When I was a boy, sneaking into the Wilds was an adventure. I’d have my brother by my side, and we’d lose ourselves among the people, spending coins and eating sweets and pretending to be Sullivan and Wes, just two boys who could escape the trappings and rigid rules of palace life for a little while. At the end of the night, we could always sneak back into the Royal Sector, climbing a rope into my chambers or following a tunnel into the empty palace kitchens. We never had to worry about a hot meal or a warm bed or a pair of boots that fit.
In retrospect, I’m ashamed to think that we were playing at being poor, though we never had to live it.
Now, I’m living it.
Some things, I’ve learned to ignore. The first time I was confronted with a straw mattress, I thought I’d never sleep again, but now I hardly notice. The autumn wind whistles through loose shutters and cracked windows at night, but I’ve been taught to stoke the fire and tie the curtains tight to keep the warmth in. My clothes are all borrowed or donated, and nothing fits well, but everything keeps me warm, so they’ll do. I still have the boots I originally took from the palace, which should last me a while. The worst are the insects and rodents that seem to be everywhere. That might be the hardest thing to bite my tongue about—but I do.
Food doesn’t seem scarce, which keeps taking me by surprise. So many of the people here are thinner than they should be. I’ve been sharing a small two-room house with Quint and my two guards, Thorin and Saeth, but meals have been delivered twice a day. On the seventh day, when dinner is delivered, it’s two entire roasted chickens, a full loaf of bread, a steel bowl full of salted root vegetables, and another bowl full of fruit.
I stare at all the food, and then at the woman delivering it. Her name is Alice, and at first I thought she was young, because she’s nearly a foot shorter than I am, but I’ve learned that she’s closer to my age. Her voice always shakes a bit when she talks to me. I’m pretty sure it’s less because of me, and more the fact that Thorin or Saeth usually loom at my side.
Tonight, it’s Thorin. My guards don’t wear their palace livery anymore, but they’ve kept their weapons, and there’s no undoing years of training and discipline. They’re wary of everyone in the Wilds. It’s nearly impossible for them to look harmless. Between the two of them, Thorin always looks a bit more severe, too. When Alice eases the tray onto the table, she gives me a quick, crooked curtsy, then edges immediately toward the door. “W-we hope that will be enough for you.”
“More than plenty,” I say, because it’s enough for six people, and Saeth is out walking a patrol. He won’t be back for hours, and he won’t go hungry either. I’ve heard my guards are offered food and drink at every campfire they pass. “Thank you, Alice.”
She nods and slips back through the door.
I move to shove the letters I was writing into a pile, but Quint reaches across the table to put a hand down to keep them in place. “Finish first,” he says.
The command takes me by surprise. My eyes flick up and meet his. I wait for him to falter, to hesitate, to defer—the way he would in the palace.
He doesn’t. “If you please,” he adds. “Karri is waiting with the runners. It will be dark soon.”
I sigh tightly, because I’m hungry—but he’s right. I reach for the kohl pencil I’ve been using.
“Go ahead and eat, Thorin,” I say pointedly. “One of us should.”
“I can wait.”
I put the pencil back to the paper, and I fight to keep a childish scowl off my face. My focus should be on the three consuls we aim to reach, to see if I have any allies left among the elites. I have to be very careful not to give away any information about where I am hidden, because I could put everyone here at risk—though I have to share enough so the letter will be believed.
But instead, my thoughts are on Quint and these tiny moments of . . . well, not quite defiance. He’s never rude or disrespectful.
Boldness, maybe. Audacity?
Because this isn’t the first time. It’s not even the second. Or the fourth.
What’s odd is that I can’t decide if I’m bothered. The question of it keeps tugging at me. I don’t really mind. At least, I don’t think so. Or maybe I do, but it’s like the straw mattress and the rats. Maybe I’m learning to ignore it. My staff of hundreds has been reduced to a staff of three, and their loyalty feels dangerously precarious. Any of them could walk out of here and claim a hefty reward for my capture, so I’m not going to take a stand over writing letters.
Especially when Quint is right. Karri and the runners are waiting.
I just . . . I want to stall a little. The longer we wait, the greater the chance that Corrick could return. I wouldn’t have to face all of this alone.
