Tonight, I’m not wearing a mask.
I shouldn’t be doing this at all, truly. Tensions in the Royal Sector are high now that Prince Corrick has boarded a ship to Ostriary. The guards and sentries around the palace have tripled. The sector gates stay locked; the wall remains heavily patrolled.
But out here in the Wilds, the security is a bit more lax. The extra guards and patrol officers had to come from somewhere.
It doesn’t matter. I’m not slipping through the shadows. No chance for Violet to find me in the darkness. I’m not an outlaw at all this evening. It’s earlier than usual, well before midnight, and I’m just a man on his way to the gathering.
I stoop, picking up a handful of dirt, rubbing it between my palms as I walk, then flipping my hands to make sure I get some in my knuckles. I wipe my hands on my trousers, then run a hand across the back of my neck and over the neckline of my shirt. Another handful of dirt, another dusting of my palms, and I rake my fingers through my hair. Voices are a low rumble in the distance, and I catch a few notes of a lyre on the wind. There will probably be a
bonfire. Maybe dancers or a fortune-teller. Definitely ale.
My heart is beating a little too hard, and I try to slow my pace. This is farther than I usually go, and there’s still a scrap of a chance that I could be recognized.
I need to shove these worries away.
I slink through the trees as the music and voices grow louder, until suddenly I’m not alone. The forest gives way to a bit of a clearing, and people are everywhere. The bonfire is huge, surrounded by logs and stumps and even mats made from woven grass. An older woman on a stump picks out a tune on her lyre, while a young girl twirls in circles by her knees, slightly crushed flowers tucked into her braids. Some older men with thick beards are passing around a tankard of ale, and one laughs, then glances my way when I step between the trees.
I nearly stumble. My heart gives a stutter. For a moment, I expect everyone to turn, to look at me. I wait for a shout, for a pointed finger.
Honestly, I wait for an arrow to appear in my chest.
But the man glances back at his companions. Nothing happens. No one pays me any mind. Just another worker looking for a bit of gossip and a bit of food now that the day is done. No different from a dozen others.
I run a hand across the back of my neck again, and this time, I find it a bit damp. There’s a series of stalls at the edge of the clearing, near the road, selling food and ale, and I make my way across.
The first one doesn’t have a line, so I step to the counter, and the man working there gives me a pleasant nod. “What’ll you have?” he says.
“What are my choices?”
“I had some roasted chicken legs, but they went quick,” he says. A fire flickers in the grill behind him, and sweat threads his hair at the temples, turning the blond streaks
brown. A few days of beard growth clings to his jaw. “All I’ve got left is some honeyed cheese on nut bread, or some dried venison and jam.”
“The first, if you please,” I say.
He smirks. “If you please,” he repeats, then laughs under his breath, though not unkindly. “Putting on a few airs, are you?”
I inwardly wince. Playing this role used to be as easy as slipping into a pair of worn shoes, but it’s been so long. I’ve almost forgotten how to do this. I force a bashful smile on my face. “More than a few, I suppose. I nearly forgot I wasn’t in the Royal Sector anymore.”
He laughs and cuts a slab of nut bread, tops it with a slab of cheese, then sets it on a grill over the small fire behind him. “You work in the sector?”
“Just a delivery. We brought a horse down from Moonlight Plains. Some girl needed a perfect dapple gray.” I scoff, then roll my eyes. I always say I work with horses because it comes the most naturally, and it’s unlikely to be questioned. “Like they don’t have enough nags of their own in there. I swear I heard her say she wanted to have the animal shod in gold.”
He grins, then slides the bread off the grill and onto a fold of wax paper. He drizzles honey over the cheese, then wraps it up. The smell is heavenly, and my mouth is already watering. I’d forgotten how generous the portions are in the Wilds, and they sell them for almost nothing, really. I’m wishing I could give him a handful of silver without giving myself away, when he says, “So you’re only down here for the night then?”
His voice is a little lower, and I can’t quite figure out his tone, but he extends the wrapped food.
“Yes. I heard there was some kind of gossip about outlaws, so I wanted to see what I could hear.” I reach to
take the food, and his fingers brush mine.
