I want to ask why, but I remember Quint chastising me when he said, He is the king. He doesn’t need to say why.
Once we’re there, I expect to be thrown on the floor like I was on the night I was found in the hallway, but to my surprise, I’m taken to my room, where a sleepy-eyed Jossalyn waits to give me a bath. Thorin stands beside my door—to make sure I obey, I suppose.
Jossalyn ignores him and looks at my face, and then at my clothes, and she frowns. “Where are you injured?”
“I’m not.” I swallow. “It’s not my blood.”
She glances at the guard, then nods to me. “Out of those . . . clothes then, miss.”
I feel like I haven’t slept in days, so when Jossalyn scrubs at my skin, I let her. I wish there were food here, because the water skin woke my hunger with a vengeance, but there’s none. Jossalyn roughly towel-dries my hair and braids it wet, pinning it up in a complicated twist that I’d never be able to replicate. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.
What happened between the king and Corrick? Did the king torture him? Will he torture me? I don’t know who to ask. I don’t know how to ask. I wish I could talk to Quint, but I haven’t seen him since the night he helped me into Corrick’s quarters. I’m tired and starving, but in less than thirty minutes, I’m in a royal-blue dress, being escorted back to the room where Corrick and I watched the Hold go up in flames while consuls argued and guards and messengers bustled about.
Tonight, there is no one but King Harristan. He’s standing by the massive windows, backed by the starlit sky. Food has been arranged on the table in the center of the room, and it must have been recently, because everything is still steaming. Roasted poultry and root vegetables, pastries with sugared crusts, sliced breads with little pots of jam and honey. There’s even a small bowl with Moonflower petals, too, more than enough for half a dozen people, along with a mortar and pestle and a steaming teapot. One plate has already been prepared, silverware sitting ready beside glasses filled with water and wine.
My mouth waters almost instantly, and I have to swallow and press my hands to my abdomen. I can’t tell if it’s the lack of food in my belly or the presence of it in this room, but I feel lightheaded.
Behind me, the door slams shut, and I jump. To my surprise, I’m alone with King Harristan.
He studies me from across the room, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Sit,” he says, and while there’s no warmth in his tone, his voice isn’t unkind. “Eat.”
I sweep my eyes around the room, as if there’s an unsprung trap waiting, but we’re the only ones here. Not even a lone guard or a footman. The king doesn’t move from the window.
I ease into the chair at the table and pick up the fork.
Other people might have stronger willpower, but I don’t. I’m starving. I shove an unladylike amount of meat into my mouth. Then half a roll of flaky pastry, followed quickly by the other half. I load the fork with vegetables until it won’t hold anymore.
When he approaches the table, I hurriedly set down my fork and wipe at my mouth, then begin to force myself to my feet.
Harristan lifts a hand. “Sit,” he says. He takes the chair across from me and gestures to my plate. “Continue.”
I can’t. Not now.
He’s going to want something from me.
“What did you do to Corrick?” I say, and my voice sounds so small and frightened that I want to start over.
But the king blinks in surprise. “To Corrick?”
To my horror, tears fill my eyes, blurring my vision with fear that quickly coalesces into anger. “He said you accused him of treason, and I know—”
“Tessa.”
“—where you found us, but he’s not a traitor; he’s not a smuggler.” I should stop, should shut up, but now that I’ve started crying and talking, the words fall out of my mouth of their own volition. “Corrick is not a villain. He’s—”
“Tessa.”
“—trying so hard to protect you, but you have to know it’s destroying him. And now . . . what? What are you doing to him? Are you torturing him? Are you—”
“Enough.” His voice is sharp, like a slap. “You will not accuse me.”
I go still. His eyes are so hard and cold. My hands are clenched on my silverware. I’m afraid of him and angry at him and hopeful and worried and a whole host of broken emotions that have my stomach tied in knots.
“He’s not here,” I whisper. “I am. What did you do?” My voice wavers on the last words. “What did you do to him?”
