“No!” I shout. Without thought, I tackle him. Even though one of his arms is injured, he’s stronger than I expect. We roll in the wet underbrush, grappling for control, until I hear Tessa scream.
It’s all the distraction Lochlan needs. He grabs the crossbow and bears down. “They’ll kill her,” he says. “Now tell the truth.”
Rage colors my vision. I try to shove Lochlan off me, but now he has me pinned. Somewhere behind me, Tessa squeals, and I hear a punch land.
“Fine!” I shout. “I’m Prince Corrick,” I grind out. “I’m the King’s Justice.”
“No,” gasps Tessa, and I wonder if they’re choking her. But then she says, “Corrick, no.”
All the ways she said my name, and this time breaks my heart.
“Surrender,” says Lochlan, and in his eyes, I can see the promise of everything they’ll do to her if I don’t.
I lift my hands, and it costs me everything. “I surrender.”
We’re forced to walk through the woods, heading east this time, which means we’re not going back to the village where we first met Lochlan. My hands have been bound, the ropes tied so tightly that my fingers are already tingling no matter how much I flex against the bonds. The point of a crossbow keeps jabbing me in the back, and I can tell it’s intentional. I grit my teeth against saying anything, because they’ve got Tessa walking somewhere behind me, and Lochlan already made it clear that if I don’t do what he says, they’ll take it out on her.
He’s the one jabbing me with the crossbow.
Rain falls steadily through the trees now, turning the footing slick and challenging, especially in the dark. Especially with my hands tied. My pulse beats at a rapid clip, sending little spikes of anger and fear through my bloodstream. I pray for the night patrol to find us.
Then again, maybe that would be worse. I don’t look like Prince Corrick right now, and I don’t know every single patrolman in Kandala. They were going to shoot that boy in the village. I have no doubt they’d shoot me for daring to impersonate the king’s brother.
And if they did believe me, being found among smugglers couldn’t be explained away.
I don’t know why I’m even thinking like this. I know what men like Lochlan will do with me.
“You can’t possibly think you’ll be able to collect a ransom,” I say. “Harristan will never yield to your demands.”
“I don’t care about a ransom.” He jabs me so hard that I stumble and nearly go down.
The rain intensifies, beating down, making me shiver against my will. I try to listen for Tessa behind me, but the hiss of rain through the trees makes it impossible to hear anything that’s not right next to me. I peer up at the sky through the trees, and it’s pitch-dark with clouds and rainfall. Sunrise is still hours away, but I rather doubt I’ll be climbing that rope back into my quarters.
I hope Quint returns to his rooms. I hope that he claims ignorance.
I hope Harristan doesn’t grant this man one single request.
I hope they let Tessa go.
I hope. I hope.
My father once said that hope can be powerful, but it’s worthless without action. If Lochlan doesn’t want money, what else could he want? A pardon? He has to know that would never work.
“Tell me what you want,” I grind out.
“I want you to shut up.”
“You’ll never get anything out of the king without my participation.”
He punches me right between the shoulder blades, and this time I stumble freely, slamming face-first into the mud so hard that it rattles my jaw. I roll to my side, but he’s already got the crossbow pointed down at me. “All I want is for the King’s Justice to stop sentencing people to death.” He glares at me. “Guess I’ll get what I wanted.”
“Corrick!” Tessa shouts worriedly from somewhere in the darkness behind him. “Corrick, are you all right?”
I spit blood at the ground. “Oh, I’m doing splendidly, thank you.”
Lochlan kicks me in the stomach. I don’t even see it coming, but that doesn’t help. His boot plows into my midsection, and I’m suddenly choking on nothing. Stars fill in my vision. I don’t even realize that Lochlan has grabbed hold of my shirt until he slams me back against the ground. I’m wheezing in the rain, blood on my tongue.
He holds me there, his eyes like fire as he glares down at me. “I should just kill you right now,” he says, his voice low and cruel.
