I don’t know where to take him, but I couldn’t keep standing in that tiny room. e scent of blood and death was thick in the air. I wish we could walk straight out of the sector and get lost in the Wilds, but I already know he won’t leave his brother.
Instead, I lead him toward the palace. e lights out front are bright, the cobblestones glistening. Horses and carriages still clatter over the cobblestones despite the late hour, as messages about the explosions are sent and elites come and go. When Harristan’s guard led me out of the palace, the halls were busy with activity, and I doubt that’s changed much.
I don’t want to think about what Corrick has done. ere’s blood all over him, so I know it was violent. His blue eyes are hollow and haunted, so I know it was terrible. When we found him in the shadowed chamber of the Hold, a part of me wanted to run screaming—until I saw the anguish in his expression.
“Rocco,” I say quietly. “We can’t go through the main doors. He can’t go through the palace like this.”
“ey know what I am,” says Corrick. He still looks ighty, his eyes a bit wild, but there’s an element of challenge to his voice. I wonder if this is how he convinces himself to do the things he does.
I ignore him. “Maybe a back entrance?” I say to the guard. “No,” says Corrick.
“We could enter through the servants’ entrance,” says Rocco. “e day staff is gone. ere are washrooms and fresh linens.”
“No.” Corrick seems to draw himself up, but he’s glaring at Rocco, not at me. “I will not sneak into the palace.”
I can’t tell how much of this is de ance and how much is some form of self-preservation. Either way, I should let him do whatever he wants. He’s the
prince, and I’m . . . no one. But I’ve only been here a day and I know how much rumor and appearances matter, and I know that right now, he can’t afford to appear weak. Walking through the palace covered in blood certainly doesn’t seem like a vision of strength. I consider the note in his voice when he realized I was with Rocco and not his brother.
“Would the king want you to be seen this way?” I say. “Do I look so terrible, Tessa?” he says.
Yes. But not in the way he means. “You look . . . desperate.”
at seems to hit him like a dart. e ght drains from his eyes. “Fine.”
 |
e servants’ entrance is the same locked passageway I used when I rst came to the palace, and it’s just as deserted as it was when I snuck into the back stairwell. e washroom is massive, with electric lights and running water, and several large tubs. I see stacks and stacks of folded linens and a massive hearth and realize this is a room for laundry.
Well, of course. I wouldn’t expect anyone in the palace to be scrubbing fabrics in the stream or hanging tunics in the sunlight. In the corner is a dress form with a maid’s frock pinned to it, with a few sewing tables and yards of fabric strewn about. A long mirror is bolted to the wall, and Corrick walks past it on his way to one of the wash basins. I watch as his step falters and his eyes shy away, but he doesn’t stop moving.
“Your Highness,” says Rocco. “Shall I call for a steward?”
“No. Guard the door.” He tugs at the buttons of his jacket just as ercely.
I hover between the doorway and the basin. I don’t know if he wants me to wait in the hall with the guard or if I should go back to my room—or if I should stay right here.
I don’t know what I want to do.
“Why did you come looking for me?” he asks. His voice is a bit husky but a bit angry, too. “Did you think you could stop me?”
“I knew you wouldn’t stop yourself.”
His hands freeze on the buttons, and it’s only then that I realize he’s trembling.
I step over to him and place my ngers over his, tugging a button free. “Stop,” he says. “I can unbutton my coat.”
I smack his ngers hard, like he’s a child who’s been told not to touch the hot stove but does it anyway. I think I shock him, because he jerks them away.
I sigh and pull the next button free. e fabric is tacky, and I try to ignore why, keeping my eyes on what I’m doing.
“If you know I can see through all your illusions,” I say soly, “you might as well stop trying to throw them in my path. I know who you are. I know what you’ve done.” I glance up, and I can’t decide if I hate him or if I pity him—or something else altogether. “I see you. I see what this is doing to you. Has done to you.”