He stares at me for a moment, then sighs and sits back. He runs a hand across his face. “Lord, Tessa. He’s my brother.”
The king sounds so much like Corrick in that moment that I startle, forgetting my tears. He says this as if it means everything, and in a way, it does. I’m reminded of the night I rode in the carriage with Corrick, when I demanded to know why he wouldn’t leave this life if he hated it so very much.
I couldn’t leave my brother.
“I didn’t harm him,” Harristan continues. “I wouldn’t have even if he deserved it, which he very well might.” He pauses. “I offered to release him from the Hold, but he refused. When Thorin brought you here, I had food and supplies sent back for Corrick.”
I frown. “He . . . refused?”
“He says that Consul Sallister would not stand for his release.” He pauses. “And he’s not mistaken.”
I look back at my plate. The worst part is that I can see Corrick saying that. He lay on that bed and let me stitch up his eyebrow so he could listen for more information. Of course he’d choose a cold cell over angering a consul who could endanger the entire country.
“He wouldn’t say much else,” Harristan says carefully. “But I brought you here in the hopes that you would.”
I glance back up and meet his eyes. “That I would what?”
“That you would tell me what he’s been doing.”
I go very still. This is the trap.
Harristan is studying me. “I’m not asking you to betray him.”
I look away.
“There are very few people I trust,” he says. “But Corrick is one of them. He trusts you. That carries weight with me.”
I don’t know what to say. This still feels like a betrayal.
Harristan leans in against the table. His tone is beseeching. “You said yourself that I have to know it’s destroying him. I don’t know. I should know.” He pauses. “Help me to know.”
He means that. I can hear it in every syllable. Corrick doesn’t want to be cruel. This man doesn’t either.
A tear slips out of my eye, but this time there’s no anger behind it. Only sorrow. Oh, Corrick. I don’t know what the right decision is.
“If he’s trying so hard to protect me,” says Harristan, “perhaps I should have the chance to do the same for him.”
That hits me like an arrow. I look up and meet his eyes. “I can only tell you half of it,” I say, and my voice is rough and uncertain.
“Only half?”
I nod. “My half. If you want the whole story . . .” I take a deep breath, hoping I’m not making the wrong choice here. “Then you need to send for Quint.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Corrick
Within an hour, my cell has a mattress, heavy blankets, and not one, but two chairs. A fresh change of clothes has been provided, so I no longer need to sit here in torn wool that’s stained with my own blood. A basket sits in the corner with bottles of water and wine, along with rounds of cheese, perfectly ripe honeyed apples and sugared pears, fresh breads that are still warm from the ovens, and dried beef—more food than I can eat in a week. The rats will probably make a meal out of most of it before I can, but I do appreciate my brother’s tending. It’s very likely more than I deserve.
I also have company of a sort in Rocco, who stands in the shadows of the hallway, leaning against the wall across from my bars.
I don’t know whether I should be relieved that Harristan took T
essa out of here—or worried. He obviously hopes to question her to find out what I was doing.
He should be questioning Arella and Roydan. He should be confining them to their quarters and reading any messages they send. He should be calling a meeting of the consuls to let them make demands of each other.
I keep thinking back to Jonas’s request for a bridge for Artis, the one that Harristan denied. Jonas hates Allisander, so I could see him attacking the supply runs on principle alone, but he doesn’t have any silver to spare. Artis is struggling if the fever is running rampant among the dockworkers. Most of his sector is dependent on those who work along the water.
Arella made a request later that day, though. She also put in a formal request to pardon the prisoners before the execution that never happened. I don’t know why she and Roydan would want to interrupt Allisander’s supply runs—but if she were paying off common folk, it would explain why she needed more silver. Sunkeep and the Sorrowlands both border Trader’s Landing, and the consul from there was responsible for killing my parents. Roydan and Arella have softened their borders to account for the lack of a consul in Trader’s Landing. Have they turned against us as well? Is there something about that sector that bears discontent for the Crown? I don’t know.
