The snap of the crossbow barely registers before Rocco shoves me again, pushing me behind a larger tree. This time, the weight of the pack does pull me to the ground.
He’s returned fire, and now he’s on one knee. He’s calmly slipping two more bolts into place on the crossbow. “Slip the buckle at your waist,” he says. “Lose the pack. Be ready to run.”
My fingers fumble at the buckle. “Who is she? Why is she shooting at us?”
“No idea. Want to ask?”
A bolt from her crossbow hits the tree right above his head, and he swears under his breath.
He fires back, and the woman ducks back behind the tree. “You get off this island, Lina!” she shouts. “I thought we were done with the lot of you!”
Rocco lifts the crossbow to return fire again.
I grab hold of his arm. “Stop!” I hiss. “She thinks we’re with the pirates.”
“She’s still trying to kill us.” Another arrow hits the tree, skidding off the bark this time, and Rocco’s eyes quickly flick my way. “See?”
“Wait!” I call out to the woman. “We’re not here to hurt you!”
“I don’t care why you’re here!” she shouts. “You take Mouse and go back where you came from!”
Oh, how I would love to go back where I came from.
“We’re from Kandala!” I call just as I slip one arm free of the straps. The woman’s crossbow snaps again, and Rocco grabs my arm to jerk me sideways. This bolt goes right into our pack.
I stare at it breathlessly. That might have been my shoulder. Or my chest.
“Please!” I shout. “Please, we’re not with Oren Crane’s people! We came from Kandala to help—”
Another shot hits the dirt by my boots, and I yip.
“Maybe you should fire back,” I whisper.
“I will. I don’t have a lot of bolts. I’m letting her use up hers.”
“I can hear you plotting,” the woman calls. She fires again, and as soon as we hear the snap, Rocco is in motion, stepping out to shoot back.
The woman shrieks, her body jerking sideways. The crossbow clatters to the ground.
“Stay behind the tree,” Rocco says sharply, and then he’s striding across the distance, pointing his own.
The hell I will. I draw my dagger and follow him, but I keep a good distance behind. The woman is older than I am, probably in her midtwenties, with light brown skin and dark curly hair that’s pulled back under a kerchief. She’s on the ground, blood in a wide streak down her right arm, though it looks like a glancing blow. Her crossbow is six feet away, but she’s glaring up at Rocco as he bears down on her, his weapon pointed the whole time.
“You’re not Mouse,” she says, seething.
“No,” he says, kicking her crossbow out of reach.
The woman is panting, and she slaps a hand over the wound on her arm. “And you’re not Lina,” she gasps at me.
From somewhere behind her in the trees, a small voice starts shouting, “Mama? Mama!” Branches rustle, and out of nowhere, a young boy comes sprinting through the trees. He’s six or seven years old, and the woman snaps her head around.
Something hard hits me in the arm, then the cheek, and I cry out in surprise, just as a rock hits Rocco in the temple and he swears.
The boy is running right for us, pelting stones at us.
“Stop!” the woman shouts, her panic clear. “Ellmo—get back!”
Rocco turns with the crossbow in his hands, and in a flash I’m remembering a different moment, when I was by Wes’s side. I’m remembering a different young boy facing the night patrol. That night, I was almost too late.
This time, I’m too far away. Rocco’s finger is already on the trigger.
I’m going to be too late.
“No!” I cry as I try to close the distance anyway. “Rocco, please!”
“No!” The woman’s agonized cry mixes with mine to echo through the trees.
But Rocco hasn’t fired. The little boy sees his mother on the ground, roars in rage, and flies at the guardsman. Rocco lowers the weapon and grabs hold of his shirt, catching him like an errant kitten.
The boy thrashes against his hold, beating at his arms with hands filled with stones. “You hurt my mother!”
The woman scrambles off the ground. “Let him go!” she gasps. Her face has paled, and blood now soaks the outside of her arm. She looks from the dagger in my hand to the crossbow in Rocco’s, and a note of panic enters her voice. “You let him go!”
“Wait,” I’m pleading. “Just—wait—” But my voice can barely compete with the boy’s enraged wailing now.