He goes very still, but his breathing sounds shallow. He blinks, and to my absolute shock, his eyes ll.
He must realize it at the same time, because he jerks back, turning away, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Lord, Tessa.”
Seeing his ready emotion summons my own, and I feel my chest tighten. He looked broken in the chamber of the Hold. He looks broken now, like sheer strength of will is all that’s holding him together.
I touch his arm, and he jolts. His hands drop to his sides, forming sts the way they did in the shadowed chamber. His eyes are red-rimmed but dry. “Stop,” he says.
e word sounds like a warning. A plea. I stop.
He has all the power here, but he faces me like I do. He doesn’t want to admit what he’s done, and I don’t want to ask, but the question is strung between us and someone has to grab hold. I have to clear my throat to speak. “Did you kill those prisoners?”
He doesn’t look away, and he doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
e silence that follows that word lls the room until there’s no air le to breathe. I think of Consul Sallister, who was so terrible at dinner, and the control he has over Corrick and Harristan. e control he has over the entire country.
I think of King Harristan’s voice when he said that the King’s Justice can’t be lenient when people are bombing the prison.
Killing people is wrong. I feel that to my core. I couldn’t kill the king when I had the opportunity—not even when I was certain he deserved it. But like the king said, the penalties for smuggling are well known. Some of the
people in the Hold were true smugglers—but some weren’t. Bombing the Hold was wrong, too.
Does any of that excuse Corrick’s actions?
I can tell he doesn’t think so. He wears the guilt like a mantle. I thought that all his power lay in his role here, as King’s Justice, but it doesn’t.
e only power he had was in the Wilds, as Wes. And now that’s gone.
I swallow. “What happened?” “You heard Allisander.”
“Yes. I did. What happened?”
He doesn’t answer for so long that I think he’s not going to. But then he says, “ey were badly burned in the explosion.” His voice is rough, like he’s swallowed re. “Hardly conscious. ey weren’t captured. ey couldn’t have escaped.” He runs a hand through his hair, and it must be sticky because he grimaces and yanks it free. He’s not looking at me now. “ey wouldn’t have survived the night.”
“Why—” My voice cracks, and I take a breath to steady it. “Why are you— why are you—” I gesture at his clothing, and my breath shudders. “ere’s so much blood.”
“Because I wanted it to be fast.” His eyes meet mine now, and I’m sure he’s seeing the horror in my expression. “I needed it to be fast.”
ere’s a note in his voice that I can’t quite gure out, but my heart must be ahead of my brain, because my pulse begins to ease, the panic draining out of my chest before I understand: he didn’t want to do it, but if he had to, he was going to make it as quick and painless as possible.
In a way that looked as brutal as possible.
ey wouldn’t have survived the night.
He made an execution out of an act of mercy.
I wonder how many times he’s had to do that. How many times he’s had to choose the lesser of two evils, because the option was to execute a prisoner or to watch more people die for lack of medicine. It’s a terrible choice to have to make. A terrible position.
I think back to the moment we were poring over maps, when the tiniest bit of hope ickered in the air. I wonder if the explosions burned it out, if there’s nothing le.
“Don’t pity me,” Corrick says. “If you pity anyone, pity them.”
“I do,” I say. But I pity him, too. I can’t hate him anymore.
He sighs and leans back against the wall. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes again. “Leave me alone, Tessa.”
I blow a breath out through my teeth and step forward, catching the edges of his jacket between my ngers.
He startles and jerks his hands down.
“Mind your mettle,” I say as I work the buttons. He blinks. Scowls. “I told you—”
“You told me a lot of things. Maybe you could shut up for a minute and let me think.”
He shuts up, but I don’t think. Not really. I keep my eyes on my task until the last of the buttons slip free. “Take that off,” I say as I turn away to tug at the chains that will make the faucets run. e rush of water roars in the silence.
