“Come on, Cory,” he says, and he takes a step forward, supporting my weight, gasping from the effort. “Let’s make it a tie.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Tessa
The workshop was always tiny for me and Wes. With four of us, it’s downright crowded. It feels like a risk after the rebels found us here last time—but we’re outside the sector, and I don’t know where else to go. The guards are outside, Rocco at the door while Thorin walks a perimeter. The king doesn’t want to risk a fire, but we have candles that Quint lights along the table, so we’re not trapped in complete darkness. Corrick is upright in the chair, but his breathing is shallow, and he’s got an arm across his abdomen like everything hurts. It feels like weeks ago that we were kissing in this room, his hands and his mouth warming me from head to toe, when it’s hardly been a day.
The sector alarms haven’t stopped ringing, but they’re not as loud from here, and they don’t inspire panic when the only person I used to worry about is here within these walls.
I pull a low stool next to Corrick’s chair and sit beside him. “I still have some herbs here,” I say softly, touching my hand to his. “But I can’t brew tea without a fire.”
Corrick shakes his head, but his fingers close around mine. His eyes keep falling closed.
Harristan glances at the door, then at the window. He runs a hand across his face and looks down at his brother for a long moment.
“I should have told you,” Corrick says, as if he can feel the king’s gaze. His words are slow and heavy. “I’m sorry.”
“As am I,” says Quint. He’s leaning against the wall in the corner.
I know they’re not apologizing for their actions, just the secret, but I’m not sorry about any of it. I’d do it all again, without hesitation. We couldn’t help all of Kandala, but we helped those we could—and we did it without hurting anyone.
Harristan sighs. “Well, whatever you were doing, you didn’t cause this revolution.”
Corrick says nothing, and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. The shadows under his eyes seem darker. He said he didn’t think his ankle was broken, but he couldn’t put weight on it during the walk to the workshop, and he sweat through most of his clothes by the time the guards got him through the door, so I know he’s more hurt than he’s letting on.
Harristan is watching him too. With another sigh, he tugs at his jacket buttons, then slips his arms free. He lays the garment over his brother, then retreats to sit along the hearth. We sit in silence for the longest time, and it presses in around us, thick with worry. I wonder how many people were in the palace, and how many were killed—or how many were able to escape. Corrick said that rebellion was coming from both sides.
I wonder if Karri was part of the attack. Lochlan. Earle. All the people we once helped.
I think of what they did to Corrick, and the attack on the palace doesn’t seem too far off.
Corrick’s hand goes slack within mine, and I glance at his face in alarm, but his breathing has deepened. He’s asleep.
“Quint,” Harristan says softly, breaking through my thoughts.
“Your Majesty?”
“You’re still bleeding.”
“Oh. It’s nothing.” But Quint’s voice is softer than I’m used to. “It’s from the exertion.”
Harristan has already uncurled from the hearth, and he stops in front of Quint. The Palace Master was sitting with his arms folded, but now I realize he was pressing his hand against a wound.
“Quint,” I whisper. I should have noticed. I should have seen. My focus has been on Corrick, and now a wash of guilt sweeps through me. “You should have said something.”
“Prince Corrick was by far more—”
“Show me,” says Harristan, and as usual, his voice leaves no room for argument.
Quint hesitates, then lowers his arms and draws his jacket to the side. The entire left side of his shirt is dark with blood. The king peers at it for a moment, then looks at me. “Do you have supplies here?”
“Nothing for stitching,” I say. “I have muslin to wrap it.” I fetch the roll of fabric I used to tend Corrick’s arm, along with the small scissors we kept for cutting bags of dried Moonflower.
“Honestly,” says Quint. “It’s barely a scratch—”
“Sit,” says Harristan. “Remove your jacket.”
Quint sits. Obeys.
I expect Harristan to move out of the way so I can treat the wound, but instead, he holds out a hand for the supplies.
I inhale to say I can do it, but then I think better of it and give him what he asked for. He unrolls a long strip of cloth and slices through it neatly.
Quint watches this, then glances at me and back at the king. “You are the king,” he begins. “If I may—”
“I know who I am, Quint.” Harristan’s voice isn’t impatient, the way I’ve heard him before. He sounds . . . thoughtful. He lifts the edge of Quint’s shirt, and I wince as I get a closer look. An arrow cut straight across the side of his abdomen, causing a wound at least five inches long. I can’t tell how deep it is, but it’s bled enough to tell me that it won’t heal well without stitching. He’s probably right that exertion made it worse than it would’ve been.
Harristan rolls up the muslin to press it tightly against the wound, and Quint hisses a breath. But the king is quicker than I expect, and he wraps a length around Quint’s waist swiftly, holding the bandage in place. His fingers are sure and gentle as he overlaps it twice, before tying it off with a well-placed knot.
“You’re very good at that,” I say, and I mean it.
Harristan glances at me. “I was sickly as a child. I spent a great deal of time among the palace physicians.” He looks back at Quint. “That should hold until it can be treated properly.”
Quint’s expression flickers into a frown. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you. That arrow was meant for me.” Harristan says this as if it’s nothing, then rolls up the remaining muslin in his hands and looks at me. “Who else knows of this place?”