That girl with the rebels said that explosives came from the mines of Trader’s Landing, too.
I wish I were in the palace. I wish I had my records and a map. I wish I had Quint, who’d be gossiping endlessly, but knows everything about everyone.
Instead, I have Rocco.
I limp to the bars and offer him an apple. “Peace treaty?”
He doesn’t move from his spot on the wall. “Are we at war, Your Highness?”
“You’re my brother’s spy. You tell me.”
“I am no one’s spy.” He looks at me dispassionately. “The king asks questions, and I answer.”
I shouldn’t be irritated. I know all my brother’s guards, and I know where their loyalties lie. This is just the first time it’s ever put me at odds with them. I toss him the apple. “Will you answer mine?”
He catches it easily. “Certainly.”
“What are your orders?”
“To ensure you’re unharmed.”
“The Hold guards won’t harm me.”
“An easy night for me, then.”
“Are Arella and Roydan still in the palace?” I say. “Have they had any more secret meetings today?”
He frowns slightly. “I don’t know. I was off duty until dusk, and I have been with the king since then. He has only met with Consul Sallister.”
“What did they talk about?”
“I was not privy to their conversation.”
I give him a look. He gives me one right back, then takes a bite of the apple.
I sigh and press my forehead against the bars. I don’t know what I’m doing. Like when Tessa was stitching up my forehead, I’m grasping for information, and I don’t know what I can do with any of it. Before, I was facing death, and now I’m facing . . . what? An eternity in the Hold? Harristan can’t let me out of here unless we can determine who’s truly behind the attacks. Even then, there’s already been enough talk. I was found with rebels. It doesn’t matter what they were doing to me—just that Harristan sent the army looking, and they found me.
Light flickers in the stairwell, men’s voices echoing. I wonder if my brother might be returning, or possibly Tessa, but then Allisander himself turns the corner.
I jerk back from the bars automatically, but there’s nowhere to go. That’s the problem with a cell.
Allisander stops in front of me, inches from the bars. He’s holding a handkerchief over his face as usual. “I had to see it for myself,” he says.
For the first time in my life, I make no attempt to hide my dislike of this man. “Allisander,” I say. “I’d think you would have learned your lesson about standing too close to the bars.”
He doesn’t move. “I’d think you would have learned your lesson about smuggling.”
“I’m not a smuggler.”
His eyes trace the walls. “Your current accommodations suggest otherwise.”
“What do you want?”
“You’ve stolen from your people, Corrick, while punishing them for the same. I want your brother to make an example of you.”
“I’m not behind the raids on your supply runs.”
“It doesn’t matter if you are or not. The people of Kandala must see a show of strength. They must see that the king will not stand for insurrection—and we all know Harristan isn’t going to do anything to you. Something must be done—and it’s clear that you and your brother are no longer the ones who should be doing it.” He pauses for one long, vicious second. “Many of the other consuls agree.” He tsks mockingly. “Perhaps you should have granted Jonas the funding for that bridge.”
A cold lick of fear races down my spine. I need to get to my brother. All this time I’ve been worried about rebellion from the sectors, when I should have been paying attention to what was happening with the consuls. I think of Arella and Roydan, and I can’t believe my options are siding with them or siding with this man. “Not all of the consuls agree.”
“Enough of us do. And we have enough of a force to do what we see is necessary.”
I stare at him. “Most people don’t boldly admit to treason in front of my guards, Allisander.”
“Treason? Kandala stands on the brink of revolution. The elites were woken by explosions in the streets two nights ago. Rebels have formed packs in the Wilds. The King’s Justice has been found to be a hypocritical traitor—and the king himself hides a cough that grows worse by the day. No one is safe. There’s nothing treasonous about protecting our people.” He steps right up to the bars. “Especially when you and your brother sure couldn’t do it.”
