The bodies that once hung beside the gates are gone, replaced with huge white sheets painted with one word.
Revolt.
“I’d hoped for guards,” King Harristan says. He looks at Thorin. “Advise.”
The guard takes no time at all to consider. “We can travel through side streets, though we don’t know how much damage has been done to the sector. There may be looters.” He pauses. “I don’t like the idea of being on foot. We could try for horses at Fosters’ Livery—but it’s not far from the palace, and it will be a risk if the rebels have been there first.”
“I don’t think rebels will go for the horses,” I say, and they both look at me. “Not many people in the Wilds know how to ride—and I didn’t see evidence of horses in either of the rebel camps I saw.” I pause. “It wouldn’t occur to me to get a horse. People in the Wilds are used to doing everything for ourselves—including walking.”
The king nods. “Fosters’ Livery it is.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Corrick
When I wake, my head is pounding so hard that I want to cut it off. My mouth tastes like something died inside it. I’m disoriented, my vision a bit fuzzy, but I recognize the walls of the workshop. Three small candles are lit on the table, and when I sit upright, I discover Quint is half asleep on the darkened hearth.
But no one else.
“Quint,” I say.
He startles and straightens immediately, but then he grimaces as if in pain, and presses a hand to his side. “Corrick. Rocco brought some water from the barrel. Let me—”
“Where’s Tessa? Where’s Harristan?” I blink at him and try to make my brain work. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
“They’re gone,” he says. “Your brother left to negotiate with the rebels.”
I stare at him. I force myself to blink twice. “Am I still sleeping or did you just say my brother left to negotiate with rebels?”
“Tessa has gone with him to help.”
I press a hand to my face. “They what?” My thoughts refuse to focus. “He left us here alone?”
“No, he left his guard Rocco, who—”
“Rocco!” I call.
The door opens almost immediately. “Your Highness?”
“Do you know where my brother went?”
“To attempt to stop the rebels in their attacks.”
“As I said,” says Quint.
I have to rub at my eyes. Finally, I can peer at the guard. “Rocco, we need to get back into the sector. We need to help him.”
For the barest moment, I think he’ll refuse. He’s of my brother’s personal guard, and they won’t take action that would upset Harristan. But maybe he’s equally worried for the king, because he says, “Yes, Your Highness.”
I force myself to my feet and my head swims. I have to grab hold of the table.
Rocco steps forward to catch me.
I look up at him. “I’m sorry you’re not getting that easy night you hoped for.”
“I did not hope for that.”
“Oh good,” I say. “Quint, are you coming? We’re going to need to find horses.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Tessa
I was right. The livery is untouched. The streets here are deserted, but the scent of smoke is thick in the air. I can see a red glow beyond the nearest buildings. The searchlights have stopped spinning entirely. I expect the night patrol to be in the streets, or even soldiers, but maybe they’ve all headed for the palace. Even the stables are unmanned.
“People are afraid,” says Harristan, when I comment on it.
They’re the richest people in Kandala, but they’re hiding from the poorest. All this time I’ve thought that the people within the gates were the most powerful, but maybe I was wrong. We all have power.
I don’t know how to ride, but Harristan swings a leg over the back of a small black palfrey, then pulls me up to sit behind him. I don’t want to do anything inappropriate, but he clucks to the horse and we lurch forward, so I grab the king around the waist automatically.
“I won’t let you fall,” he says, but that’s not reassuring as the cobblestone streets rush by alarmingly fast. I jerk my eyes up.
Thorin rides ahead, almost invisible on his horse. It’s so dark here. I’ve only been in the palace for a few days, but I’d almost forgotten what the sector looks like in the middle of the night. All silent gray, no color. We’re not too far from the wall here, and it takes me a moment to realize we’re not heading for the palace.
“Where are we going?” I say.
“We’re going to approach the palace from the north,” he says. “We’ll loop around the Circle toward the army station. It’s our best bet to find guards and soldiers.”
“Do you think they’ll listen to you if you show up with an army?”
“Do you think they’ll listen to me if I’m dead?”
I want to disagree with him—but I can’t. I was in the palace when they attacked. The king and his brother may have done terrible things, but this attack on the palace isn’t better.
I think of all the innocent people in the palace. The invisible people. Jossalyn’s gentle smile flickers into my thoughts, and my breath hitches.
I know the rebels are fighting for change, but they have Harristan’s attention. Now it’s time to forge a better path. Not . . . this.
“Don’t cry yet,” says Harristan, but his voice is more prudent than kind. “We’ve come this far.”
It reminds me of Corrick’s practical voice when we had dinner at the Circle. If you cry, I’ll be forced to comfort you.
The sounds of shouting have grown louder, and Harristan pulls the horse to a halt. I look up in alarm, but this street is as deserted as the others.
Then I see the bodies, and I gasp. A man and a woman, crumpled in a doorway. Elites, from the look of their clothing. Blood has already pooled among the cobblestones. The woman is wrapped around the man in a way that makes me wonder if she was trying to protect him—or save him. Their throats are slit.