As soon as I have the thought, I realize how very selfish it is. How cowardly. I force it out of my head, and I start writing again.
Tessa’s friend Karri is taking runners to deliver letters to the homes of Jasper Gold, Jonas Beeching, and Roydan Pelham, a very calculated attempt to see which consuls might not be conspiring against the throne. I’m hesitant to send away one of the few people I trust here in the Wilds, but I trust the consuls so little that I have to risk it. I’m most doubtful about Roydan Pelham. He’s been working with Arella Cherry, who I saw working with Christopher Huxley, the captain of the palace guard, and Laurel Pepperleaf, whose father is slated to take over the richest sector in Kandala. If they’re all working together, it could go very poorly for me, especially if Allisander Sallister comes to power.
But Roydan was always kind to me, especially after my parents were assassinated. He was the only consul who didn’t seem to volley for power or try to have my crown ripped right off my head. So my letter to him focuses on his loyalty, how he has always seemed to care for me and Corrick, on how much we have appreciated his kindness toward us. I talk about his care for his sector, when several other consuls have done nothing for the people of Kandala. I ask if he’s willing to put the people first one more time, as I am.
I mean the words genuinely, but I’m also hoping they’ll prove to be strategic if he shares this letter with Arella or anyone else.
I hope they make it clear that I am willing to stand with the people, no matter what the cost.
I finish the letter and sign it. I don’t have my seal, but I write my initials inside the curls of a few letters in the way I do to prevent forgeries. It’s not as perfect as it would be with a fountain pen, but it’s the best I can do. Karri is set to take the letters to three different sectors, to use the back roads and hidden courier trails farthest from each destination to help prevent discovery.
But it means days will pass before we know if any of the consuls are on our side. Possibly weeks.
As soon as I finish my final flourish, Quint all but snatches the paper up from under my hand, folding it crisply to match the others. “I’ll take these to Karri.” He’s through the door before I can say anything at all.
I stare after him for a moment, then set down my pencil and run a hand over the back of my neck. I haven’t touched the food, so Thorin is still waiting.
All the guards go by their last name when they’re on duty, and until a few weeks ago, I couldn’t have identified many of them by their first name. Outside of their ability to do their jobs, I didn’t know much about any of them at all. But here, “on duty” seems to have become an endless assignment. I try not to address them so officially when they should be enjoying moments of freedom.
“Sit, Ben,” I say. “Eat.”
He sits, and as we pull food from the platter, he offhandedly says, “I thought Master Quint was ready to rap your knuckles.”
I glance up in surprise, because I hadn’t realized it was apparent to anyone but me.
Thorin sees my expression and frowns. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” I say. “I honestly thought the same.”
He flicks his eyes at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t be surprised that he would figure out a way to stage a revolution through paperwork.”
That startles a laugh out of me, which makes him smile—but then my laughter turns into a coughing fit that’s so strong I have to press my forearm to my mouth so no one outside the house will hear.
Thorin’s smile vanishes, and he’s staring at me with concern. After a solid minute passes with no relief, he pours a cup of water, too. He looks like he’s ready to go for the door, but I glare at him between coughs, and he freezes.
I’ve spent days trying to hide this, but it’s getting harder. Once I can breathe, I take a gulp of water, then inhale slowly until I’m sure I won’t cough again. “Eat,” I say. “I’m fine.”
But I’m not, and he knows it.
There’s so little medicine here. I get a dose every few days, but it’s nothing compared to what I was receiving in the palace. Sometimes at night I hide under my blankets and cough into my pillow so they won’t know how bad it is. Thorin and Saeth have begun working with the men and women who want to train to stand against the consuls, and I should join them, but I simply don’t think my lungs could manage it—and I can’t afford to reveal any weakness to these people.
Thorin is still staring.
“I’m fine,” I snap. “Sit down. Eat.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He drops into his chair at once. “Forgive me.”
That’s not better.
I sigh and run my hands over my face, pressing my fingers into my eyes. I don’t really know how to do this. In the palace, there are rules and protocol and . . . and order. Thorin joked about Quint organizing a revolution through paperwork, but at least the Palace Master is organizing it somehow. Thorin and Saeth are walking patrols and working with the people. Karri is delivering letters to see if we have any allies at all. As for me . . . I’m grasping at straws. Useless.