“I should have killed you when you attacked the consul.” I load my gaze with every ounce of brutal promise I can muster. “I should have killed you on the dais before the crowd. I should have killed you in the village an hour ago.”
I expect him to step back and pull the trigger on his crossbow, or maybe kick me again, but he doesn’t. His eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you?”
Because I don’t want to be a killer.
I don’t say it. I don’t think I need to.
“Hey,” says a man behind him. “Lochlan. What are we doing?”
Lochlan lets go of the crossbow to hang at his side, then grabs my arm with his uninjured one. “Get up,” he says. “Walk.”
I get up. I walk.
I’ve lost my hat in the scuffle, and half my face is slicked with mud. Something must have broken the skin, because every drop of rain stings when it strikes my cheek. The mask has twisted the tiniest bit, narrowing my field of vision by half an inch. It’s enough to add another dose of misery when everything is awful.
“Let Tessa go,” I say.
“I told you to shut up.”
“You must want something from Harristan,” I say. “If you let her go, I can intercede for you—”
“This is what’s wrong with all of you in that sector,” he sneers. “You think everything is about money. You think everything is about what you can get.”
“Again,” I say, “you’re a smuggler.”
“Because I had no choice. None of us have a choice if we want to survive.”
“Ah, so you were raiding shipments out of the goodness of your heart. Silver had nothing to do with it?”
He jabs me in the back with his crossbow. “Shut up,” he growls.
“No matter what you do to me,” I say, “you’ve attacked too many runs. You’ve spooked the consuls. You attacked the sector. They’ll stop supplying Moonflower. You’ll have nothing.”
“I’ll have plenty. We’ll all have plenty.”
There’s a note of certainty in his voice that gives me pause. Who is funding this? Who is distributing medicine and silver to such an extent that the people are so willing to risk their lives?
Or have people grown so desperate that they have no choice?
I consider the men at my back. None of these people are skilled strategists, not even Lochlan. If he were, he’d be planning to use me to force Harristan into something. He’d be using Tessa to force me. I questioned Lochlan weeks ago, when he was first captured, and even then, I didn’t get the sense that they were well organized.
I honestly don’t get it now.
That must mean he’s taking me to someone. Someone who is planning this. Funding this.
Someone who will have a plan for how to use me. Even if it’s one of the consuls, they’ll know what to do with leverage.
The thought should be chilling, but instead, it’s somewhat stabilizing. “Who are the Benefactors?” I say. “What have they promised you?”
“No one needs to pay me to do this.”
I don’t believe that for a second. I try to think who might be behind all of this. Paying in silver and medicine wouldn’t be cheap. Few consuls would be able to manage it. Jonas was desperate for silver to build his precious bridge, so I can’t see him spending it to fund rebels. Leander Craft is the consul of Steel City, but he’s always been rather conservative politically, never taking a stand against Harristan. He doesn’t like the idea of unrest, especially because his manufacturing and steelworkers supply much of the entire country. He has the money, but . . . he simpl
y doesn’t seem like the type. Truly, the only people with both the money and the resources to fund raids would be Allisander Sallister or Lissa Marpetta, and they’ve been after me to stop the attacks.
Harristan and I have been watching two unlikely consuls work together for weeks, though.
Consuls who just asked for more funds.
Roydan and Arella.
But . . . why? Hurting Allisander hurts us all. Surely they can’t hate him so much. It’s not possible to hate him more than I do, and I manage to keep from destroying the entire country’s medicinal supply because of it.
A whistle splits the night. Lanterns twinkle between the trees. I don’t know where we are, but we’re still in the Wilds.
“It’s Lochlan,” my captor shouts. “We’ve brought you all a present.”
He jabs me in the back, and I stumble forward, into a clearing strung with canvas tents and crudely built lean-tos. There must be dozens, if not hundreds. People begin emerging into the rain, some with lanterns, some with nothing more than sticks or axes, shovels, and brooms. They’re dirty and tired, from what I can see, but no one is coughing. No one is sick.
Many—many—are familiar.
