I’m clinging to a corner, hoping everyone has forgotten I’m here. The tension in the room is palpable, and I’d leave if I didn’t think it would draw more attention.
It’s hard to imagine that two days ago, I was sitting across a worktable from Karri, bleakly grinding roots and herbs into powder, and now I’m in a crimson gown on the top floor of the palace, staring out a window as fire rages in the city below.
I’ve overheard enough to know that this was a coordinated attack on the Hold, though flames have spread to nearby buildings. Explosives blasted through the front doors—but also the rear, causing a wall to collapse. The fires are so massive that workers seem to be having trouble putting them out. At first, there was some worry that the palace would be attacked next, which is why everyone is in this room, a dozen armed guards blocking the doors. But no further explosions have occurred.
A young man appears in the doorway, his cheeks flushed, sweat dampening his hair. His clothes are singed, his fingers a bit sooty. The paper clenched in his hand looks crumpled and damp. “Your Majesty,” he says breathlessly.
Harristan takes the missive and reads it. After a moment, he sets it down and slides it toward Corrick. When the king speaks, his voice is resigned. “This wasn’t just an attack on the Hold. This was a rescue mission.”
At the table near the hearth, Consul Sallister stands. “What?”
Corrick runs a hand across his jaw. “Most of the prisoners escaped. They had help.”
If I were in the workshop with Karri and I heard this news, my heart would leap with relief that people had escaped the cruel tyranny of the king and his brother. In a way, my heart leaps here, too. But I’ve learned enough now to know it’s not as simple as us versus them, and I know this won’t be seen as a relief by anyone else in this room.
For a moment, the room is absolutely silent, but then Consul Sallister approaches the table. “Escaped,” he says, and his voice is low and vicious. “Again, they escaped.” His face reddens. “Corrick, you said they weren’t organized. You said they were ‘roughshod laborers.’ You said—”
“Consul,” says King Harristan. His voice isn’t harsh or sharp, but the other man goes silent anyway.
“This took planning,” says Consul Marpetta. Her voice is very soft, but firm. “And funding.”
“Yes,” snaps Consul Sallister. “Funding, from some sympathizers called the Benefactors. What do you know about that, Arella?”
“Do you mean to accuse me of something?” she says levelly.
“Do you need to admit to something?”
They’re both deathly silent for the longest moment, and I can feel their hatred from here.
“The gates are locked, I presume,” says an older man at the table who sits near Consul Cherry. “Is the night patrol searching the sector?”
“Yes,” says Corrick. He glances at the crumpled paper on the table. “Two have already been captured.”
“Then execute them,” says Consul Sallister. “Right now.”
His voice is so cold. So callous. Almost as if he’s not talking about people at all. Like he’s talking about livestock.
King Harristan and Prince Corrick exchange a weighted glance. My heart seems to pause in its beating. So much has changed since I first slipped into the palace. I’m hopeful. I’m terrified. I’m . . . I don’t know what I am.
Then Corrick stands up and says, “I’ll see to it.”
“No!” The word flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I gain the attention of everyone in the room.
Except Corrick. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t turn, doesn’t meet my eyes. “Consul,” he says, his tone flat. He heads for the door. Consul Sallister follows. After a moment, so does Consul Marpetta.
I want to chase after Corrick. I want to beg him to stop. What did he say? You remind me of how it felt to be Wes.
He was Wes. He doesn’t want to do this. I know he doesn’t.
But he walks through the door. I’ll see to it.
My fingertips are pressed to my mouth. I can’t breathe.
I’m not invisible now. King Harristan glances at me and then at the Palace Master. “Quint.”
Quint rises without hesitation and approaches me. “My dear, you must be exhausted—”
“Please,” I whisper against my fingers. “Please. He can’t.”
The expression in his eyes tells me that Corrick can, and he will.
I’m so stupid. I let myself think otherwise for a bare space of time, but I knew who he was. I knew what he could do.
I should have run from the carriage when I had the chance. I should have stabbed him with the dagger. I should have done something.
Instead I’m just standing here while Quint takes hold of my elbow.
He’s going to kill them. Corrick is going to execute people right now.
I want to run. I want to scream. I want to throw myself at the king’s feet and beg for mercy.
None of it will do any good.
Quint must be able to read the panic as it washes through my eyes, because he says, “Walk with me, Tessa.”
Consul Cherry stands, and she glances at me before looking at the king. “I’m sure Prince Corrick will be able to learn a great deal about their operation once they’re dead.” She glances at the older man at the table. “Roydan. I’d like to further our conversation in private.”
“A discussion that cannot be shared with your king?” says Harristan.
Roydan looks like he’s going to say something conciliatory, but Consul Cherry faces Harristan boldly. “No, Your Majesty,” she says. “It cannot.” Then she offers a curtsy and turns for the door.
He inhales sharply, but before he can retort, he coughs hard.
Consul Cherry and Roydan turn to look at him in alarm.
In a heartbeat, Quint has let go of my arm and taken Consul Cherry’s. “Arella. Where will you and Roydan be meeting?” His voice is louder than usual as he propels them toward the door. “I will have food sent. Perhaps a bottle of wine?”