The boy throws one final handful of rocks, and they bounce off Rocco’s chest, then scatter wildly, rattling among the brush. The woman surges forward like she’s going to tackle the guardsman, but he whips the crossbow up just in time, putting the point right against the base of her throat, and she freezes.
“Hey!” Rocco barks. “We aren’t here to hurt you. So that’s enough!”
His voice is so loud and so sharp that all three of us jump, and the sudden stunned silence is jolting. Even the little boy is staring with wide eyes, his breath shaking, lower lip trembling.
But Rocco glances my way. “Not you, Miss Tessa.”
Oh. Oh, of course. I have to shake myself. “I know what you thought,” I say to the woman. “But we aren’t with Oren Crane’s people.”
“I saw you on the water,” says the woman. Her eyes haven’t left her son.
I nod quickly, realizing this must be the person we saw onshore, the woman with the little boy who didn’t wave back. “We’ve been staying in a house half an hour’s walk back that way.” I gesture. “We came with Rian—” I have to break off and correct myself. “With Galen. Galen Redstone. Your king. We came from Kandala. We were walking to his palace.”
She glances between me and her son, and she swallows tightly. “If you’re being honest, then let him go.”
I remember little Anya on the ship, the way she had scars from whatever Oren’s people had done to her. I glance at Rocco and nod. “Erik,” I say softly. “Let him go.”
Rocco is bleeding from where one of the rocks hit him in the face. He lowers the crossbow, then pulls the boy a little closer, leaning down to speak. His voice is stern, but not unkind. “If I let you go, you’re going to behave yourself, yeah?”
The boy swallows and nods, eyes still wide. Rocco’s fist uncurls from his shirt, and he takes a step back.
The boy darts forward to punch him right in the crotch. “That’s what you get!”
Rocco doubles over immediately. He grabs for the boy, but he’s already scampered away.
“Ellmo!” the woman calls, but he’s disappeared into the trees.
Rocco is still half crouched, making unintelligible sounds. “I should have seen that coming,” he mutters.
“Are you all right?” I say.
“No. Yes. Ask me in five minutes.”
“You deserve it for grabbing him that way!” the woman snaps. “Who scares a little boy like that?”
“Someone getting shot at,” Rocco grunts. He heaves a breath and forces himself upright. “He’s lucky I just scared him.”
She takes a step closer to him and pokes him right in the chest. “It’s a shame he didn’t have a knife in his hand.”
He inhales like he’s going to spew venom, but I have no desire to see them start shooting at each other again, so I step forward and put a hand on Rocco’s arm.
“I think we can all appreciate that this was a misunderstanding,” I say. I look at the woman, whose skin seems to have paled further. “What’s your name? I have supplies. I can treat your arm. There’s a lot of blood. That needs stitching.”
“Blood?” The woman blinks at me, then turns to look. “It just stings a little—”
Her voice breaks off as she sees all the blood, which has slowed, but now coats the back side of her arm and drips onto her skirts. The skin is torn down to her elbow, a bit of muscle showing.
“Oh,” she says, quite simply. Then her skin slips from light brown to ashen gray, and her knees buckle.
I rush forward to catch her, but Rocco is quicker, and he looks aggrieved—but he eases her into his arms. Her head lolls to the side, falling against his neck.
He rolls his eyes and blows a tuft of her hair away from his face. “As I said, Miss Tessa. Trouble knew where to find us.”
“I know,” I sigh. “That’s why I brought bandages. Come on.”
For as much blood as there is, the wound actually isn’t very big, and I’m able to get four stitches in place before the woman starts to come around. She shot a bolt into our pack, but it didn’t pierce anything essential. Rocco pulled it free, then reclaimed all of the bolts he shot, and now he stands over us, looking out into the trees.
“Come on, boy,” he calls. His voice has lost most of its edge. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
Rustling sounds from among the trees, but Ellmo doesn’t appear.
I tip some water from a canteen onto a twist of muslin and begin to wipe the worst of the blood from the woman’s arm. “I’m glad you didn’t shoot him,” I say.