I can just imagine Corrick’s reaction if he were here now. Lord, Harristan. Is writing letters the best you can do? You might as well just turn yourself in.
My brother is going to return from Ostriary and find the kingdom in shambles.
Well, more than it usually is.
I finally lower my hands. Thorin is eating, but only because I ordered him to do it. His eyes are locked on the plate, any sense of good humor completely gone.
He’s got to be exhausted. I know I am.
We can’t keep operating like this. I can’t just wait on the consuls. I need to take action for my people here. I need to do something.
“If you could think of other guards to approach,” I say carefully, “who do you think would be most likely to join us?”
His hands freeze on his food, and he looks up. “There were thirty of us in your personal guard. Rocco and Kilbourne went to Ostriary. Saeth and I are with you. That still leaves twenty-six. They might have been reassigned, or they could have been discharged from the guard entirely—but I’m still worried Captain Huxley would have thrown them in the Hold after it became known that we helped you escape. If they convinced others we were conspiring with you against the kingdom, he might have been able to justify it.”
If my guards are in the Hold, they may as well be on the moon. I’d have no way to reach them. I might have a small army of rebels waiting outside this tiny house, but they don’t fully trust me to lead them. Not yet. And while rebels bombed the Hold once before, it wasn’t without loss—on either side. I can’t justify that type of attack. Not just for more guards.
But maybe we don’t have to. I work it through while I pick at my chicken. “Huxley has no proof that any of you were conspiring with me—because there was no conspiracy to speak of. They’ve spread rumors among the people, but that’s harder to do with men who surround me every day. But implicating my entire personal guard implicates Huxley himself. He’s the guard captain. He couldn’t just throw twenty-six guards in the Hold without causing a bit of outrage—if not an outright scandal on top of the one they already have.”
Thorin considers this, then nods. “That’s true. It would destroy morale, too. If Huxley threw that many guards in the Hold, I can name a dozen people who’d quit on the spot. Tensions have already been high since the first attack on the sector. Most of us had started to close ranks anyway, and not just among your personal guard.”
Most of us had started to close ranks anyway.Before Rocco left with Corrick, he warned me about Huxley, how many of the guards had started to suspect that there was more going on with the guard captain than just a taste for salacious gossip. I inwardly flinch, thinking about how much insurrection was happening right under my nose.
I wish I had people I could send into the Royal Sector, but it’s just too dangerous. Even Karri’s small apartment was searched, because she was known to be helping the rebels and me. Another reason it’s wise for her to be the one to visit other sectors now.
“The entire palace staff is surely still scrambling,” I say. “I rather doubt Huxley and Arella and whoever else they’re working with expected me to disappear in the middle of the night. The consuls might have seized the opportunity to take control during my sudden absence, but they couldn’t have been ready for it. Any control they have is still very precarious. Especially since Quint disappeared with me.”
Quint, who’s currently organizing this revolution with paperwork.
Thorin rolled his eyes, but Quint was also the one who, three days ago, suggested that we should start submitting reports to the palace of various “sightings” of the king in other sectors, forcing the night patrol to waste resources chasing down false leads.
I glance at the door. He’s been gone for too long.
“Huxley isn’t trustworthy, but he’s not stupid,” Thorin is saying. “No one was closer to you than we were.”
It draws my attention back. “I don’t know if he would keep them in the palace, or if he would feel safer giving them leave.”
“It’s a risk to keep them in the palace,” Thorin says. “I don’t know that Huxley fully trusted us at the end either.”
That’s promising. “How many do you know well enough to know where they live?”
“Between me and Saeth? Not everyone, but a lot.” He winces. “A few live in the Royal Sector. That’s a risk. We would be recognized.”
I hold his gaze and lean in. “How many do you think would join us here?”
“All of them.”
He says this so readily and with so much assuredness that it nearly hits me like a blow.
My chest clenches, and I have to sit back. “Surely not all of them.”
“From your personal guard? Yes. All of them.”
I swallow, and my throat is tight. I don’t know why the loyalty takes me by surprise, but it does. I barely knew their first names. There were so few people in the palace that I trusted, and most of them sailed away on a ship to Ostriary.