The motion is gentle, but very deliberate. My eyes snap to his.
“What’s your name?” he says.
I stare back at him. I’m so utterly flummoxed that I’m not sure what to say. I came here for information, but I was so completely unprepared for … for flirtation. No one flirts with me. No one ever dares. Aside from Violet making eyes at me a few nights ago, I can’t remember the last time anyone has said one single thing about my appearance. Nothing to indicate attraction, surely. But here’s this man with sleeves shoved back and sweat in his hair and firelight in his eyes, holding my gaze like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My thoughts have completely stalled.
“I didn’t mean to shock you.” His smile widens. “My name is Maxon.”
I inhale to say I’m not shocked—even though I am, and it’s quite obvious that I am—but I choke on my breath, then cough hard. I turn away and cover my mouth with my forearm, but I cough again. When I inhale, it’s like breathing through a wet rag, and I try to talk myself out of the initial surge of panic that swells anytime I can’t breathe.
It’s almost impossible. No one here knows me. No one here cares about me. If I can’t catch my breath, I’ll die in the middle of the Wilds and they’ll throw my body on the pyre with everyone else.
Lord. I was so foolish. I should run out of here, back to where I came from.
Then again, running would probably kill me quicker. I cough again, and my eyes water.
“Here.” Maxon touches my arm. His eyes are full of concern now, and I realize he’s pushing a cup of tea across
the counter at me. “Here, drink this.”
I don’t know what it is, but right now I don’t care. I lift the cup to my lips.
The water isn’t very warm, and the tea is bitter. I almost choke on that. But then I get a swallow down, followed by another, and breathing suddenly isn’t quite so difficult.
I take a final swallow, then realize why the tea is bitter, and I look at Maxon in surprise. “You gave me Moonflower.”
He hesitates, then nods. “I had some for tonight.” He pauses. “And you clearly needed it.”
I glance down at the empty cup, then back at him. “But
you need it.”
“I don’t have a cough right now,” he says. “I can skip a day or two.” His eyes search mine, and he shrugs. “It’s all right. You’d do the same, I’m sure.”
I’m not sure about anything at all right now. I can’t think of anyone I know personally who would offer their own dose to me without expectation of something in return— and this man handed me the cup as a matter of course. It’s a casual generosity that’s so unfamiliar that it’s more shocking than the flirtation.
That smile finds Maxon’s face again, but this time it’s a bit more hesitant. “Maybe I’ve earned your name now?”
I look back at him. He gave me his dose of medicine. Possibly his only dose of medicine. There’s a part of me that wants to give him my real name, in addition to every coin in my pocket.
But of course I can’t.
Something about his kindness reminds me of young Violet in the woods, the way she was so clever in helping me hide from the night patrol.
I finally return Maxon’s smile. “Fox,” I say. He grins. “Fox? That’s it?”
“That’s it.” I take the wrapped bread and cheese, then pull a handful of coins from my pocket. I give him a nod. “You have my deepest gratitude, Maxon.”
“So formal again, Fox,” he teases—then breaks off as the coins rattle into his palm. “Wait! This is—this is too much.” His fingers close around the money, and he’s trying to pass the coins back to me.
I turn away without taking them. “Surely you’d do the same, right?”
Then I unwrap an end of the bread, take a bite of honeyed cheese, and lose myself among the crowd.
 |
More people gather than I expect. I don’t carry a pocket watch into the Wilds, but when I was a boy, we had an astronomer who taught me to tell time by the placement of the moon, and it’s nearing midnight now. I’m tired, yet anxious. Unsettled. I thought this was supposed to be a casual gathering, but there are hundreds of people here. More musicians have joined the first, and some people are dancing, keeping the mood lively and festive. The endless steins of ale don’t hurt. But I keep to myself and wait, though I’ve been considering giving up for the better part of an hour. A mob once attacked “Weston Lark” when they discovered he was the King’s Justice. I don’t want the same to happen to me.