“The rebel Lochlan,” I say. “And the men who came with him.”
“And what do they want?” he says.
I stare at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“They have attacked the palace, Tessa.” He pauses. “What do they want from me? Do they want silver? Medicine? A full pardon?”
I think of all the people who were attacking Corrick. He was so sure that they’d use him against Harristan, but then they didn’t. They just wanted vengeance. “I don’t know who these Benefactors are, but the people just . . .” I swallow. “They want to stop dying.”
He looks away, and when he speaks, his voice is low. “I want that, too.”
I hear the truth behind every word. I’ve heard it since the first day I faced this man in the palace. I saw it in the way he patched up Quint’s wound. He and his brother have spent years doing what they felt they needed to do to survive, and they’ve been destroying themselves in the process.
“Corrick implicated Arella and Roydan,” says Quint.
The king runs a hand across his jaw. “Yes. He did. And while I can see Arella taking a radical stance, I can’t see Roydan going along with it. Then again, I can’t see the other consuls taking such a strong stance against me, and clearly they are.” He shakes his head. “I can’t stay here. I will not hide in the shadows while the sector burns.”
“You cannot return, Your Majesty,” says Quint. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I believe I’ve spent too much time allowing others to do what they think is best.” Harristan looks at me. “And what about you? Where do you stand?”
I stare back at him. “I want people to stop dying, too.”
“I can’t cure the fevers, Tessa. I would if I could.” He pauses. “Where would you be in this revolution, if my brother had not tricked you?”
Tricked. I take a breath and think of my last conversation with Weston Lark. My voice is soft yet stron
g as I say, “I’d be lighting the explosives myself.”
The king smiles, but it’s a little grim. “Far easier to start a war than to end one.” He pauses, his eyes skipping across my form in a way that’s coolly assessing. “These rebels tortured Corrick, but not you.”
I glare at him. “And you think I was somehow a part of it?”
“No.” He steps right up to me, and his eyes are as chilling as Corrick’s can be. “One day we will have a conversation that does not end in accusations,” he says. “What I mean is that they did not harm you.” He pauses. “They did not trust the King’s Justice. But they trust the outlaw Tessa.”
My breath catches. Yes. They do. I remember Earle’s gentle hand on my arm when Corrick was begging Lochlan to end his life quickly. Even Lochlan himself was gentler with me, having one of the men cut me loose after I got them to stop beating Corrick.
“What are you saying?” I whisper.
“I am saying that civil war will kill far more people than the fever ever could. I am certain my soldiers have already begun a defense. People are likely dying in the streets as we speak. On both sides. If I cannot restore order, this will spill outside the Royal Sector.” He pauses. “I have yielded to Consul Sallister’s demands for far too long. I have yielded to the demands of the elites for too long. I will hear from my people.”
I stare at him.
“I don’t know what I can promise,” he cautions. “Change is never quick or easy. But I would like to try. Will you help me?”
My mouth is dry. I glance at Corrick, who’s well and truly sleeping now. I’m not sure what to say. The rebels might not hate me—but they might not listen to me. I’m not entirely sure I trust Harristan either. He might want his people to stop dying, but we have very different ideas of how to accomplish that. I know he can’t snap his fingers and change everything, but I’m not naive enough to think he’d do that even if he could.
I think of my father, acting in defiance of the throne. Would he do this? Or would he be disappointed I’m not running the streets with the rebels myself?
King Harristan is watching me, and I’m sure he can read every emotion as it crosses my face. His expression is as sly and calculating as ever. “Perhaps I should have started by asking what it is that you want.”
I smooth my sweaty palms along my skirts. “I want . . .” My voice is breathy again, and I clear my throat. I want people to stop dying. But we all want that.
I take a breath and look at him. “I want a pardon for the rebels. Or . . .” I search for the right word. “Or amnesty. Both.” I glance at Corrick again, asleep under his brother’s jacket. I have to steel my nerve to add, “Including the people who hurt him.”
Harristan’s expression hardens, and I rush on, “They won’t listen to you at all if they think you’re going to execute them for hurting the King’s Justice.”
“Very well,” he concedes. “What else?”
I can’t believe I’m negotiating with the king. I don’t know what else to ask for. Medicine for everyone? I know he can’t grant that. Then a thought occurs to me.
“I want you to let Corrick stop being the King’s Justice,” I say softly.
At that, Harristan frowns. “I did not force him into the role. He is not indentured in some way.”
“I know. I know.” I take a breath. “But . . .”
My voice trails off.
“If I may,” says Quint, “at the risk of interrupting your negotiations . . .”
“Please,” I say, just as Harristan says, “No.”
I fold my arms.
Harristan smiles, and for the first time, it reaches his eyes. I wonder if he hides as much as Corrick. “Go ahead, Quint.”
“Prince Corrick may not need your permission,” says Quint, “but I believe it would mean a great deal to know he has it.”
“Fine,” says Harristan. His gaze hasn’t left mine. “Anything else?”
I think. “No.”
“Nothing for yourself? What I have asked of you is not a small thing, Tessa.”
