywhere. Blue eyes are common. So are freckles.

  I close my eyes and whisper a prayer. Oh, Wes. I need you.

  He doesn’t appear. But horns blare, and conversation quiets almost immediately. Figures ascend what must be a set of steps on the opposite side of the stage: more guards, these with armor trimmed in purple and blue, signifying them as members of the palace guard. One carries a staff; the other carries the flag of Kandala, a panel of blue and purple split diagonally, with a lion encircled in white sitting directly in the center. They’re followed by two more guards who are heavily armed.

  Then King Harristan appears, though as usual, he’s too far for me to see much more than dark hair, booted feet, and a long black jacket that nearly reaches his knees. A silver crown sits on his head, glinting in the sunlight.

  A herald calls out, “His Majesty, the highly esteemed King Harristan.”

  For a moment, I can see more clearly, because people are dropping to a knee, and Karri is pulling at my hand.

  I don’t want to kneel to him. I want to spit at him.

  I imagine what Wes would say. Mind your mettle, Tessa. My knee hits the cobblestone of the roadway. Karri squeezes my hand again.

  “Rise,” says King Harristan, and his voice is loud and clear. It’s all he says, before stepping back to stand between his guards. He’s probably bored. Irritated that this bothersome little execution is taking him away from a game of chess or a luxurious bath or whatever ridiculous diversions he enjoys while the rest of us are out here in the sectors, trying to survive.

  We rise. I can taste bile in my throat. I focus on not breaking Karri’s fingers with my right hand. The fingernails of my left hand are cutting into my palm.

  Another man arrives on the stage. His hair is lighter than his brother’s, more red than brown, but from here, his eyes are shadowed and dark, unreadable. He also wears boots and a long jacket, but no crown sits on his head. He doesn’t need one. He wears his role like a mantle, some kind of invisible weight that clings to his frame, echoed in every step. This is Prince Corrick, the King’s Justice. He’s not usually the one to swing the blade or light the fire or draw the arrow, but he’s the one to give the order to kill. The executioner.

  “They’re very handsome, don’t you think?” whispers Karri.

  NO, I DO NOT THINK.

  “They’re horrible,” I whisper.

  Her head whips around, and I watch as her eyes flick from face to face to see if anyone heard. “Tessa.”

  I swallow and refuse to take it back.

  After the herald announces him, Prince Corrick moves to stand parallel to the prisoners. His voice is cold and carries an edge. “You have been charged with smuggling and—”

  “Don’t let them do this!” one of the prisoners yells. It’s a man’s voice, but it takes me a moment to figure out which one has cried out. “There are hundreds of you! Thousands! The Benefactors will get you medicine! Don’t let them do this!”

  Beside me, Karri goes rigid. The guard behind the shouting prisoner cracks him on the back of the head, and the prisoner sprawls face-first onto the stage, his hands bound behind his back. He doesn’t stop yelling. “Rise up!” he shouts. “Rebel! Don’t you see what they’re doing? Don’t you—”

  The guard fires his crossbow. I’m too far to hear the impact, but the body jerks and goes still. The crowd sucks in a gasp.

  Another prisoner takes up the shouting. This time it’s a woman’s voice. “You can stop this! Listen to the Benefactors! You can stop this! You can—”

  The guard hits her next, and she goes skidding forward onto the wood of the stage. The other prisoners have started shouting, too, cries for rebellion, for defiance.

  No one cries for mercy.

  A man shouts from somewhere in the crowd. “They’re just trying to survive!” A woman yells, “We need their medicine!” More shouts join theirs until the crowd begins to shift, and it’s impossible to know where all the cries come from. Karri and I are shoved apart as people begin to surge forward.

  “Fight them!” rages the woman on the stage. “Fight back!”

  Another guard fires his crossbow. Her body jerks like the man’s did, but it must not have been a killing blow because she begins using her legs to shove her body forward. The other prisoners must sense an opening, because the others are fighting their bonds, struggling forward on the stage—at the same time as citizens are storming forward. The sound has surged into a roar of angry shouts and panicked cries as people are jostled and shoved. An elbow catches me in the temple, and then a shoulder drives into my rib cage. I’ve completely lost sight of Karri. Guards have taken the stage now, blocking the king and his brother from view—if they’re still there at all. Crossbows fire wildly, but the prisoners were right: there are maybe two dozen guards on the stage, and there are hundreds of citizens.

  A man barrels through the crowd, and I’m knocked aside. I feel myself falling, and I try to find purchase, but there’s nothing. A booted foot catches my jaw, and I taste blood. Another steps on my leg.

  Then a hand has a hold of mine, surprising strength in its grip.