They’re through the door. A guard slams it closed behind them.
Harristan is still coughing. Two of his guards exchange a glance.
Maybe I’ve seen enough worried citizens exchange similar glances in my presence, but I know what that look means.
Is he sick? Should we do something?
The platter with a teapot and saucers is still sitting untouched at the end of the table, so I step forward and briskly pour a cup of tea, then add a dripping spoonful of honey. Vallis lilies and lavender are arranged in a tiny vase, and I try not to think of how long I’d have to work to buy a few lily petals for my apothecary kit when here, they’re just being used for decoration. I break a few leaves of each free, crush them in my palm, and add them to the water. The spoon clinks against the china as I stir rapidly before moving to carry it to the king.
One of his guards steps in front of me so quickly that I gasp and almost pour it all over him. Some tea sloshes over the side of the cup.
“The—the vallis lilies,” I stammer, suddenly realizing I’m alone with the king and his guards. “And the honey. For—for his cough. It’ll help.”
“No,” says the guard.
“Yes,” wheezes Harristan.
The guard blinks. He shifts sideways to glance at the king, who’s holding a hand out to me, gesturing for the cup.
I ease it onto the table in front of him, wondering if this guard is going to cut my hand off. The cup rattles against the saucer. He takes a tentative sip and coughs again.
The guard is glaring at me as if I personally caused it.
But then King Harristan drains the cup and his coughing ceases. The room is abruptly so silent that I can hear my pulse thundering in my ears. The guard hasn’t moved, and he’s still partially blocking me from the king, but his expression isn’t quite as severe as it was a moment ago. He’s still tall and imposing, though, with light brown skin and close-shorn hair and arms so muscled that he could probably crush
my skull one-handed.
As soon as I have the thought, I realize he hasn’t moved because he’s waiting for the king to tell him how to proceed. Corrick just walked out of here to execute the other prisoners. From what he said, few people suspect the king is sick, and I just witnessed his coughing fit. Maybe this man will crush my skull one-handed.
Much like the night I woke in Corrick’s quarters, I’m simultaneously filled with fear and fury, but the fury takes over.
I glance between the king and his guard. “I was trying to help,” I say in a rush, my voice hot with anger that has more to do with Corrick than the man in front of me. “Nothing more. I don’t gossip, and I don’t know anything. You can kill anyone you want, so I guess you can kill me too, but I’m just one person, and killing me isn’t going to—”
“Enough.”
King Harristan doesn’t say it forcefully, but there’s enough authority in his tone that my lips stop working. The guard’s posture has turned from standing into looming.
I swallow and force myself to stand my ground.
“Rocco,” says Harristan. His voice is slightly rough, just a bit weak, like the cough took something out of him but he doesn’t want to reveal it. “Stand down.”
The guard falls back to loom against the wall, and I’m left facing the king of Kandala in his shirtsleeves.
I felt a little more bold when there was a guard between us. Maybe he and his brother took lessons in being intimidating while just sitting there, because they both manage it effortlessly.
“I’m not going to kill you,” he says.
I’m not sure what the right response is to that. “Thank you?” I hesitate. “Your Majesty?”
His eyes flicker with something that’s either irritation or amusement. I hope it’s the latter, but I suspect it’s the former, especially when he says, “Sit.”
I drop into the chair closest to me, and he picks up the now-empty teacup. “One of your remedies?”
“It’s just—” I have to clear my throat. “It’s the vallis lily petals. They’re very expensive—but they’re good for a cough. Better than turmeric, even.”
He’s just looking at me, so I start babbling. “In Artis, a lot of the shipbuilders get a dry throat from their woodworking, so it’s a quick remedy. Sometimes that can cause an inflammation that mimics the fever sickness, so there’s always a lot of worry around the docks, but a little ginger and turmeric will usually draw it right out if there’s no high fever.”
He glances at my hand, and I’m embarrassed to realize that I was reaching for the king’s forehead.
“Ah . . . sorry.” I jerk my hand back down.
“Do I have a fever, Tessa?”
I go still. What a loaded question.
Is he mocking me? It doesn’t sound like it.
Do I touch him? Do I feel his forehead to see?
And what if he does have a fever? Do I say yes? Do I say no?
I lift my hand again, and there’s a spark of challenge in his gaze.
My fingertips gingerly graze his brow, but it’s not enough to tell anything at all.
Mind your mettle, Tessa.
Shut up, Wes. Corrick. Whatever.
I grit my teeth and flatten my hand against the king’s forehead.
No fever.
I’m so shocked that I rotate my wrist to use the back of my hand. Still cool. And I’m struck by how vulnerable he looks, sitting in the chair half-dressed, my hand against his face. I’ve been so awestruck by the fact that he’s the king that I forgot he’s a man only a few years older than I am.
“No,” I say honestly, sitting back in my chair. “You don’t.”
For an instant, it feels as though everyone in the room lets out a breath. The wave of relief is that potent. Even the king himself seems to lose an ounce of tension.
I’m not immune myself: my heart slows. I can draw a deep breath for the first time in what feels like hours.
Then the king says, “How do you really know my brother?” and my heart wants to ricochet straight out of my chest.