“I’m not going to shoot a child for throwing rocks at me, Miss Tessa.” He looks out into the woods again. “Come on,” he calls again. “Your mother will likely be worried if you aren’t here when she wakes.”
I wet another piece of muslin and hold it out to him. “Here. You have some blood on your forehead. How’s your other wound?”
“It’s fine,” he says dismissively. But he takes the muslin and wipes at his face.
More leaves rustle, but Ellmo remains hidden.
“Maybe I should whistle for you like a dog,” Rocco calls.
“Maybe I should whistle for you like a dog,” the boy calls back, but he sounds closer than I expected.
I wet another fold of muslin and tap it against the woman’s forehead. “What’s your mother’s name?” I call. “Do you want to come help me wake her up?”
This silence is a little more pointed, and after a minute, the boy pops out from behind a tree off to my right. “Her name is Olive, but everyone used to call her Livvy.”
Used to?I think. But I pat the woman’s face again with the damp muslin. “Olive?” I say. “Olive, wake up.”
Her eyelids flutter. She lifts a hand to her head.
The boy comes a little closer, sneaking through the underbrush. “Mama?”
The woman’s eyes open, snapping between me and Rocco at once. “Ellmo?” she says, trying to shove herself upright. “Where’s Ellmo?”
“He’s fine,” I say. “Go slow.”
She ignores me and sits up too fast—but as soon as she sees her son between the trees, she heaves a breath of relief. She looks down at her arm and then at me. “Thank you.” She flexes her elbow, then winces. “I’m sorry I shot at you. When I saw the boat—I worried it was a scouting boat since you were on this side of the island. I thought Oren’s people had found their way to Fairde again.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have thought. We didn’t mean to scare you.” I pause. “I’m Tessa Cade, and this is Erik Rocco. Like I said, we were on the ship from Kandala. Who are Lina and Mouse?”
“Some of Oren Crane’s worst henchmen. She’s vicious. I’ve seen her cut people apart. Mouse just does what he’s told—and he’s big enough to do a lot of bad things.” She shudders. “I hadn’t heard that Galen had returned, but we don’t get many visitors out here. Ever since . . .” Her voice trails off, and she glances at her son. “Well, it’s been a few years now. But we keep to ourselves.”
Ever since.I want to ask what, but I can guess. Our empty house is proof that something terrible happened on this side of the island.
Ellmo has crept closer, and he’s peering up at Rocco.
The guardsman is looking back at him. “How old are you? Five?”
“I’m seven!”
“Well, you’re small for seven. You look like you’re five.”
“You look like the back end of a pig.”
Olive scrambles to her feet. “Ellmo!”
Ellmo picks up a handful of pebbles and chucks them at the guardsman. To my absolute shock, Rocco picks up a small handful of his own and lightly flings them right back. Ellmo yelps in surprise and skitters away, which makes Olive glare at them both—but the boy bursts out laughing.
“Are you five?” I say to Rocco.
“He started it.”
“So the answer is yes then?” I begin to pack away my supplies. “We should go. We don’t know how many other people are going to be waiting to shoot at us.”
“You shouldn’t have too much trouble once you reach the main road,” Olive says. “And truly, I wouldn’t have caused harm if I hadn’t thought . . . well. You know.”
I look back at her. “I know.” I hesitate with my hand on the last of my supplies. I want to give her my jar of ointment, but it’s my only one, and I might need it for Rocco’s wound. “I really am sorry we frightened you. I don’t know how late we’ll be back, but if you come to our house tomorrow, I’d like to put some more salve on your stitches to prevent infection.”
She looks startled by that. “Thank you, Tessa.”
I tie up my pack and glance at her son, who’s creeping forward again. “I think there are some toys that were left by the last children who were in the house, if you’d like to come, too.”
His eyes widen, and he nods.
Rocco picks up my pack, and I slip my arms under the straps. It’s just as heavy as it was before, but I’m better with the buckles now.
Olive catches my arm. “Wait.”
I wait.
She studies me, her brown eyes searching my face. “If you came from Kandala with our king, why are you staying all the way out here? Why didn’t you stay in the palace?”