“Wash your hands and face,” I say. I plug the drain and dip my hand in the water to check the temperature. Flecks of blood and dirt had clung to my
ngertips from where I touched him, but they swirl away into nothing. I start to turn back around. “I’ll see if I can nd a wash—”
I stop short. e breath rushes out of my lungs.
He hasn’t just removed the jacket. He’s removed his shirt, too, leaving his upper body bare, his trousers hanging low on his hips. He doesn’t look like a blood-soaked villain anymore; he looks warm, somehow simultaneously vulnerable yet erce. Muscle crawls across his shoulders and down his arms, revealing various scars, from what looks like a puncture wound in his abdomen to what must have been a knife or a dagger bisecting his bicep. My eyes lock on to the faint tracing of hair that starts below his navel and disappears under his waistband.
Corrick clears his throat, and I jerk my gaze up. My cheeks are on re. “Mind your mettle,” he says.
“I hate you.”
“Hmm. Not too much, it seems.” He steps into my space, and I nearly trip over my own feet to get out of his way, but he’s only moving to thrust his hands under the ow of water.
I’m such a fool. I can’t be lusting aer him. Not now. Not ever.
My heart doesn’t care. Other parts of me don’t care. My whole body is a traitor.
“Didn’t you say you were going to nd a washrag?” he says pointedly. “Oh! Yes. Of course.” is time I do stumble over my feet. But I nd a
washrag and bring it back to him, trying not to look at the long slope of his back, or the way his waist narrows beneath his ribs, or the long jagged scar that’s partially hidden by his waistband.
“You have a lot of scars,” I say.
“Smugglers aren’t generally a very agreeable sort.” He bends over the basin, soaks the rag, and scrubs at his face. “Sometimes I try to ask questions and they have other ideas.”
Interesting.
But it gives my brain something to latch on to aside from wondering what his skin feels like. My cheeks are burning, but I keep my eyes locked ahead, on the far wall. “Did you get a chance to question the prisoners who escaped tonight?”
“No. I was busy reading maps with you and watching the sector go up in
ames.”
“So none of them?”
He scrubs at his face with the rag again and turns to look at me. “No.
Why?”
“Consul Sallister made a comment about ‘roughshod laborers.’ All the rumors said the smugglers from Steel City were young and disorganized.” I consider the explosions outside the window. “is seems really organized.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “ey’re getting money from somewhere. ese Benefactors must be well funded. ere are many theories that the money is coming from inside the palace.” He ducks his head to splash more water on his face.
I think back to the conversations we had as Wes and Tessa, when he so adamantly declared that he wasn’t a smuggler and he wasn’t in this for personal gain. He’d looked haunted then, and I thought it was for the same reasons I was. Now I know the truth. “Did you question them? e prisoners from Steel City?”
“Yes. No one led me to believe they were part of some master plot.” He rakes his hands through his hair, which is now dripping water onto his chest. “ey called for revolution and . . .” He shrugs. “You were there.”
e execution turned into a riot. Prisoners escaped.
I wonder how Corrick was planning to execute them. I’m scared to ask.
at tempers some of my ames.
He tugs at the chains to stop the ow of water, then turns around to lean back against the basin. “If there’s an underground network of smugglers funded by these Benefactors, they’re too well hidden. No one will admit anything to the night patrol. No one will speak to me, certainly.”
Funny how that happens when you kill everyone. e words sit on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them. I don’t think he needs me to.
I don’t want to stare at him—well, my traitorous eyes do, but that’s not going anywhere good. I turn away and nd a so towel on a shelf, then turn to bring it back.
He’s standing right behind me.
I suck in a breath and shove it against his chest. “Here.” “ank you.” But he doesn’t move.
“What will Allisander do now?” I say.
Corrick shakes out the towel and drags it across his skin. “He vomited in the hallway of the Hold, so hopefully I was convincing that I’ll take a hard line on any further attacks.”
“Which means you think there will be more.”