“It’s Wes!” calls a little girl named Abigale. “Wes and Tessa! They’re not dead!”
Her mother picks her up, shushing her.
More people begin to spill from the tents and shelters, until we’re surrounded.
No Roydan and Arella.
We’ve brought you all a present.
Tessa is shoved into place beside me, and I can hear her breathing shaking.
“Are you hurt?” I say. “Tessa, are you hurt?”
Her eyes peer up at me from behind her mask, which is as sodden as her hair and clothes, but I see no injuries. “No. No, I’m not hurt.”
Lochlan walks up to me and rips the mask off my head. It takes blood and a clump of hair with it. One of the other men pull the mask off Tessa’s head, but he’s not as rough about it.
“Sorry, Miss Tessa,” he says, and his voice is low and repentant.
“It’s all right,” she whispers, but she’s wrong, because nothing is.
My heart is hammering in my chest. Lochlan is glaring at me, and nothing about his posture is repentant.
“Tell me what you want,” I say to him.
He spits in my face.
I have a limit. I surge forward and slam my forehead into his.
He stumbles back. Someone grabs my arm. Tessa says, “Corrick, no!”
A gasp goes up from the crowd.
Lochlan finds his footing, and he wastes no time. He strides forward and punches me right in the stomach.
My hands are still bound, and I take the hit fully. It brings me to my knees, but someone’s got a grip on my arm, so I don’t go down. I can’t breathe. The trees spin.
“Please,” Tessa is begging. “Please stop this. Please.”
“You heard her,” Lochlan yells to the crowd. “You heard his name. You know who he is.”
That gasp turns into a nervous murmur.
“He’s been tricking you,” Lochlan shouts. “He’s been pretending to help you, while using your trust to execute more of you.”
“No,” I rasp. “No.”
“No!” cries Tessa.
Lochlan punches me again. I swear I hear a rib crack. I don’t realize I’m falling until my face slams into the sodden leaves underfoot. I cough and taste blood.
“Who’s lost someone to the night patrol?” Lochlan shouts. “Who’s lost someone to the Hold?”
A few cries go up from the crowd. Lochlan kicks me in the shoulder.
I was so stupid. I was so sure this was part of some mastermind’s plan.
I was sure they’d want something from Harristan. From me.
They do, but it’s not something I’m going to enjoy giving.
“Let her go,” I spit out. “Please, Lochlan. She had no idea.”
“She had no idea!” he cries. “Do any of you believe that? Do you believe she’s innocent? They’ve been working together for years.”
“To help!” Tessa cries. “To help!”
“He’s the King’s Justice,” yells Lochlan. “You’ve all heard of the things he’s done, haven’t you? Done to people you love? To people you care about?”
“Yes!” they cry in return. The clearing seems brighter.
He’s got the crowd.
I close my eyes. Maybe this is fitting. Maybe this is what I deserve.
“You know what he’s done,” yells Lochlan. “So let’s give him a dose of his own justice.”
The crowd roars, and the pain begins.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tessa
When the crowd surges forward, I’m sure they’re going to attack us both, but their target is Corrick, only Corrick. My hands are bound, my fingers numb, and someone has a grip on my arms to hold me upright. My throat feels raw, and I don’t know how long I’ve been screaming. My ears hurt from all the shouting. I can’t see him. Too many bodies are in the way. I can hear them, though, the sound of punches and kicks. The sounds of people calling for vicious violence.
This is worse than the riot in front of the gates. This is worse than the execution.
Is it because it’s Corrick? Is it because I know him? Does that make me weak?
A week ago, if Prince Corrick had been dropped on the ground at my feet, I might have been a part of the mob.
Now, I have no way to help him. Begging hasn’t worked. Screaming hasn’t worked. They know what they’re doing.
I spot a woman in the crowd. Her name is Bree. She has five sons, all under the age of ten. She was afraid to take medicine from us until her husband died of the fever and one of her boys started coughing the next day.
She’s behind some of the men, her fists clenched, her eyes clouded with fear and anger.