“Well,” I say, and my voice is rough.
And then I don’t know what else to say.
The kingdom is falling apart. I don’t deserve that kind of loyalty.
“Advise,” I say, because I have to say something.
“Bringing everyone at once would be foolhardy,” he says. “We don’t know what’s happened in the last week, and we don’t want to risk discovery. Perhaps we could start with two or three. If Huxley doesn’t have them in the palace, I’m certain he has some of them being watched, so we can’t go for those we were close with. I’d personally go for Dart and Granger right now, but that’s exactly what Huxley would expect.” He looks at the ceiling, thinking. “We could try Reed and Sommer. They’re newer to your guard, but they’ve never run afoul of Huxley. They’re young, too. No wives or children to miss them.”
I jerk my head up. Wives and children. I’ve been so worried about my own brother that I haven’t spared a moment to consider that my guards might be missing someone. “You’re not married, Thorin,” I say, then realize I’m not entirely sure. “Are you?”
“No.” He hesitates, and there’s a weight to it now.
“But you have family you’re missing? Tell me. Please.”
“No. Not me.” He pauses again. “Saeth is married. He has a son and daughter.”
And we’ve been stuck here in the Wilds for more than a week. He disappeared from his family without so much as a word.
Lord, I’m a terrible king.
“He never said anything,” I say quietly.
“No, Your Majesty,” says Thorin. “He wouldn’t.”
I feel that same clenching in my chest that I did when Thorin said all my guards would join us here. “Did Saeth live in the Royal Sector?”
“No. Mosswell. Right by the border with Artis, on the eastern side of the Royal Sector.”
I don’t spend a tremendous amount of time outside the Royal Sector, but I estimate that to be less than two hours from where we are, by carriage or horseback. “Do you know his wife?”
“Leah? A little.”
“When Saeth returns from patrol, tell him to come speak with me.”
Thorin frowns. “He won’t like that I told you. But you should know he’s been sick with worry.”
And he has been, I realize. Saeth has been as dutiful as Thorin, but over the last few days, he’s been tense and restless. I assumed it was the same agitation we’ve all been feeling, but now I see it’s more than that.
I should have noticed.
Voices echo outside, and I assume Quint is returning, but the conversation suddenly turns loud.
Very loud.
From outside the door, Quint says, “If you will wait just a moment, I will ask the king—”
Something heavy hits the door hard. “We’re going to tell the king. Get him out here.”
Thorin is on his feet in front of me, a dagger already drawn.
“No,” I say. “Put it away.” If I’ve learned anything during my time in the Wilds, weapons do very little to defuse a situation.
Outside, Quint says, “You will not—”
Something heavy hits the door again. “Get out of the way!” a man yells.
Thorin looks at me. The dagger is still in his hand.
“Put it away,” I say again. Then I stride for the door.
My guard swears under his breath, sheaths the dagger, and moves to beat me to the door. “Your Majesty, please.”
I ignore him, grab the door handle, and swing it wide.
Quint’s frame blocks the doorway. His back is to me, and he’s facing more than twenty men in the darkness. Four have drawn close, stepping up onto the tiny porch that sits along the front of the house we share. Some have torches, the firelight flickering eerily across their faces.
Some have axes. Some have hammers.
Well then.
I put a hand on Quint’s arm. “Step aside,” I say quietly. “I’ll talk to them.”
At my side, Thorin is practically seething.
I glance at him and murmur, “Are you going to fight off two dozen men by yourself?”
Without waiting for an answer, I step onto the porch myself and look at the people gathered there. “I’m here. Tell me what you mean to tell me.”
There’s a slight ripple of shock, as if they didn’t expect me to come out. Maybe they thought I would run. Maybe they thought they’d have to drag me out.
One of the men on the porch recovers first. I think his name is Francis. He jabs his ax at me. “Lochlan would’ve attacked the palace already. It’s been over a week. We told Karri that we’re all risking ourselves to protect you, while it seems like you’re just hiding here, eating all our food.”
“Lochlan would have attacked the palace already,” I say. I remember Karri assuring me that Lochlan had a rebel army ready to fight back, but I didn’t realize that it was only an army in the loosest sense of the word. There are few real weapons here. Very little real training. “He’d be dead for trying.”