I should have expected this question, but because I didn’t, it summons emotion I’m not ready for. I think of Corrick and the lies and the way I want to hold Rian under the water. I have to swallow it all away.
“Because,” I say, “there were . . . complications.”
Her hand is still on my arm, and a pulse of shared understanding passes between us. I don’t know if it’s loss or fear or past betrayal, but I feel it, and I can see in her eyes that she feels it too.
“You don’t trust him,” she says.
I should lie—but as I told Rocco, I’m terrible at that.
“I know he’s your king,” I say. “And I know everyone here is remarkably loyal to him. I understand why. He’s done amazing things for the people of Ostriary. I know Oren Crane was terrible, and the war was terrible, and that you all need steel so desperately.” I have to take a deep breath. “But no. I’m sorry. I don’t trust him. That’s why we’re out here.”
Olive nods and lets go of my arm. “I’ll let you be on your way then.” She glances between us. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
I nod in return. “Tomorrow.” I wave to her son. “Goodbye, Ellmo.”
“Goodbye, Tessa,” he calls. He throws a pebble at Rocco.
“I’m going to break all the toys before you get there,” Rocco says.
“I’m going to break your face when I get there,” the boy calls back.
I sigh. “Let’s just go.”
But we’re a short distance off when Olive calls my name. “Tessa.”
I look back, and her expression is very serious.
“Our king is very good at convincing people that the end justifies the means,” she says.
I stare back at her. “He won’t convince me.”
“You spoke of loyalty,” she says. “And you’re right—a lot of people are loyal to him. Part of the problem is that he really does mean well—even if he ends up hurting someone to get what he wants. I thought you should know.”
Her words kick me in the gut unintentionally, and I frown. “I already know.”
That look passes between us again.
“I’m sorry,” she finally says. She kisses her fingertips and touches them to her heart. “Be safe on your journey. We’ll talk when you get back.”
Then she takes her son’s hand, and they head off into the trees.
Olive was right: we don’t find any trouble on the main road. It’s actually more crowded than I expected, with carts and horses and workers going in both directions. It’s clear when we near the city, because trees fall away, and homes and shops suddenly line the road. I’m glad for all the distractions, because every step I take fills me with a different emotion.
Longing.I miss Corrick so very much.
Fury.I hate Rian for everything he did.
I still have no idea what I’m going to say to him. I don’t want to be naive. I don’t want to believe anything he says. Olive’s parting words remind me that I’m not the only one who doesn’t trust him.
The sun beats down, voices filling the air with the Ostrian accent. No one pays me much attention, but I can tell that people notice Rocco. Their eyes linger on the colors of his palace livery, on his weapons, on the insignia emblazoned on his sleeves.
I hear more than one person whisper the word Kandala, so it’s clear they know our colors.
Then we pass a small food vendor where I hear a woman mutter, “Only one guard. She can’t be a queen.”
“Maybe an adviser?” someone else replies. “She looks very official.”
“There’s a crown on his sleeve. I suppose she could be a princess.”
But then we’re past and I can’t catch any more gossip.
A princess. If our predicament weren’t so perilous and sad, it would almost be enough to make me burst out laughing.
“I can’t believe they think that,” I say to Rocco once we’re down the road a little bit, but when I look to my right, I realize he’s not directly at my side, but just behind me.
Like . . . a guard.
“I can,” he says. “You are someone official.”
I don’t feel like it. I feel like I’m faking it. As usual, the only time I ever felt like I was really doing something was when I was in the Wilds with a mask over my eyes.
The road is hilly, with several winding curves, but the closer we get to the city, the more I spot the signs of strife with the other islands. Some buildings have clearly been burned out and never repaired. Cracked windows are everywhere, while some are missing panes of glass entirely. Broken bricks and tiles have been swept up against buildings in various places, while others lie untouched in alleyways.
But the attempts to rebuild are obvious, too. Many buildings have been patched and repaired. New glass gleams in the windows, masons can be found laying bricks here and there, and bright tiles shine in front of the occasional shop. Some of the paint is so fresh I can smell it.
