“It’s all so . . . so cold.”
“I know.”
She glances up at me. “You said you and Harristan used to sneak out when you were children, but no one was sick then. Why did you start bringing medicine into the Wilds?”
“I didn’t start with medicine.” I study her in the darkness, the way the shadows trace her features. “That came later.”
“Then how did it start?”
I shrug a little, but it’s more to cover my own discomfort. None of these memories are good. The early ones strike the hardest, like the day my parents were killed.
“When Harristan first named me as King’s Justice,” I say quietly, “I was fifteen. I knew what the role required, of course, but in the beginning, the people weren’t very sick. No one was stealing Moonflower petals. I was never forced to do anything truly terrible. I thought I could skip being cruel by being creative, like sentencing people to chisel a thousand bricks from the side of a mountain. I never had to order an execution. I never wanted to order an execution.” I snort at my naivete. “I remember thinking that maybe we’d get lucky, that no one would ever do anything truly bad.”
We walk in silence for a moment. She’s patient, waiting for the rest of my story.
But she knows where I ended up. Maybe that’s what’s making all of this harder to say.
“More and more people began to get sick,” I say, “and the Moonflower was found to cure the illness. Suddenly, it was a commodity.” I draw a long breath, remembering the fights that would break out in the street over rumor of a few petals. “The entire country was falling apart. Homes were being raided, false cures were being spread, Moonflower was being stolen. We were getting reports from consuls daily, about violence in their sectors as people fought to get access to a cure.” I shake my head, remembering one of the letters had a streak of blood down the side by the time it made its way to the palace. “It was . . . horrible.”
“I remember,” she whispers.
Of course she does. She was in the thick of it.
“Harristan had to take a stand,” I say.
“Which means you had to take a stand.”
I nod. I want to leave it there, but I still haven’t answered her question. “The first—” I hesitate. “The first . . . was a man who’d killed a child. His name was Jarrod Kannoly.” I don’t remember all their names, but his will be forever etched into my memories. “He said he didn’t mean to, that it was an accident, but . . .” I shrug and run a hand across the back of my neck. “Everyone says they didn’t mean to. But a woman had bought enough Moonflower for her family, and the man heard about it. He grabbed the little girl and said he’d cut her throat if the woman didn’t give him half.”
Tessa is staring at me. “And he did?”
I nod. “It happened in the Royal Sector, so they brought him right to the Hold. He was coated in blood.”
I still remember Harristan’s voice when he heard about it. Cory. We have to do something. The consuls are demanding action. We have to stop this.
We have to do something.
Meaning I had to do something.
“It was awful,” I whisper. There have been many since then, but the memory of that one is always the hardest. Maybe because it was the first. Maybe because of what he’d done. Maybe because of the knowledge that no matter what I did to him, it wouldn’t bring that little girl back to her mother.
I shake off the emotion. “I snuck out of the palace that night,” I say. “There was a part of me that wanted to run, to lose myself in the Wilds. But I couldn’t leave Harristan. You know.”
“I know.”
“I had silver in my pockets, and I just started leaving it anywhere it seemed it could do a bit of good. On windowsills, in doorways, in the pockets of laundry left out to dry. As many coins as I could carry.” I pause. “It was never enough. And I’d see the elites buying so much, so much more medicine than they needed.”
She stares up at me. I stare back.
I take a long breath. “And then there was a night that I saw a man and his wife sneaking medicine, and at first, I was so angry.” My jaw is tight. “I thought they were more smugglers. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I followed them out of the sector. And then—and then they met up with a girl—a girl about my age—”
She sucks in a breath. “You’re talking about me. My parents.”
I nod. “Yes. I saw what you were doing. I figured it out.” I pause. “I wanted to help. I didn’t know how to help.”