The music finally goes silent, and the dancers fall still, and the bonfire has begun to dwindle. Many people take a seat on the stumps and logs—though others stand, whether against trees or leaning against each other. I pull a little more deeply into the shadows and press my back against a tree. The food stalls have long since stopped selling food, but the smell of roasted meat and sweet breads carries
through the clearing. My square of nut bread is long gone. A hush falls over the crowd, and I spot movement among the trees. Someone important is coming.
“I’m surprised you’re still here.”
I jump a mile, but it’s Maxon. I clear my throat and try to tell my heart to stop hammering. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
“I heard some of the washerwomen talking. Apparently one of the consuls is coming.”
I whip my head around. “What?”
He misunderstands my surprise, because he nods. “I know. It’s not Beeching, though.”
He’s talking about Jonas Beeching, the consul of Artis. I wouldn’t expect him to be at a gathering in the Wilds. He’s hardly been seen in the Royal Sector at all since the rebels killed his lover during their siege on the palace.
Honestly, I wouldn’t expect any of the others either. “Who is it?” I say.
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see.” He pauses. “The washerwomen said this one was involved with the Benefactors.”
Allisander. Or Lissa Marpetta. I pull back farther into the shadows. Lissa hasn’t left her sector in weeks. Not since she was accused of helping Allisander to stage a coup in the palace. I’m torn between running like hell, or standing right here to find out what she’s up to.
“Fox,” Maxon says quietly, shifting closer, but my thoughts are all tangled up and I don’t realize he’s talking to me until his hand falls on my arm.
No one ever touches me, and it takes me by surprise. I jerk my gaze over to meet his.
He’s holding out the handful of coins. “Take it back,” he says. “It’s too much.”
“It’s not,” I say. “I insist.”
He frowns a little, like he’s trying to figure me out, but then a murmur runs through the crowd, and motion from the trees catches my eye.
A tall woman with deep brown skin is striding into the clearing, her hair bound back tightly, her clothing very fine, but understated.
“Arella,” I whisper.
Then I notice the man at her side, and I go absolutely still.
“You know her?” says Maxon. “She’s not the one with the horse, is she?”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. I can’t stop staring at the man walking along beside Arella Cherry.
It’s Christopher Huxley, the captain of the palace guard.
They’re followed by Laurel Pepperleaf, daughter of the most powerful baron in Allisander’s sector.
I don’t know what to do. Consul Cherry and Captain Huxley are not friends. Laurel Pepperleaf has no business here at all. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen any of them exchange words. My heart is pounding so hard that my lungs can’t keep up. Breath rattles into my chest, and I’m worried I’m going to start coughing again.
“Fox?” says Maxon.
“Thank you for coming,” Arella says loudly, her voice carrying effortlessly over the crowd. “There are so many more of you than I expected.”
“The Benefactors cheated us,” a man calls from the other side. “Who’s to say you aren’t going to do the same?”
“I’m not offering medicine,” Arella calls back.
“Then what do you have?” a woman says. “We need medicine, and they still haven’t given us enough. They took Lochlan away.”
“No one is telling us anything!” another man shouts. The din is growing, and Arella raises her arms, but the
shouts continue.
“If you don’t have medicine,” someone calls, “then what do you have?”
“Information,” she says. “Please! There are patrols in the woods—”
Another shout cuts her off. “What good is information going to do if we’re dying—”
“Information on the king!” Captain Huxley shouts, and his voice is even louder. “On how he’s tricking you.”
“He’s telling you to take less medicine!” Laurel Pepperleaf calls, adding her voice to the fray, but she’s nearly drowned out by the people. “Only because he knows there will never be enough to go around!”
“Lochlan went to get more medicine!” someone else shouts. “When Lochlan returns, you’ll see!”
“That ship is a farce,” calls Arella. “It’ll never reach Ostriary. The king is getting the prince and Lochlan out of the way.”
“Fox,” Maxon murmurs.
“We have proof!” Arella continues. “Shipping logs that prove how he’s been lying to you all.”
My thoughts are still too twisted up. I can’t make sense of this. “They’re lying,” I say. “They’re lying.”
“How?” he says. “How do you know?”
His voice is so earnest, reminding me of the way he gave me his medicine. Some of these people are too trusting, too desperate. They’ll believe anything they hear
—especially if it reeks of scandal.