We haven’t seen any sign of a palace yet, and I feel certain we should be seeing spires or turrets or something by now. Just when I’m about to ask Rocco if he’s sure he remembers the way, the road curves sharply and we crest another hill—and there it is.
Rian’s palace is down in a valley that forms a natural harbor for the sea, which explains why I haven’t been able to see it until now. We’ll have to walk downhill to get to it. Unlike the white palace of Kandala, this one is made of dark stone, with spires stretching into the sky, making the structure look black against the sunlight—though gleaming stained-glass windows glitter in yellow, orange, and red, a stunning contrast against the blue of the ocean. I remember Rian calling it the Palace of the Sun, and now I understand why.
I also remember him telling me that the surrounding citadel was in ruins, and I can see the evidence of that as well. We’ve been passing burned-out shops and homes, but what lies below us in the valley is far worse. There’s rubble everywhere, and it’s almost as if the air still holds a scent of cannon powder.
On the night we arrived, it was pitch-dark, but I didn’t look at the palace anyway. I couldn’t focus on our surroundings.
I had no idea it was this bad.
“This is terrible,” I whisper.
“Yes, Miss Tessa.”
I study the glistening water, then look over my shoulder at Rocco. “Where are the bridges? Aren’t there supposed to be bridges?”
“Rian said the connections to Fairde were destroyed by cannon fire.” He points. “I believe those structures are all that remain.”
I look along the coastline until I see what he means, and there, near some empty docks, stands the beginning of a bridge, just as charred and crumpled as everything else.
Then I think of all we’ve seen so far of the rebuilding efforts. Plenty of bricks, plenty of wood. Lots of paint and tile.
But no steel.
And down there, in the citadel surrounding the palace, there’s little motion at all. All of the crowds have been on the roads up here, away from the palace.
I frown. Like I told Olive, I don’t trust Rian at all.
But I agree with Rocco. I don’t think he lied either.
I sigh. “Let’s keep going.”
Despite what it looked like from above, when we reach the palace, there are guards—and a lot of them. After Rian’s casual crew on the Dawn Chaser, I somewhat expect the guards to be ragtag and roughshod, similar to the rebel army that Lochlan was able to assemble in the Wilds. But these men and women are armed and liveried in red and black, and while their weapons and armor bear the marks of hard-fought battles, they look ready to fight some more.
There seem to be a hundred of them, too. None of them look friendly. I can feel every eye on us as we crunch across rubble-strewn cobblestones toward the palace. Much like when we were walking along the road, I know they recognize the colors of Rocco’s uniform, and they probably know exactly who I am.
Until this moment, I hadn’t really considered facing Rian as an adversary—which is a bit ridiculous, since I’ve been envisioning his death for days.
“This is a lot of guards,” I whisper to Rocco. “Are you worried?”
“No sense in being worried,” he says. “I can’t fight them all. If they want us dead, we will be.”
My heart kicks into double time. “Well, that’s fun.”
“You have something he wants, Miss Tessa.”
Do I, though? I swallow my panic and swipe my hands on my skirts. My back feels damp under the pack. “What should I say to the guards?”
“I’ll announce you when we reach the main gate.”
When we draw close, the stained-glass windows glitter vibrantly, as if someone captured the fire of the sun inside the building. There’s a small circle in front of the palace where carriages could wait, but none are here—a sharp contrast to the bustling activity at the palace in Kandala, where carriages and wagons are always coming and going, day or night.
A guard steps down from the gate to stop us, and his eyes flick over me, but I watch him size up Rocco. “State your business.”
“I present Tessa Cade, adviser and apothecary to the king of Kandala,” says Rocco. “Here to visit with King Galen Redstone, if he is receiving callers.”
“I’ll see if he is.”
The guard turns away and gives an order to someone else. We’re left to wait, the palace looming above us. If it’s anything like Kandala, there will probably be attendants and footmen or someone like Quint who will fetch us, and we’ll have to endure a sitting room, or tea, or an hour of pleasantries before Rian deigns to acknowledge our presence.