“Bree!” I call desperately, and she looks at me in surprise before turning away.
I shout at her anyway. “Bree! Stop this. Wes helped you. Prince Corrick helped you. He used to let your boys tackle him in the yard. You begged for medicine after David died, and of course we brought it to you.”
She’s looking at me again. She’s stopped trying to surge forward.
“He did what he could,” I yell. I look for someone else I recognize. “Niall. Niall—stop. Listen. When you broke your arm last winter, Wes spent two hours splitting firewood in the dark because a storm was coming. Prince Corrick did that.”
He hesitates, his eyes finding mine.
I look for someone else. “Percy Rose! Percy! Remember when your wife was up coughing all night, and Wes and I sat with you until it eased? That was Prince Corrick.” I search the crowd. “Yavette! You were worried you wouldn’t live until your wedding! Wes and I made you take the medicine every day. Prince Corrick did that. And now you’re expecting a baby!”
I don’t know if the shouts are quieting. I don’t know if I’m making a difference. I keep searching. I keep begging. My tears keep flowing.
“Zafra! Prince Corrick used to bring you squares of fabric for your winter quilts. Norman! Prince Corrick used to give you an extra dose for your sweetheart in Artis. Warley! Prince Corrick helped you fix that door when the hinges rusted off.”
“Da!” shouts a little voice. “Da, he stopped the night patrol.”
Forrest. The boy we rescued earlier. My throat chokes on a sob.
His father is a burly forge worker named Earle, and I find him in the crowd. He grabs the arm of a man who looked to be ready to throw a punch. He’s big enough to force his way through the people, shoving them back, shoving them away. His voice is bigger than mine. Louder than mine.
“He saved my boy,” he says, his voice grave. “And he saved a lot of you, too. They both did.”
The shouts have dimmed. Rain drizzles from the sky. Everyone is mud-splattered and breathing heavily.
And staring at me.
I can’t look for Corrick. I’m terrified of what I’ll
find. There are so many of them, and he’s only one man.
I steel my nerve. “I know—” My voice breaks, and I gasp and try again. “I know Prince Corrick has done a lot of awful things, but he’s also done a lot of good. He risked so much to help you. To help all of you. He’s not an awful man. The fevers are awful. The situation is awful. This—” I have to take a deep breath. “This . . . what you’re doing . . . this is awful. He helped you. I helped you. Please stop. Please.”
“Cut her loose,” says a voice, and to my surprise, it’s Lochlan.
A knife brushes my skin, and the ropes fall away. No one grips my arms.
I don’t want to look. I have to look.
As if following my gaze, people step aside, and there he is, a pile on the ground. It’s dark, and his clothes are torn, blood stark against the paleness of his skin. Half his face is shadowed with dirt and blood and bruises. There’s a laceration across the bridge of his nose that narrowly missed his eye and bisected his eyebrow. Blood has caked on his eyelashes. I thought there was no way he could look worse than the way I found him in the crumbling ruins of the Hold, but I was wrong.
I stagger toward him and drop to my knees in the mud. “Corrick. Corrick.”
He doesn’t move. His eyes are closed, but he’s breathing—thank goodness. It’s a rough and raspy wheeze. He’s half curled, his body twisted in a way that makes me worry that his spine is broken, and his hands are still bound, his wrists raw and bleeding. His fingers are pale blue, and I think he’s shivering.
“Cut him loose,” I call. “Someone—please—”
“Here.” Earle drops to a knee beside me, a knife in hand. When he cuts Corrick’s wrists free, his arm flops limply, slapping into the ground with a sickening sound.
I press a hand to his cheek. My fingers are trembling. “Corrick. Can you hear me? Open your eyes.”
His eyelids flutter, and he makes a low sound in his chest, but his eyes don’t open, and he doesn’t move.
I don’t know what to do. My breath hitches. I look up at the faces—most familiar, some not—around me. Some still hold weapons. Most look bewildered, though some are regretful. Some are ashamed. Some are doubtful.
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