  Wes, I think.

  But no, it’s Karri. She pulls me to my feet, then pulls me back, away from the stage. Her lip is bleeding. Tears glisten in her eyes. “We have to get out of here.”

  She doesn’t need to tell me twice.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Corrick

  Six months before our parents were killed, there was an assassination attempt. The fevers had only just begun, but I was hardly aware of a problem. Then, my parents were still well loved, and I’d just begun to attend their meetings with the consuls. My brother had been attending for years, and I’d heard stories about them all. Allisander’s father, Nathaniel Sallister, was full of bluff and bluster, and he challenged my father on every issue.

  I remember being presented with my own folio, my own fountain pen. At my side, Harristan was doodling horses and dogs in the margins of his own folio—but I could tell he was listening to everything said. I read every word twice, hoping to have an opportunity to share my “worldly” insights on something. Anything.

  By
the time the meeting pushed past two hours, however, I was bored and looking for any excuse to leave. I’d begun sketching caricatures of the consuls in the margins of my folio, complete with Nathaniel urinating on a pile of papers. Harristan glanced over, choked on a laugh, and drowned the sound in a sip of water.

  Stop it, he mouthed at me, and I grinned.

  Across the table, my mother gave us both a look, but her eyes were twinkling.

  Then a crash and a shout echoed from the hallway, and the twinkle disappeared from her eye. Everyone at the table went silent. Another shout, followed by many more. My father was blocking my mother against the wall. Harristan grabbed my arm and shoved me behind him, but I wrestled to get in front of him.

  “You’re the heir,” I hissed, like he needed a reminder.

  Something hit the door with a loud thunk, and it didn’t matter which of us was in front, because my father gave an order, and two guards blocked us from view. My heart was in my throat—but what’s worse is that I remember being more worried that Consul Sallister would see my drawing than of anything happening.

  Wood cracked and split, and men poured into the room. Crossbows fired almost instantly. The men fell—all except one.

  Micah Clarke, the King’s Justice before me, caught one by the arm. He twisted it up behind the man, then slammed him facedown on the table, right where I’d been sitting. My eyes were wide, and I could hear Harristan breathing.

  My mother peeked out from around my father. “Why?” she whispered. “Why are they here?”

  Micah looked at my father. I don’t know if he was waiting for permission, or an order, or something else entirely.

  But my father looked away.

  The man wrenched his face up from the folio and inhaled. Later, Micah would say he was going to spit at my parents, but to me, it looked like he was going to speak.

  He didn’t get the chance to do either. Micah drew a blade and cut his throat. Blood poured all over my drawings.

  We never found out who sent them. It’s long been rumored that they were the first attack sent from Trader’s Landing, but we’ve never been able to prove it.

  I think about that day sometimes. The way my mother seemed confused. The way my father looked away. The way my brother kept trying to drag me behind him.

  The way everyone was afraid, except the King’s Justice, who was forced to act.

  Today, I expect Harristan to be furious after the riot outside the gates, but he’s not.

  I am.

  Listen to the Benefactors.

  I don’t know what that means, but I’ve been turning it over in my head since the guards dragged us off the stage.

  The consuls requested a meeting the very instant we returned to the palace, but my brother has been making them wait. He’s been quiet for hours. Thoughtful. Contemplative.

  The longer he sits quietly and thinks, the more agitated I become, until I’m the one pacing his chambers.

  Three of the prisoners escaped during the melee. Five were killed, but three slipped into the crowd when citizens began swarming the stage and the guards moved to protect Harristan and me. One of them was Lochlan, the man who smashed Allisander’s face against the bars.

  The consul is probably boiling with rage. I’m surprised steam isn’t pouring from the other side of the door.

  As if on cue, someone raps at the door. “Enter,” calls Harristan.

  One of the guards swings the door wide. “Your Majesty, Master Quint would like to remind you that the consuls are gathered—”

  “They can wait,” says Harristan.

  The guard nods. The door swings closed.

  “You can’t hide in here all day,” I say to him. “We need to address this.”

  “I’m not hiding.” Harristan doesn’t move. “Do you think it was planned?”

  “Which part?”

  He looks at me. “All of it.” He pauses. “There were cries for revolution in the crowd, Cory.”

  You can stop this!

  Fight them! Fight back!

  I run a hand across the back of my neck and sigh. “I heard them.”

  “Everyone heard them.” He hesitates as if he has more to say, but he falls silent. He’s so quiet that I can hear the clock ticking on his desk. After a moment, he coughs, and my head snaps around.

  That makes him glare. “Stop that. I don’t need a nursemaid.”