For half a second, my thoughts whirl. He’s the king. But I’ve never done any of this for financial gain, and I have no desire to require it as part of helping him negotiate peace. Then I consider Mistress Solomon’s, and how I likely no longer have a position there.
“I’ll need a job,” I say. “And lodgings. Nothing . . . nothing grand, of course. But you were going to give me an opportunity to help improve dosages before.” I hesitate, wondering if I’m asking too much. “I’d like to have a chance again. When all this is over.”
“Done,” he says. He straightens. “Quint, remain with Corrick. I will leave Rocco at your disposal.”
Quint stands, and he looks startled. “But—Your Majesty—”
“You are injured, and so is he. If this place is as remote as it seems, you will be safest here.” He looks at me. “Are you ready to play liaison?”
I feel the blood rush out of my face. I would’ve been brave enough to light the match to ignite the flame. Somehow extinguishing it seems more frightening.
But the king offers me his hand, and much like Corrick, I have a choice in what I’m going to do.
I reach out and take it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Tessa
I’d envisioned climbing the walls or returning through the tunnel with the king, but instead of heading toward the Royal Sector, Harristan chooses to head deeper into the Wilds. He said he wants to enter the sector through the gates, to have more guards at his back before we step into the fray. He left his jacket over his brother and stripped the rings from his fingers, then traded his jeweled dagger belt for the less adorned one that Quint wore. Thorin still has his weapons, but he’s also in his shirtsleeves because Harristan didn’t want anyone to see the royal insignia. In the dark, no one will know him. Hopefully, no one will look at us twice.
I’ve traveled these paths a million times with Corrick, but it’s entirely different to walk with Harristan. The horns in the sector have gone quiet, but I can see the searchlights skipping over the wall at regular intervals. I keep glancing over at the king as if he’s going to vanish, like maybe everything has been a dream up till this point. The first shadow of beard growth has grown to cover his jaw, making him look younger, less intimidating somehow. I consider Lochlan and some of the others, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing. The farther we walk, the more I become aware of the sound of his breathing, the wheeze that’s not quite a cough but sounds like it needs one.
“Do you need to rest?” I ask carefully, then quickly tack on, “Your Majesty?”
He glances at me. “No. Do you?”
I frown but keep walking.
“And you can’t call me that,” he says. “Not here.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“What did my brother call himself?”
I almost don’t want to tell him, because for a fleeting moment, I’m worried he’ll want to adopt it for his own, and Corrick’s secret persona is something precious that only belongs to me. But that’s silly, and I’m too tired to think of a good lie, so I say, “Wes. Weston Lark.”
The king startles. “Really.” He gives a soft laugh. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Why?”
“Because that was his name when we would sneak into the Wilds as children.” He’s quiet for a moment, probably remembering it. “Do you know—well, I suppose you wouldn’t. Weston and Lark were the names of Father’s hunting hounds.”
I giggle in spite of myself. “He named himself after dogs?”
“He did indeed.”
“What was your name?”
“Sullivan, after the fastest horse in the stable. Corrick used to call me Sully for short.”
The fastest horse in the stable. I almost snort before catching myself. They were such boys.
The thought, once it strikes me, is surprising for some reason. I’ve seen it in a dozen ways since I first snuck into the palace,
but their closeness is still startling. It’s the most humanizing thing about them. It’s the most . . . gentle thing about them.
“Tell me your thoughts, Tessa,” says Harristan, and because he doesn’t say it like an order, I do.
“I was thinking that you could be loved,” I say softly. “Even if your people are sick.”
He looks over at me and says nothing.
I blush and turn my eyes forward. “I was thinking that you’re not horrible, not really. And he’s not cruel. I have no idea what it was like to lose your parents, but I know what it was like to lose mine. I can’t imagine having to . . . to rule a country after that. When my parents died, I hated the night patrol. Who did you hate? Everyone in the palace?”
“Yes,” he says simply. His eyes are in shadow now, but the memory of loss is thick in the night air. “Well. Almost everyone.”
Corrick.
I reach out and touch his hand, giving it a sympathetic squeeze. It’s automatic, the way I’d do for Corrick—or anyone, really.
But the king looks at me in surprise, and I let him go. “Forgive me, Your—ah, Sully. Sullivan.”
I swallow.
He says nothing. Thorin, walking at our back, says nothing.
When my parents died, I had Corrick. In a way, he had Quint, and he had me.
Corrick hid so much of himself from his brother. To protect him, for sure, but it created a barrier between them. When their parents died, I wonder who Harristan had. I wonder if he had anyone at all.
When I glance at him again, he’s still watching me.
“I’m the king,” he says. “I don’t deserve anyone’s pity.”
“I don’t pity you.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Tessa.” He shakes his head and looks forward—then stops short so suddenly that Thorin draws a blade behind us.
But the king is merely staring. We’ve reached the clearing before the gates. It’s deserted—which isn’t too surprising for the middle of the night. The sound of shouts and screams echo from farther into the sector. But here, the gates have been blown off their hinges, and they’re lying in mangled twists of steel on the ground. The guard station is deserted.
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