She’s still staring up at me, and I wish I could see that night through her eyes. I was keeping my distance, always so wary of getting tangled up with the night patrol, because I knew my actions would bring down Harristan. I remember how they dragged Tessa’s father out of the shadows, how he fought back. How her mother fought back. The crossbows fired before I could even get to them. I remember dragging Tessa away, clamping my hand over her mouth, trapping us both behind a copse of trees. She was shaking against me, tears soaking into my hand.
“I did what I could,” I say to her now, and my voice almost breaks. I have to take a shuddering breath. “I do what I can. And every day, I regret that it’s never enough.”
Moonlight sparks in her eyes, but I can’t read her expression. We stand there in silence, sharing breath.
A twig snaps, and voices carry through the trees.
I swear, grabbing hold of her hand, pulling her off the path. “Listen.”
Booted feet clomp along the path, with men speaking in low tones. I can’t tell if it’s the night patrol, but we’re deep in the wooded part of the Wilds, so it’s unlikely—though not impossible, since we’ve doubled the number of patrolmen. I hold my breath as they draw close.
Then I recognize the men. Dorry Contrel and Timm Ballenger. Both middle-aged forge workers from Steel City who have wives at home and half a dozen children between them. Hardworking men who grunt and moan about the king and his brother, but worry more about feeding their families and keeping them healthy than anything else. Tessa and I have brought their families medicine in the past, when they haven’t been able to manage food and tea leaves on their monthly wages.
It’s unusual for them to be out at this time of night.
I think of Jarvis, the man in the cell when I visited with Allisander. I was surprised to find him caught among smugglers, too.
I strain to listen, but I can’t make out much of what they’re saying, and the words I do catch aren’t incriminating. They’re heading our way, though, toward their homes.
Once they’re past, Tessa peers up at me in the darkness. The weight of everything I said hangs between us, but she only whispers, “Why are they out at this hour?”
I shake my head. “Let’s see if we can find out.”
We don’t follow the men straight to their homes. If they were out and about for anything untoward, I don’t want to spook them. Instead, we begin on the north side of the village. The first house is tiny, with hardly more space than our workshop. The roof leaks during the spring rains, but Alfred and Tris, the man and woman who live there, are in their late seventies and can’t climb up there to do any repairs. Months ago, I brought them a stretch of sailcloth with their medicine and within a day, others from the village had nailed it across the worst spots. Tris repaid me with fresh eggs, which Tessa took and boiled and brought the next morning for us to share in the workshop.
It’s been weeks since I was here, but it feels like years. My chest grows tight.
“I’ll keep watch,” Tessa whispers as we near the house. Her eyes are shadowed behind the mask, her lips a pale curve in the darkness. She must catch sight of my expression because she frowns. “What’s wrong?”
Everything.
I shake my head slightly. “Nothing.”
She squeezes my hand and slips into the shadows. I tap at the door lightly, three short raps followed by two more deliberate ones. It takes a moment, but eventually the door creaks open.
It’s Tris
. She looks like she’s aged a decade. Her hair is thinner, her cheeks more sunken.
Her face breaks into a wide smile when she recognizes me. The joy and relief in her eyes is fleeting on her side, and gutting on mine.
“Weston,” she whispers. “We’ve been so worried.” She steps forward, her arms wide. No one reacts like this to my presence in the Royal Sector. Then her arms close around me, and it’s like being embraced by a ghost.
“Tris,” I say softly. “Have you been eating?”
“Here and there.” She doesn’t let go of me. “I forget sometimes without Alfred to remind me.”
I go still. I knew our disappearance would have wide-reaching effects. I didn’t expect it to strike the first house we visited. “Alfred is gone.”
She finally draws back and nods. Her eyes well.
“Here,” I say, gesturing toward the room behind her. I sweep my gaze across the room, wondering if I can get her to eat something now. “Sit.”
She hobbles into the room, dabbing at her eyes. She eases into a rocking chair beside the bed.
There’s a heel of bread on the table, and I bring it to her, then hang her kettle over the fire.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. It doesn’t feel like enough.