Thorin looks at the king, and Harristan points, then makes a circular motion with his hand. The guard nods and heads into the shadows, the darkness swallowing him up.
The king hasn’t made a sound, so I don’t either. I’m sure he can hear my shaking breathing, just as easily as I can hear the steady thrum of his heart, or the way his lungs seem to struggle for every breath. We’re so still and quiet that when Thorin’s horse trots out of a side street, I jump and give a little yip, causing our horse to shy and prance. True to his word, Harristan keeps the animal under control, but I redouble my grip on his waist.
Thorin’s voice is very low. “The rebels have taken over the Circle. They have hostages. Several of the consuls, and half a dozen courtiers and advisers. The army can’t get close.”
“How are they holding the space?” says Harristan.
“They’re surrounded by fire. They have small weapons that seem to explode with metal and glass when they throw them. The casualties are many.”
I close my eyes and swallow.
I know what I said about lighting the explosives, but I wish I could take it back.
I want to go back to the Wilds. I want to go back to Corrick.
I want to go back to Wes and Tessa.
But everyone was sick. People were dying. Everything seemed bad.
This isn’t better.
I take a breath and steel my spine. “Let’s stop this,” I whisper to the king.
“Indeed.” He clucks to the horse, and we spring forward.
Hearing about the carnage from Thorin was vastly different from seeing it with my own eyes. Bodies litter the ground as we get closer to the Circle. The fires are massive, filling the air with light and smoke. The rebels keep adding fuel, sending sparks flickering into the night air. The lanterns that seemed so beautiful when Corrick and I had dinner are lit now, and they throw garish colors across the faces of the rebels on the dais. There are hundreds of them.
&nb
sp; At the edge of the dais, two dozen people are on their knees. Many are wounded or bleeding.
Every single one of them is bound, with a blade or the point of a crossbow against their neck.
It’s a macabre re-creation of the execution Corrick was expected to perform.
Hundreds of soldiers stand just outside the reach of the explosives.
“You will bring us the king,” a rebel man shouts. He throws something that glitters in the firelight but explodes when it hits the ground, sending glass and flaming steel flying into the air. The soldiers closest skitter back.
“The king and his brother!” shouts a woman.
Harristan guides the horse wide, well away from the flames. As soon as the soldiers spot us, a dozen crossbows are jerked in our direction.
“Hold,” says Thorin, and his voice isn’t loud, but it’s loud enough to stop any triggers from getting pulled. “You face your king.”
The weapons are lowered immediately. The soldiers look from us to the flames.
“We will begin killing the consuls,” the rebel shouts, and I realize it sounds like Lochlan. “You will bring us the king.”
“If you begin killing consuls,” shouts a soldier, “we will have no reason to hold.”
“Bring us the king!” shouts another rebel. “Bring us the king!”
They quickly take up the chant. More explosives are thrown.
A soldier steps forward. “Your Majesty,” he says. “Allow us to take you to safety. They intend to kill you.”
“They’ve made no secret of that.” Harristan swings a leg over the horse’s neck and drops to the ground. “Bring me armor.” Then he holds a hand up to me. “For Tessa as well.”
“Armor?” I say. But soldiers are used to taking orders, and they’re already pressing a steel breastplate to my chest, buckling it in place. The heat from the fires is intense, and sweat drips into my eyes. The armor doesn’t help. My breathing is shaking.
The rebels haven’t stopped chanting. Bring us the king! Bring us the king!
“I warned you!” shouts Lochlan.
A crossbow snaps. One of the prisoners jerks, then falls. I stop breathing.
“It’s Craft,” one of the soldiers says. “Consul Craft.”
The other hostages start screaming. Many are begging.
The army seems to take a collective breath, men readying for violence. Harristan shouts, “Hold!”
They hold, but they shift unhappily.
The king’s expression is as hard as granite, his eyes ice-cold. He looks at me. “Amnesty, Tessa? Really?”
I swallow. “Do you want them to forgive you?”
He stares back at me, and I remember his voice when he said, It’s the same to the night patrol.
“Not all of these rebels deserve forgiveness,” I say. “But not everyone who was captured deserved punishment.”
“Bring us the king!” shout the rebels. “Bring us the king!”
Harristan’s jaw clenches, but he nods. “I’ve agreed to your terms. Come. Let’s make them believe it.”
When he strides forward, I walk at his side. The men of his army yield space, opening up a path for us. The roar of the rebels is loud, pounding into my ears over every step.
When we reach the front of the soldiers, Harristan stops. I didn’t think the heat could get more intense, but I was wrong. The fires rage around the rebels, and I can see sweat dripping from the faces of the hostages. I recognize Consul Cherry and Consul Pelham, whom Corrick suspected were working together—but they look terrified now. I don’t recognize any of the other hostages—but I recognize plenty of the rebels. My heart is in my throat.
“Bring us the king!” the rebels shout.
“I’m here!” Harristan shouts back.
The shock is palpable—even among the army. Clearly not all of the soldiers had even realized we were here. The rebels are silent for a long moment, and then they cheer.
And then their chant changes.
“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”
“If you kill me, I can’t help you,” he shouts back.