Harristan smiles, but it’s shrewd. “You wear every emotion on your face.”
I slap my hands to my cheeks. “He said that, too,” I whisper.
“Are you working in league with the people who attacked the Hold?”
“What?” I sputter. “No!”
“Who are the Benefactors? Are they responsible for this?”
“I don’t know! I only heard of them at the riots. At the execution.”
“What of the smugglers we captured? Were you to distract the prince?”
“No! I didn’t—I don’t—”
“You seemed distressed when he agreed to punish them for their crimes.”
“Because I don’t want him to kill anyone. I don’t want—” My voice breaks. “Enough people are dying in Kandala. We shouldn’t be killing our own people. Especially if they’re just trying to stay alive.”
And then, to my horror, I’m crying. I’m crying in front of the king.
Soft fabric brushes my fingers, and I blink. He’s offered me a handkerchief.
I close my fingers around it. “Thank you.” My voice sounds thick and nasally. I can’t look at him now.
When he speaks, his voice is very low and almost gentle. “The King’s Justice cannot be lenient to those who attack a building in the center of the Royal Sector.” He pauses. “Surely you know this.”
I press the handkerchief to my eyes. I do. I do know it.
That’s the worst part.
“I know,” I whisper.
“You could have poisoned me with the tea,” says Harristan, his voice equally quiet.
I could have stabbed him too, but I don’t say that. “I’m not a killer.”
“Indeed not.” He pauses and inhales, but whatever he was going to say is lost because Quint comes bursting through the door.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he says. “I was seeing Consuls Cherry and Pelham to another suite—” He sees us sitting and stops short. “Am I . . . interrupting?”
King Harristan looks at Quint. “Be sure the consuls know that my coughing was tempered by Tessa’s assistance. I was lucky she was here. She formed a quick-acting tincture with few supplies—”
“It was just honey and—” I begin, but Harristan silences me with a look.
“—and I am grateful for her intervention,” he finishes.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” says Quint. He sounds nonplussed.
I feel the same way.
“See her to her room,” the king says.
Just like that, I’m dismissed. A moment later, my hand is on Quint’s arm, and we’re in the hushed quiet of the hallway. To my surprise, the guard Rocco follows a short distance behind. Probably to make sure I get where I’m supposed to be going.
Every hour I spend here seems to turn my thoughts upside down and inside out, until I have no idea what’s right and what’s wrong. Maybe Quint can sense that, because he’s not talkative as we walk.
Or maybe he’s as tired as I am.
I can’t decide whether I want to ask if he knows what Corrick is doing to the prisoners, and before I can make up my mind, we’re at my door. Rocco speaks quietly to the guards standing there, and they disperse.
Quint turns to face me. “Jossalyn will have your agenda at daybreak,” he says.
The very thought is exhausting. I can barely remember why anything felt like progress with Corrick when we reviewed the maps—because everything unraveled when the fires began outside the window and he marched off to kill prisoners. Much like this morning, I want to clutch at Quint’s sleeve and beg him to stay, but I know there are much more pressing matters right now.
I force the thought out of my head and bite back a sigh. “Thank you.”
He nods and turns away.
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. I look at Rocco, who’s taken the place of the guards he sent away. My eyes flick across that royal insignia on his uniform. Maybe the regular pa
lace guards are all busy chasing down escaped prisoners.
“It’s your turn to make sure I can’t get out?” I say to him.
His eyebrows lift. “To make sure you can’t get out?” he echoes.
“You replaced the guards. You’re my new jailor?”
“Ah. No.” He reaches for the doorknob and holds the door wide for me. “You acted to protect the king,” he says. “As such, you’ve earned his favor.”
I glance at the door, at his hand, at the empty hallway. “I . . . don’t understand.”
“You’re not a prisoner. You’re not confined to your quarters.”
“I’m not.”
“No, Miss Tessa.”
“Then . . .” I hesitate. My tired brain is too tangled up. “Then what are you doing here?”
“I’m a guard.” He smiles. “I’m here to make sure no one gets in.”
“Oh.” I look at the door again. “Oh.” I step across the threshold. “Thank you.”
He nods and pulls the door closed, sealing me in with the silence.
I walk to the window. I can’t see the sector as clearly as I could before, but it looks like the fires have been brought under control. The alarms in the sector have been silenced, and the searchlights don’t spin as frantically.
Somewhere in the darkness, Corrick is executing prisoners. I turn away from the window.
I should hate him, but I can’t. I don’t know what that says about me, and I’m not sure I’m ready to examine it too closely.
I wonder what my father would think of Prince Corrick, of the king and Allisander and this struggle among the elites that seems to cause the most suffering among the poor, who don’t deserve it.
I wonder what my father would think about me, safe in the palace while the sector burns below.
I move to the closet and unwind the ribbons from my arms and pull the dress over my head, but my thoughts are far outside this room. The day Mistress Solomon made us attend the execution, I remember standing in the crowd and wishing Wes were there. I didn’t know it then, but he was. I thought Prince Corrick was horrible, and in some ways he is, but maybe he was standing on that stage feeling as distressed as I was.
Then execute them. Right now.
Defy the Night Page 21