It never feels like enough, but tonight, I feel it more acutely.
“It’s been about a week,” she says, and a tear streaks down her face. “I didn’t want him to go.”
I drop to a knee in front of her and pull an apple from my bag, pressing it into her hands. People in the Wilds tend to look out for each other, so I’m sure she hasn’t been starving, but the kitchen pantry looks barren. “I’ll try to bring more food the next time I come.”
I’ve fallen back into my role as Weston Lark, as if no time at all has passed, so I say the words automatically.
I’m a fool. There might not be a next time.
She squeezes my hand. “You’ve always been such a kind boy.” She swipes away a tear with the back of her hand. “Alfred will be sorry he missed you. I thought you might have been captured, but he always says you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Is young Tessa with you?”
Wait. “What?”
“Tessa? I always thought she might be sweet on you. She hasn’t been caught by the night patrol, has she?” She wrings her hands.
“No, I—Tessa is fine. But did you say Alfred would be—” I break off. I must have misheard her.
But Tris nods. “Sorry he missed you. I was so worried when I heard of the captures during the raids yesterday, but Lochlan said everyone from our village was accounted for, and Alfred wouldn’t be in direct danger.”
I stare at her. “Alfred isn’t dead?”
“What?” She blinks. “Oh, I hope not!” She wrings her hands again. “Have you heard news?”
I can’t tell if she’s addled or if we’re speaking of different things.
“Tris,” I say as gently as I can. “Did Alfred die of the fever?”
“Oh, goodness no. When we agreed to help with the raids, Lochlan said the Benefactors would give us enough medicine to survive, and he was right. We’re always a bit tight for food, but we’ve made it work. It was such a blessing, after you and Tessa had to stop coming. Look.” She hands me a small pouch.
Lochlan. The name tugs at my memory, but I can’t place it. I take the pouch and tug at the strings. Dried petals are gray and white at the bottom of the bag.
“Take it,” says Tris. “I have plenty, thanks to Alfred.”
“Wes.” Tessa hisses at the door. “The night patrol.”
“Get back into bed,” I say to Tris. I pocket the pouch of petals. “I’ll be back when I can.”
I’m out the door and in the shadows with Tessa before I draw a full breath. My thoughts are churning with what Tris said, but I can’t make sense of any of it.
The night patrol clomps between the trees a short distance away, and we crouch together in the darkness against the back wall of the house, huddling against the stacked stones of the chimney. We always stay close when we hide, but tonight I’m very aware of her breathing, of the scent of her skin, of the way her shoulder brushes against mine.
I should move away. I should harden my eyes and turn off the churning emotions in my chest. I should have left her in the palace and done this alone.
I can’t even convince myself. I can’t imagine ever doing this without her at my side.
I don’t dare speak. I wish I could share my thoughts.
Forgive me.
Please, Tessa.
I would give anything.
“You there!” a man shouts, and I jump and shove Tessa behind me, pressing back against the wall of the house.
But we haven’t been discovered. Three patrolmen have crossbows trained on a boy with a pack a short distance away. He can’t be more than thirteen or fourteen, and I suddenly realize I know him. His name is Forrest, and he lives with his parents on the far side of the village. His eyes are wide, his cheeks stark white in the moonlight. He’s right at the edge of the tree line, and he must have walked right out in front of them.
I remember Mistress Kendall crying over Gillis, and I wonder if there will be another mother sobbing over her son, getting slaughtered in the darkness when she screams at the night patrol.
One of the patrolmen grabs Forrest’s satchel and yanks it open. “A bit young to be smuggling, aren’t you, boy?”
At my back, Tessa is breathing shallowly, her fingers in a death grip on mine now.
I’ve never interfered with the night patrol as Wes. The risk was always too great. Tessa and I hide, and we do what we can.
Tonight, the stakes feel different.