  I study him, looking for telltale signs of the fever. His cheeks aren’t flushed, and his eyes are clear. I listen to his breathing anyway.

  His eyes narrow. “If you want to worry about something, worry about what we’re going to tell the consuls.”

  “I thought that’s what you were spending all this time thinking about.”

  “Allisander will be furious.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Lissa will be as well.”

  “I’ve already offered guards for their supply runs.”

  “They’re going to want more. More assurance. More promises. More . . . more.”

  Then I realize what he’s been waiting for. What he’s not saying. He asked for a spectacle this morning—and he got one. Not the one he wanted, surely, but it was a spectacle all the same. Now he wants another one. Something that will appease the consuls and stop the populace from thinking revolution is an easy path.

  He’s been waiting on me.

  I finally stop pacing and look at him. “Then let’s give them more.”

  Allisander only has one black eye, but the bruising across his jaw and forehead seem to make up for it. It must have been too painful to shave around that perfect goatee, because it looks like he started before giving it up. Poor baby.

  The pain doesn’t stop him from railing at me during the consul meeting. “They were all to be taken care of,” he snaps. “Now you’ve let three get away.”

  “I didn’t let anyone get away,” I say evenly. “They’re not the first to escape, and they surely won’t be the last.”

  “They can reorganize,” he says. “They’ll be after our supply runs. You’ll see.” He slams a fist down on the table. “You promised me, Corrick.”

  “I’ve offered additional guards.” I glance across the table at Lissa Marpetta, who’s been sitting in silence while Allisander has a tantrum. “For your supply runs as well.”

  “Who are these Benefactors?” she says, looking down her nose at me coolly.

  “I have no idea.”

  “No idea,” thunders Allisander. “No idea, yet you felt no need to torture them during questioning—”

  “It’s concerning,” Lissa says quietly, her voice at complete odds with Allisander’s, “that your guards were unable to complete their duties in time.”

  “Those guards should be tried for treason,” Allisander snaps.

  “Those guards kept your king alive,” says Harristan, and there’s enough of a chill in his voice to remind them who’s in charge here. It draws some of the tension out of the room, though displeasure still hums in the air around us.

  At the end of the table, Roydan clears his throat. “Consul Sallister. You wish to punish a dozen guards for failing to stop a thousand people from rushing the stage?”

  Arella Cherry adds, “Should we assume you punish your own guards when your supply runs are attacked?”

  Allisander turns his glare on her. “My sector is no business of yours.” He pauses for a rage-filled breath. “I understand that you asked for these smugglers to be pardoned.”

  She doesn’t flinch, and her eyes are ice-cold as she regards him. “People in these sectors are dying, Consul Sallister. They’re not criminals. They’re desperate.”

  “We can’t keep them alive if outlaws keep raiding our supplies,” says Jasper Gold, Consul of Mosswell. “I’ve heard reports of missing dosages from within the Royal Sector. Escaped prisoners always embolden others. Especially if they’re being funded by someone with means.”

  His words drop like a rock. Most of the people with means in Kandala are sitting at
this table—or they’re close to someone who is.

  “Are you implying someone here knows about these raids?” says Roydan. He sounds truly concerned, as if insurrection from within our own circle only just occurred to him.

  Arella makes an exasperated noise. “You think these rebels are well funded? They were barely more than children!”

  Jonas Beeching clears his throat. “Those children were old enough to commit a crime.” He glances at Allisander. Jonas is still smarting from his bridge proposal being rejected, and he very obviously wants to keep friends at this table. “They should be stopped at all costs.”

  Allisander turns a glare his way. “You were just seeking twice as much silver as you needed, were you not? Perhaps we should investigate your finances, Consul.”

  I want to roll my eyes.

  “Enough,” says Harristan. “We’ve doubled the number of patrols in the Wilds. We’ve mandated searches of the forges in Steel City, and we’ve offered a significant reward to anyone who can provide the identity of the three smugglers—or anyone else involved in the trade of stealing Moonflower petals.”

  Quint’s eyes almost bugged out of his head when he took down the orders. It’s a reward large enough to provide medicine for a family for an entire year.

  “Are you still offering them refuge in Sunkeep?” Allisander snaps at Arella. “Maybe we should start there.”

  “Go ahead,” she says evenly. “I am not harboring criminals.”

  “We need swift action,” says Lissa. “Do you not agree, Your Majesty?”

  “I agree,” says Harristan. His gaze shifts to me.

  My thoughts have been spinning with shock and anger since the moment we lost control of the crowd, but now that I realize what is expected of me, a cool certainty takes over my thoughts. “Swift action?” I say. “Or swift justice?”