They throw one of those glistening bombs, and the king jerks me back a few yards before it can land. Glass and shards of steel scatter along the cobblestones.
Harristan glances at me. “Your turn.”
My heart stops in my chest. I don’t know how to do this. I’m no one. This is different from when they were attacking Corrick. That was me and him. This is . . . this is a revolution. I don’t know how to stop a revolution.
I think of what the king said. Far easier to start a war than to end one.
I take a steadying breath and step forward. “Please!” I shout. “Please listen to him! You know me. You know what I’ve done for you all!”
Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!
“Please!” I cry out. “He is willing to offer amnesty. He is willing to pardon you all. He is willing to offer change.”
“Kill him!” they shout.
“He came here to talk!” I gasp and choke on my heartbeat, aware that I’m speaking through tears now. There are rebels with crossbows leveled at us both, but I take a step forward. “Please. Please stop this.”
A man steps off the dais, stopping on the other side of the flames. Through the haze of smoke and flame, I make out his features. It’s Lochlan. He’s got a crossbow in his hands, pointed directly at me.
I raise my hands and take a shaky breath.
“Please,” I say to him. “Please, Lochlan. He came here in good faith. Please.”
“He came here because we’re killing his consuls.”
“If you kill any more,” Harristan says behind me, “my offer of amnesty is revoked.”
Lochlan’s eyes don’t leave mine. “What a surprise. He’s already changing the terms.”
“He’s trying to stop you from killing any more people.” I take a step closer to the flames. “Which is what you said you wanted to do.”
“So, what? We go back to the Wilds and he goes back to his palace, and we all keep dying? I don’t think so.” His eyes flick to Harristan. “I don’t trust you.”
“But you trust me,” I say desperately. “I know you do.” I glance at the people behind him. “Because they trust me. And they trusted Corrick.”
He studies me through the fire. For all the crimes he’s committed, for everything he did to Corrick, I should hate him. But I can’t. We’re on opposite sides of the same coin.
Lochlan straightens. “Prove it,” he says to Harristan.
“How?”
“Call off your army.”
“Release your hostages.”
“No.”
Harristan’s voice is like steel. “Then no.”
I turn to look at him. “Can’t you give them anything?” I hiss. “Can you have the army back off?”
“I came in good faith, Tessa. He must meet me halfway.”
“He’s not shooting you.”
“He’s no fool. If he kills me, this army will eviscerate them all. He’s banking on my wish to save the consuls. It’s literally the only leverage he has.” Harristan looks at Lochlan and raises his voice. “I’ll have my army retreat fifty yards if you release one hostage.”
“You have archers,” says Lochlan. “Fifty yards is nothing.”
“Are we at an impasse?” Harristan spreads his hands. “I am willing to hear your demands.”
“We want medicine,” says Lochlan. “Medicine for everyone. We want to survive.”
Harristan hesitates.
This has always been the crux of it. Lochlan doesn’t understand. I didn’t understand.
“Is that a no?” says Lochlan.
“I can’t promise medicine,” says Harristan, “but—”
“You can’t move your army. You can’t promise medicine.” Lochlan takes a step back and looks over his shoulder at the rebels trapping the hostages. “Shoot another one.”
“No!” I scream, but it’s too late. The crossbow has already snapped.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Corrick
We’re able to find horses on the outskirts of the sector, but the army stops us before we can get close to Tessa and Harristan.
We can hear their shouts to the rebels.
We can hear the crossbow snap when Lochlan says, “Shoot another one.”
The army surges forward, but Harristan calls for them to hold. The tension in his voice is potent. I saw Leander Craft fall earlier, the consul from Steel City. This time it’s a young woman in a sleeping shift, and it takes me a moment to place her. She’s the “niece” Quint saw with Jonas Beeching—confirmed when Jonas screams in rage.
It’s a calculated strike. Another dead hostage, but not a consul.
I draw up the reins of my horse and look at Quint and Rocco. Quint is a bit pale, and he’s gripping his side. I turn to one of the soldiers. “Help Master Quint down from his horse. He needs a physician.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Quint doesn’t protest, which tells me he’s more hurt than he’s letting on.
I look at Rocco. “Let’s go.”
“Go?”
“Harristan isn’t going to make any headway like this. He needs something tangible to offer them.”
“What can he give them? The consuls are already held hostage.”
I cluck to my horse. “Not all of them.”
Many of the Hold guards have abandoned their posts, either out of fear or necessity, but a few still stand. The prison is dark and quiet as I limp down the staircase to the lowest level where Allisander is locked in a cell.
He scrambles to his feet when he sees me.
“Corrick,” he seethes. “I cannot wait to see you at the end of a rope.”
“Same,” I say. “Rocco. Go in there and break his arms.”
Allisander stumbles back from the bars so quickly that he trips over his feet and falls down. I must be pretty convincing—or Rocco’s lack of hesitation is—because the consul keeps shoving himself backward through the straw.
“Enough,” I say, and Rocco stops with his hand on the gate.
Allisander freezes but then gets to his feet. If his eyes were weapons, I’d be impaled.
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