“We did all right the first time,” shouts another man. “We should have killed all the consuls.”
“You ‘did all right’ because I didn’t want to kill my people,” I say. “I was willing to listen to your demands, as I am right now. I promise that Consul Sallister and the others do not care. If you march on the Royal Sector now, the army will shoot to kill.”
Some of the men glance at one another. Thorin steps out onto the porch and stands behind me.
“How much longer is this going to take?” Francis demands. “Quint said you were sending letters.” He jabs the ax at me again.
Thorin reaches out and snatches it right out of his hand.
Francis surges forward, and Thorin moves to block me. It’s more aggressive than it needs to be, and I suspect he’s going to shove him right off the porch. Some of the others shift and jostle, but I put up a hand before it turns into a fight.
“Enough,” I say evenly. “Stay civil. You asked to talk to me. Talk.”
“We’re done talking,” Francis snaps. “We’re here and we’re ready and we’re done waiting.” His hands have formed fists, and he glances between me and Thorin.
And then I realize that the raised voices and torches have drawn more of a crowd. We suddenly have more than thirty people surrounding the porch. More than forty. There are women and children.
Then I see young Violet near the edge of the crowd. She’s only thirteen. She shouldn’t be here.
I take a slow breath. This was always the problem: the rebels wanted action, they wanted medicine, they wanted things to happen immediately.
The problem is that anything that happens fast generally doesn’t last.
“I sent letters,” I say carefully, “because it’s important to know if any of the consuls will still support me. They rule the sectors. If they are all standing against me, we will have a larger fight on our hands. Before, you had funds and explosives from the Benefactors. Now, you have none of that. We need more people on our side. It does us no good to capture the Royal Sector if Jasper Gold sends more soldiers to take it right back.”
“They’ve stopped giving us the medicine you promised,” Francis says. “You said you were going to help. You said you were going to lead us. This isn’t leading. This is hiding. How do we know they aren’t telling the truth? That you weren’t really poisoning us all?” He leans in. “Maybe we should just take the reward and be done with it.”
“He’s not poisoning us!” Violet calls. She runs forward like she’s going to confront these men herself. “He’s trying! He’s trying to help.”
“Violet,” I begin—but that’s as far as I get before I start coughing again.
When this happens in the palace, I can usually control it, and when I can’t, Quint is rather skilled at distracting whoever is nearby, drawing them to another room or engaging them in conversation. But in the palace I was receiving medicine—a lot of medicine—and the coughing was never this strong or this frequent. It never happened when I was quite literally on display in front of this many people.
I want to turn away, but there’s nowhere to go. Every time I inhale, my lungs don’t want to work. Every time I cough, it hurts—and it feels like it goes on forever. When I get to the point where I feel like I’m drowning, my eyes begin to water, and I wonder if this will be the time I don’t recover.
I’ve pressed a forearm to my mouth, but there’s a part of me that’s beginning to wish the earth would open up and swallow me whole. Maybe Thorin could give Francis back the ax so he could end this misery. This torment. This humiliation.
Just when my coughing slows, a hand takes hold of my arm, and I think it’s Thorin or Quint, ushering me back into the small house. But then Francis says, “Here, King. Sit.”
My vision has already gone a bit spotty, and my breathing feels thin, so I obey. I sit down a little too hard, and my body reflexively moves to press my forehead into my knees.
Francis catches my shoulder. “No,” he says. “Sit up. Open up your chest.”
His voice is gruff, but not unkind. Again, I obey, but in a way, it’s worse. My coughing has slowed, but air whistles into my lungs, and now I can see that no one from the crowd has dispersed. If anything, there are more people.
They’re all staring. I can feel the weight of their concern, like a hundred held breaths. I wonder if they all thought I might die right here.
Francis is sitting on the step beside me, and he says, “Maybe tell your guard not to put a knife in my back if I touch you again.”
His voice is mild, and I can’t tell if he’s entirely serious, but I can just imagine how Thorin is reacting to this chain of events. This man was just shouting at me with an ax in hand. Thorin probably does have a weapon drawn.
“Thorin,” I say, and my voice is barely a rasp between my shallow pants. “Don’t.”