I think of Violet with her romantic ideals of Weston and Tessa.
“Say something,” Maxon urges. “Do you want me to get their attention? What do you know? Did you hear something in the Royal Sector?”
“No!” I almost shout it, and I tamp my voice down to a whisper. “No, don’t say anything.” The absolute last thing I need is for anyone from the palace to notice me in the crowd. “I need to get out of here.”
Then someone else cries, “The night patrol!”
Screaming erupts, and people leap up from the logs and stumps, tearing into the woods.
“No!” calls Captain Huxley. “You’re doing nothing wrong! I’ll call them—”
But his voice is drowned out by the melee. These people have already been besieged by the night patrol over stolen medicine. They’re not going to wait around to see what happens.
I’m not either. “We need to run.”
Maxon grabs my hand and tugs. “Come on. I know a way.”
At first, I follow, but we’re heading south, and I need to go north. I need to get to safety. But I quickly realize that Maxon does know a way, because the path seems densely packed with underbrush, but he’s quick and sure-footed and we dart under branches and over fallen trees. I’m wheezing hard, but I will my lungs to work, to go just a bit farther.
A whistle splits the night, and wood cracks. Maxon cries out.
“A crossbow,” I gasp. “Run. Just run.”
We run. Another whistle and crack, but we keep going. His hand is still tugging at mine, like we’re friends, like we’re more, like we’re not strangers who just met an hour ago.
But after a while, the cracks stop, fading into the distance, and we slow, gasping for breath, eventually drawing to a stop. We’ve run in a bit of a loop, turning north at some point, but we’re well away from what just
happened. My thoughts are tumbling over and over, replaying what I heard in the clearing, while also considering how very close I came to taking a shot right through the back.
I’m still breathing hard, but Maxon isn’t. “Are you all right?” he’s saying. “Fox, are you all right?”
“I will be.” I cough once, then try to slow my breathing. “You likely saved my life.”
“Hardly.”
“You did,” I say. “I’m in your debt. Believe it or not, that’s no small thing, Maxon.”
“Well.” He smiles, and it’s a bit shy. “I’ll be looking forward to figuring out what that means.”
That makes me smile in spite of myself. “Not what you’re imagining, I’m quite sure.”
He blushes, and it’s endearing. Charming. I can’t think of a single time in my life that I’ve ever made someone blush.
“Come on,” he says. “We need to get out of the woods.” He grabs hold of my hand again.
I let him.
A whistle blazes through the woods, and the point of an arrow bursts through the center of Maxon’s chest.
Then another. And a third, all in rapid succession.
His eyes flare with panic, and his mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
I’m staring. Not breathing. I’m struck by the worst kind of déjà vu as my world centers on those arrow points. The blood beginning to seep around them. A shout comes from somewhere distant, but I can’t move.
Maxon’s eyes go dull. He falls to the ground. His hand tugs free of mine.
Another whistle, and my ear explodes with pain. For a terrifying moment, I think this is it, that I’ve been shot in
the head and my final thoughts will be nothing but terror and confusion. But no, my hand slaps to my head and comes away with blood. The arrow only clipped me, probably because Maxon’s falling body tugged me sideways.
I stop thinking. I run.
More arrows fly, but I duck and dodge and weave between trees. I know how hard it is to hit a moving target.
Pain explodes in my leg, and I nearly go sprawling. It’s the side of my leg, so I haven’t been impaled, but every step brings a sharp tug of fire through the muscle. My thoughts feel fuzzy, and I can’t tell if it’s from blood loss or if I simply can’t breathe. I don’t often run for long distances, but fear is making for a good motivator.
Somewhere in the distance, a man gives a sharp whistle, then yells, “Sergeant! Let that one go. We’ve got enough to drag back to the Hold already.”
I keep running anyway, worried it’s a trap, that the instant I stop, a bolt will strike me right between the shoulder blades. I keep seeing Maxon’s face, the sudden shock and panic as he realized he was going to die.