I consider how I wouldn’t even look at him when he visited the house. The way I sat in the sand and gazed at the sea, leaving Rocco to deal with everything. Maybe Rian will make us stand out here in the sun for an hour, just to be spiteful.
We’re closer to the water, and the scent of fish and salt water fills my nose. I stare out toward the distant harbor and wonder if we could have rowed our little boat here, how long that would have taken.
But as I stare, I recognize one of the ships tethered against the longest dock, because the damage to the sails and the hull is unmistakable.
The Dawn Chaser.
My stomach clenches. Even from here, I can see the gaping hole in the deck where a cannonball ripped through the wood, tearing Corrick away from me. Sending him and Lochlan into the water forever.
As soon as I recognize it, a gasp breaks free of my throat.
Oh, I can’t do this. I can’t. As much as I love Kandala, and as much as I want to do the right thing for everyone, the sorrow is too overwhelming. My knees are in danger of buckling. I press a hand to my abdomen, because my stomach clenches again.
But then my fingers brush that dagger, and the steel is cold against my fingertips.
Mind your mettle.
It’s like Corrick’s voice is there in my head, cool and stabilizing, and I hold my breath against all that emotion. My entire body is tense, my stomach rolling, but I force back the tears, and they obey.
“Tessa.”
Rian speaks from behind me, his voice full of surprise. The fact that he came out himself is so startling that I whirl around. He’s striking in the sunlight, his black hair and tan skin and broad shoulders making him as eye-catching as he was when I first met him as Captain Blakemore. After the signs of battle and all the guards, I expected to find arrogance in his eyes and pride in his stance. I really did expect to find an adversary, someone ready to fight with me.
But he doesn’t look ready to fight, and I hate it. I hate that he looks as kind and thoughtful as he did on board his ship. I hate that he looks like he cares that I’m here, that he’s relieved that I’m here. I hate that his eyes are full of concern and worry.
I hate that he looks like a man who is rather desperately trying his best to do the right thing in impossible circumstances.
And I hate that the instant I see him, I’m reminded that Corrick might have seemed like an adversary in the beginning—but he was doing exactly the same thing.
My face must be full of tumultuous emotion, because Rian frowns, then looks past me at the harbor to see what I was looking at. He must see the Dawn Chaser bobbing against the dock, because when his eyes snap back to mine, his expression softens with knowing concern, and he pulls open the gate. “Tessa. I’ve been so worried about you. Please—please. You must understand—”
“To be clear,” I choke out, my voice shaking with a combination of tears and rage, “I will never understand.”
Then I draw that dagger, and I lift my hand.
He’s too quick, of course. He catches my wrist, deflecting my blow. It brings us closer, which isn’t better. But he glances at the weapon, and then at my face.
I suck in a breath, intending to scream at him. To chastise him. To cry on him. I don’t know. All I keep seeing is that damaged ship, the scorch marks on the sails, the memory of the cannonball smashing through the planks.
All I keep remembering is Corrick on the deck one moment, and gone from my life in the next.
Again.
I choke on a sob. My fingers have gone slick on the dagger, but I still have a tight grip.
“Let her go,” Rocco says sharply.
Rian glances at him, and then at my white knuckles clutching the dagger. “I will if she drops the weapon.”
I don’t. May stomach is roiling, and I’m so angry. So sad. So full of burning rage at the man in front of me. But the guards have moved in closer, and I keep thinking of Rocco saying, If they want us dead, we will be.
“Tessa,” Rian whispers. “Please. You don’t want to do this. I know you don’t.”
It’s the same thing I said to him when he was going to kill Rocco on board his ship.
I hate you, I think. But I can’t even say that. I said it to Corrick so many times, and the words are too wrapped up in my grief. A grief so strong that it twists up my insides and wrings me out until I can’t see straight.
I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t know how to do this.
I let go of the dagger, and it clatters to the stones at our feet. He lets me go.
It takes everything I have to keep my hands to myself, because I want to fly at him. I want to tear him to pieces. I know there are things we need, but I want to be away from here, because I don’t know if I can stand to look at him for one more second.
I inhale to say that, but instead, I open my mouth and throw up on his feet.