Forrest swallows and stammers, “I’m not—I’m not—I’m not—”
“We know what you are.” The patrolman lifts his crossbow. Another grabs the boy’s arm.
Tessa gasps. Forrest screams. “No! Da! Help me!”
I burst from our hiding place. “Stop!” I shout. “Stop!”
One of the patrolmen looks my way, but the other doesn’t hesitate. He pulls the trigger on his crossbow. I leap for the boy.
Forrest falls when I slam into him, and for a moment, I’m worried that I’ve been too late, that I’ve just tackled a corpse. But my arm burns like fire, and Forrest is gasping against the underbrush.
I ignore the pain in my arm and spring to my feet, only to find a crossbow leveled at my chest. “Good,” grunts the patrolman. “I’ll get a bonus for catching two of you.”
Then he pulls the trigger.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tessa
Everything is happening too fast. I’ve got a rock in my hand and I’m racing at the patrolman, but my thoughts are a tangled mess of panic and horror. Then I’m leaping, jumping, swinging the rock as hard as I can. I hear the swick of the crossbow, then the crunch of my rock against the patrolman’s head. He goes down.
A shadow rolls into me, and suddenly Corrick has the fallen patrolman’s crossbow, and he’s reaching for an arrow.
He’s not going to be fast enough. There are three of them, and the other is already pointing, ready to shoot.
“No!” screams Forrest, surging off the ground to tackle the patrolman around the waist.
The man stumbles back a few feet, but Forrest isn’t big enough to bring him down. The patrolman pulls a dagger. “You filthy brat—”
Corrick shoots him in the face.
The man jerks and goes down. I gasp, choking on my breath.
But there’s still one more, and he’s managed to reload. Corrick is fighting for another arrow, but his movement is slow and clumsy. He’ll never be fast enough.
I yank the dagger from my boot, the gift Prince Corrick gave me during our carriage ride. I know the worst spots for a dagger to hit, and I don’t bother to aim carefully. I plunge the dagger into the patrolman’s neck. He collapses.
The silence is sudden and weighted.
Forrest is panting, his breath coming in rapid, panicked g
asps.
I might be doing the same thing. My fingers are sticky with blood.
Corrick finishes loading the crossbow, and he seizes another two arrows to shove under his belt. “Forrest,” he says, and his voice is shockingly quiet after what just happened.
The boy’s gasps have turned to dry heaving, and his hands press tightly against his abdomen.
“Forrest,” Corrick says again. His voice is cool and authoritative, which shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. Now I know why Wes was always so calm in the face of violence. He puts a hand against the boy’s shoulder. “The bodies need to be burned. Is your da home? Strip their uniforms and hide them. If anyone sees the smoke, say they died of the fever—”
“I’ll help him.”
The male voice comes from behind us, and Corrick whirls, the crossbow raised.
A young man has come through the trees, but he sees the crossbow and he lifts his hands. He’s wearing a hooded cloak, so I can’t make out much of his features in the dark, but his arm is thickly bandaged, the fingers stiff and swollen. He doesn’t look afraid. If anything, he looks long-suffering, like he’s used to weapons being pointed at him.
“Go ahead,” he says to Forrest, nodding toward the village. “Get your da to help drag them to the pit.”
The boy nods quickly and bolts.
Corrick hasn’t moved. The crossbow is leveled with deadly aim.
“I’m Lochlan,” the other man says. He offers half a shrug. “You can put down the bow. We’re all doing the same thing.” His eyes narrow. “Or were you looking to steal the boy’s pack?”
“No.” Corrick still hasn’t looked away, and his voice is very low, very quiet. “Tessa. Are you all right?”
I haven’t given a moment’s thought to myself, and I’m frozen by the unexpected tension that seems to have overtaken this small clearing. “I—yes.”
“Tessa?” says Lochlan. His tone is lazy, musing. “Would that make you Wes?”
“Help Forrest get rid of the bodies,” says Corrick. “We have rounds to make.”
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