It feels like I run forever, but eventually my legs refuse to work anymore. My breathing is ragged and uneven, a thin whistle of air into lungs that don’t want to work. I grab hold of a tree trunk and try to hold myself upright, then do my best to orient myself and find my bearings.
At first, nothing looks familiar. Farmhouses, a few distant buildings. I’m still in the Wilds, but I don’t know what part. I’m not even sure what sector.
But then I recognize a wagon. A front porch. A barn door with a flower painted on the side.
Violet’s barn.
Would she help me? Could I trust her? I’m not sure. I do know I can’t run much farther. When I try to walk, my leg
insists on limping.
I glance down. The entire side of my trousers are soaked in blood.
I touch a hand to my ear and flinch. The flesh feels torn.
My neck is sticky, too.
I swear. There will be no hiding this.
I limp through the grass, gasping with each step.
When I make it to the stump with the ax, I’m debating whether to hide in the barn until sunrise, or whether I should risk tapping at the door.
I don’t need to make a decision. Violet pops up out of the shadows like she waits for me every night.
“You came!” she cries. “I’ve been sleeping in the barn at night. Mama thinks I’m a bit addled, but I don’t care. I knew you’d come back eventually. You can’t—” Her eyes fall on my neck and she breaks off, coming closer. “Fox,” she whispers. Her gaze skips lower. “Fox.”
“Violet,” I say, and my breath is so thin that the word is barely audible. “I need your help. Can you hide me?”
“Of course! I’m good at hiding. I hid from you that first night we met—”
“Violet.”
“Right. Yes. Oh, there’s blood everywhere. Here, put your arm around my shoulders.”
She’s as lean as a willow, and I rather doubt she could support my weight, but she tugs at my arm and half drags me toward the barn. “I do the morning chores, so no one will come in until the afternoon, when Will mucks the stalls.”
“Good,” I say. My thoughts are spinning. “I need you to go to the Royal Sector. I need you to carry a message.”
“To the Royal Sector!” she exclaims. “Violet, please. Listen.”
“I’m listening.”
I think of the dozens of obstacles she’ll face when she gets to the palace. There are footmen and doormen and guards everywhere—guards who may not be loyal to the king, if Captain Huxley was in the woods with Arella Cherry. I don’t know what to make of any of this, and my thoughts refuse to organize.
They tried to kill me once. Is this a second attempt? Are they trying to kill Corrick?
A sob nearly forms in my chest, but I swallow it down. “You will go to the palace steps,” I say to her, and her
eyes flare wide, but she bites her lip to keep from exclaiming. “There is a footman there named Gryff. You will tell him that you have a private message for Master Quint. You will tell no one else. Do not stop pestering him until he fetches Quint. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” she whispers, nodding quickly. “Gryff the footman. Master Quint.”
I wince and stumble on my leg. Sweat slips down my back. “You are only to talk to Gryff and to Quint. No guards, no other servants.”
“Gryff. Quint.” She nods again.
“You will tell Quint that Sullivan was injured, and needs his assistance. But only he is to come.”
“Sullivan.” We ease through the barn doors. “Is that your real name?”
“No. But he’ll know what it means.” I let out a breath and ease against the wall of the barn, then drop to sit in the straw.
“How will I get through the sector gates?” Violet says. “It’s the middle of the night.”
Damn. I hadn’t considered that.
I swallow and reach under my shirt, to where my signet ring hangs on a chain. I tug it over my head. I don’t want to
involve guards, but I’m going to have to. Then I pull the rest of my silver coins out of my pocket.
Violet’s eyes get even wider. “Fox,” she breathes.
“Keep the ring under your clothes,” I say, holding out the chain with the ring and the coins. “Try to bribe the guard at the gate first. Tell him you want to leave a plea at the palace steps but your mother would be upset, so you have to do it in the middle of the night.”
She nods. “Then why do I need the ring?”
“If he won’t take a bribe, you’ll need it to prove you need access to the palace. But still, my message stands. You have a message for Quint alone. Only use the name Sullivan.”
“I don’t understand. Why would the ring get me through the gates?”
I wince and shift my weight. I’m going to need bandages, too, before she goes. “Because I’m the king, Violet. And that ring proves it.”