Francis must be satisfied with that, because without hesitation, he reaches over and puts a hand against my forehead. He does it so casually that I’m not sure how to react. I don’t know what I expected him to do, but . . . it wasn’t that.
His palm is dry and cool, and he smells faintly of a farm, some combination of hay and livestock. He’s an older man, probably twice my age, in stained overalls and worn boots. I
wonder if he has children among the gathered crowd, too.
“No fever,” he says. He sits back.
“No. I don’t—” I break off and take a wheezing breath. “I don’t often have the fever anymore.”
He goes still at those words, and for a moment, I don’t realize what I’ve said, and then he says, “Often? Anymore? Are you sick a lot?”
The people gathered seem to lean in, as if they want to hear the answer.
I’ve hidden this for so long that I don’t know what to say.
I think of Tessa standing before me. You could be loved. Even if your people are sick.
I don’t want to be a sick king. It feels like weakness. I remember the mockery when I was a boy. No one would say it to my face, but I would still hear it. Corrick got into more than one scrape trying to defend me.
I loved him for it, but I hated it, too.
Quint speaks from behind me, and his voice is low. “Prince Corrick and Tessa took off their masks. It may be time to let them see you, too, Your Majesty.”
I didn’t want to run from their axes and hammers, but I want to run from this.
My breathing is finally steady, so I say, “I’ve been sick since I was a child. Since before the fever sickness even started. The Moonflower elixir helps, but it never goes away.” I hesitate. “If I’ve been hiding anything, I’ve been hiding that.” I look out at the others. My voice is so rough now that I can’t shout, but I try. “If you want proof that I’m not poisoning you, I have no better than that. If I was, I was poisoning myself, too.”
A low murmur takes up in the crowd as word spreads.
I look back at Francis. “I know you want action,” I say quietly. “I know you all want to attack the Royal Sector. But we need to be strategic. If I can determine some allies within the sector, I’ll be able to get more information, and potentially stoke some dissent. But if you storm the sector now, they will kill you. You have no leverage. Worse, it might trigger raids on the Wilds. We can run from the night patrol, but the army has longbows and skilled trackers. Armored men on horseback. I know you think I’m just writing letters, but I promise you, a letter can have more impact than a weapon. We won’t have many opportunities to take the sector. I am begging you to not waste our chance.”
Francis stares at me, and the few men at his back who heard all my words whisper among themselves.
I consider what he said about the food, and I feel guilty when I realize they’ve probably been giving us far more than we need. So I add, “I also don’t want to take from my people. If you need the house back, I will sleep in the woods with my guards. If we are taking too much food, I insist that you give us less. I do not want more than our fair share. That was never my intent in coming here. I truly do want to help all of you.” I glance at the others. “Sometimes helping takes time.”
Francis grunts and looks away. “I’m not going to make the king sleep in the woods.”
“You came at your king with an ax,” Thorin says.
Francis draws himself up, and I think that one remark is going to spark another fight, but then he lets out a breath and runs a hand over the back of his neck and looks a bit sheepish. “I was just going to break down the door.” He jerks his head at Quint. “He wouldn’t let us talk to you.”
My heart pounds a little to consider how close we came to that type of interaction. “Well,” I say evenly, “in the future I urge you to knock, because I am willing to hear from you if you have concerns.” I glance out at the crowd of people who’ve gathered, many of whom have pressed closer to listen. “That goes for all of you. If you come to me peacefully, I will speak to any of you.” I look up at Quint. “Make sure the others know. Anyone, at any time. Day or night.”
He stares back at me like I’m a bit crazy, but he draws his little book out of his jacket pocket and makes a note. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
I turn back to Francis. “Are you and the others willing to wait?”
“Yes.” But he doesn’t look happy about it.
I consider what Thorin said about the younger guards, about Saeth’s family. If they’re going to try to reach anyone, I can’t send them alone. They’re only two men, and the risk is too great.
Francis is right. I did say I was going to lead them. Maybe I need to start.
I look at the gathered people clutching their axes and hammers. “It might not be time to attack the sector,” I say, “but there are things to be done, if you all are ready for action.”
Francis nods. “We are.”
“Good. Come back tomorrow night.”