I punch him in the face.
He rocks back, blood flowing freely from his nose. “Guards!” he shouts. “Guards, you will punish him!”
They don’t move. They don’t even look over.
I stand against the bars and flex my fingers. “You don’t seem to have much willing help right now.”
Allisander swipes blood from his face and surges forward, his hands balled into fists.
Rocco catches him from behind. “Consul. You will keep your distance.”
Allisander glares at me. There’s blood smeared across his cheek. “Fine. Let me go.”
Rocco looks at me.
I shake my head. “Put him in a cell,” I say coolly. “He’s conspiring against the throne.”
Allisander fights the guard’s grip. It makes his nose start bleeding again. “This won’t work. We’ll see you hanged, Corrick,” he snaps. “I’ll do it myself—”
Rocco shoves him into a cell, and one of the Hold guards slams the gate.
“Do you know who I am?” he yells. “You will all be put to death. This man has no power any longer. He is a criminal—”
I ignore him. “Rocco,” I say urgently. “You need to go back to the palace. You need to tell Harristan what he said. The consuls can’t be trusted. I don’t know what they’re planning, but you need to go back.”
Rocco stands in front of my bars. “My orders are to keep you safe.”
I swear and hit the bars, and they rattle with an earsplitting clang. “The hell with your orders! You have to protect the king!”
“Yes, Your Highness. I will.” He looks to one of the Hold guards. “Unlock the gate.”
“What?” I whisper.
Allisander isn’t anywhere near as quiet. “What?” he demands. “What are you doing?”
The guard puts a key in the lock, and I stare at Rocco. “What are you doing?”
“Returning to the palace, as you requested, but I must take you with me.” The lock gives, and he swings the door wide.
“You will hang for this,” Allisander says. “He is a traitor.”
I’m staring at Rocco like this is a trap.
“His Majesty told me
to ensure you are unharmed,” he says. “Your Highness, he never said where.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Tessa
The king makes for an intimidating audience, even with Quint at my side. It doesn’t help that the Palace Master looks as anxious as I feel. I speak haltingly at first, the crackling of the fire underscoring my words, but King Harristan says nothing as I tell him the story of my parents again, how they were killed by the night patrol—and Corrick stopped the same thing from happening to me. I tell him about the workshop, and the people we helped, and how I didn’t know who Prince Corrick really was until the night I was captured in the palace.
The king listens to all this patiently, and when I finally fall silent, he says, “How did you come to be in the rebel camp?”
I swallow. “Consul Sallister was threatening to withhold medicine if Corrick didn’t put a stop to the attacks on his supply runs. We’ve heard some whispers about the Benefactors, and I thought . . .” My mouth goes dry. “I thought people might talk to us if we returned as outlaws.”
He considers this for a moment. “And how did you leave the palace without being seen?”
My eyes flick to Quint before I can stop myself.
The king follows my gaze.
Quint inhales like he’s going to spin this, but King Harristan’s gaze is unyielding, and Quint sighs. “I helped.”
“And not for the first time, I’m assuming,” says Harristan. “Or Tessa would not have asked for you to be here.”
Quint glances at me. “No, Your Majesty,” he concedes.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“This is not a time for apologies,” says Harristan. His eyes are on Quint now. “For how long?”
“For . . . years.”
“Years,” echoes Harristan. He frowns. “Why, Quint?”
“In the beginning . . . well, simply because Prince Corrick is the King’s Justice.” He says this as if it explains everything, and in a way, it does. “I wasn’t helping so much as turning a blind eye to his mysterious early morning absences. But then came a morning when he didn’t show for a breakfast with one of the consuls. I went to inquire, and his guards said he hadn’t left his quarters all morning. When I knocked, he let me in, and he was . . . in a state. He was filthy, with blisters on his hands. He’d watched a child die. A baby who coughed so hard she couldn’t breathe.”
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