“Yes.” He nally meets my eyes. “I think there will be more.” He pauses. “And I think, aer today’s attacks, they will be more violent and even better planned. Word will spread quickly that this rescue mission was successful.
e people will be emboldened. is isn’t just about funding rebels. If we have organized attacks on supply runs in addition to calls for rebellion in the streets, well . . .” His voice trails off.
“You think Allisander will stop supplying the Moon ower.” “No. I think we’ll face a full-on revolution.”
What did Harristan say? It’s easy to love your king when everyone is well fed and healthy. A bit harder when everyone is not. He’s not wrong. But seeing things from this side makes it all so much more complicated. Revolution will mean more deaths—not just from violence, but from the fevers as well, as medicine becomes restricted.
I look into Corrick’s eyes and remember how I stood in the darkness with him and begged for revolution. I begged him to stand at the front with me— but I didn’t have a plan. I don’t have one now.
Now I understand what he was telling me that night. Rebellion won’t stop the fevers, Tessa.
A revolution might remove Harristan and Corrick from power, but it won’t stop the illnesses. It won’t force Allisander to provide more medicine. If anything, it’ll be harder to come by.
And if the king is busy ghting a revolution, he won’t be able to spare the expense to look for alternate ways to cure the fevers. Kandala will tear itself apart.
“Roydan and Arella have already begun to have secret meetings,” Corrick says. “It’s possible the other consuls have, too. Allisander and Lissa have a private army. If this comes to revolution, it might not just be the people against the throne.”
“It might be sector against sector,” I whisper. “It really is hopeless.” Corrick nods.
“But if we stop the attacks—”
“It won’t stop a rebellion. Again, that’s a big if. I can hardly stop them now.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. And like he said earlier, if royal advisers haven’t been able to solve the problem, it’s unlikely we’re going to solve it in the dead of night in a washroom.
e blood is gone, and Corrick’s hair is slicked back, but the haunted look hasn’t le his face. I watched his eyes light up when he saw Rocco in the Hold. Was he hoping for Harristan? Is the king not involved in what Corrick is tasked with doing? Does he deliberately keep himself at a distance, or does Corrick try to shield him from it? I can’t decide which is worse, but I watched his eyes ll a few moments ago, and I think both options are horrible.
“e night patrol will be more brutal now,” I say quietly.
He looks back at me for the longest moment, his expression inscrutable— then scrubs his hands over his face and makes a sound that’s half aggravation, half anguish. “I can’t call them off, Tessa. I can’t. Allisander would stop his shipments. Harristan would—”
“I know.”
“—never be able to back it. e rebels set re to the sector—” “I know.”
He breaks off, breathing heavily. “I don’t know how to stop it,” he says. “I can’t even gure out who’s funding these rebels—or why. Is this an attack on Harristan? Or is this a bid for medicine? Or both?”
So many questions—and as usual, no answers. I put a nger to my lip to think. A week ago, I might have been ghting on the side of the Benefactors. Aer seeing the destruction they’ve caused, I don’t know if that’s the right side either.
But Corrick is right: if he can’t stop the attacks, he has no leverage—and no way to stop the violence on either side. We need to nd out who the Benefactors are.
As soon as I have the thought, I realize how to do it. “People will talk,” I say suddenly.
“Of course,” he says. “Everyone talks.”
I shake my head quickly. “No—I mean you’ve been going about this the wrong way. You’ve been interrogating people as King’s Justice.”
“Shall I have Harristan do it?” He rolls his eyes and turns away. “I’m sure that will be much less threatening.”
“No.” I catch his arm, and he turns back to look at me. “Not Harristan.” “en who?”
“You and me.”
His expression turns skeptical, so I rush on. “Not as prince and . . . and apothecary.” I take a deep breath. “As outlaws.”
“As outlaws.”
“Yes.” I pause and stare up into his blue eyes, remembering the way they looked behind a mask. “We talk to people as Weston Lark and Tessa Cade.”
