If they have to die, I can watch it happen. I can remember them. My soul burns with a promise that things will get better. That they have to get better.
I wish Weston were here. I’m better with the medicines, with the dosages and the treatments and our patients, but he’s better in the face of violence and danger. He’s cool and reserved when I’m hot and rattled.
I look around the crowd, at the hundreds of people who’ve gathered, and I think he must be here somewhere. It gives me some comfort. I search the faces around me, looking for the ice blue of his eyes, for the faint freckles I know dust his cheeks below where the mask sits.
Men are everywhere. Blue eyes are common. So are freckles.
I close my eyes and whisper a prayer. Oh, Wes. I need you.
He doesn’t appear. But horns blare, and conversation quiets almost immediately. Figures ascend what must be a set of steps on the opposite side of the stage: more guards, these with armor trimmed in purple and blue, signifying them as members of the palace guard. One carries a staff; the other carries the flag of Kandala, a panel of blue and purple split diagonally, with a lion encircled in white sitting directly in the center. They’re followed by two more guards who are heavily armed.
Then King Harristan appears, though as usual, he’s too far for me to see much more than dark hair, booted feet, and a long black jacket that nearly reaches his knees. A silver crown sits on his head, glinting in the sunlight.
A herald calls out, “His Majesty, the highly esteemed King Harristan.”
For a moment, I can see more clearly, because people are dropping to a knee, and Karri is pulling at my hand.
I don’t want to kneel to him. I want to spit at him.
I imagine what Wes would say. Mind your mettle, Tessa. My knee hits the cobblestone of the roadway. Karri squeezes my hand again.
“Rise,” says King Harristan, and his voice is loud and clear. It’s all he says, before stepping back to stand between his guards. He’s probably bored. Irritated that this bothersome little execution is taking him away from a game of chess or a luxurious bath or whatever ridiculous diversions he enjoys while the rest of us are out here in the sectors, trying to survive.
We rise. I can taste bile in my throat. I focus on not breaking Karri’s fingers with my right hand. The fingernails of my left hand are cutting into my palm.
Another man arrives on the stage. His hair is lighter than his brother’s, more red than brown, but from here, his eyes are shadowed and dark, unreadable. He also wears boots and a long jacket, but no crown sits on his head. He doesn’t need one. He wears his role like a mantle, some kind of invisible weight that clings to his frame, echoed in every step. This is Prince Corrick, the King’s Justice. He’s not usually the one to swing the blade or light the fire or draw the arrow, but he’s the one to give the order to kill. The executioner.
“They’re very handsome, don’t you think?” whispers Karri.
NO, I DO NOT THINK.
“They’re horrible,” I whisper.
Her head whips around, and I watch as her eyes flick from face to face to see if anyone heard. “Tessa.”
I swallow and refuse to take it back.
After the herald announces him, Prince Corrick moves to stand parallel to the prisoners. His voice is cold and carries an edge. “You have been charged with smuggling and—”
“Don’t let them do this!” one of the prisoners yells. It’s a man’s voice, but it takes me a moment to figure out which one has cried out. “There are hundreds of you! Thousands! The Benefactors will get you medicine! Don’t let them do this!”
Beside me, Karri goes rigid. The guard behind the shouting prisoner cracks him on the back of the head, and the prisoner sprawls face-first onto the stage, his hands bound behind his back. He doesn’t stop yelling. “Rise up!” he shouts. “Rebel! Don’t you see what they’re doing? Don’t you—”
The guard fires his crossbow. I’m too far to hear the impact, but the body jerks and goes still. The crowd sucks in a gasp.
Another prisoner takes up the shouting. This time it’s a woman’s voice. “You can stop this! Listen to the Benefactors! You can stop this! You can—”
The guard hits her next, and she goes skidding forward onto the wood of the stage. The other prisoners have started shouting, too, cries for rebellion, for defiance.
No one cries for mercy.
A man shouts from somewhere in the crowd. “They’re just trying to survive!” A woman yells, “We need their medicine!” More shouts join theirs until the crowd begins to shift, and it’s impossible to know where all the cries come from. Karri and I are shoved apart as people begin to surge forward.
“Fight them!” rages the woman on the stage. “Fight back!”
Another guard fires his crossbow. Her body jerks like the man’s did, but it must not have been a killing blow because she begins using her legs to shove her body forward. The other prisoners must sense an opening, because the others are fighting their bonds, struggling forward on the stage—at the same time as citizens are storming forward. The sound has surged into a roar of angry shouts and panicked cries as people are jostled and shoved. An elbow catches me in the temple, and then a shoulder drives into my rib cage. I’ve completely lost sight of Karri. Guards have taken the stage now, blocking the king and his brother from view—if they’re still there at all. Crossbows fire wildly, but the prisoners were right: there are maybe two dozen guards on the stage, and there are hundreds of citizens.
A man barrels through the crowd, and I’m knocked aside. I feel myself falling, and I try to find purchase, but there’s nothing. A booted foot catches my jaw, and I taste blood. Another steps on my leg.
Then a hand has a hold of mine, surprising strength in its grip.
Wes, I think.
But no, it’s Karri. She pulls me to my feet, then pulls me back, away from the stage. Her lip is bleeding. Tears glisten in her eyes. “We have to get out of here.”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Corrick
Six months before our parents were killed, there was an assassination attempt. The fevers had only just begun, but I was hardly aware of a problem. Then, my parents were still well loved, and I’d just begun to attend their meetings with the consuls. My brother had been attending for years, and I’d heard stories about them all. Allisander’s father, Nathaniel Sallister, was full of bluff and bluster, and he challenged my father on every issue.
I remember being presented with my own folio, my own fountain pen. At my side, Harristan was doodling horses and dogs in the margins of his own folio—but I could tell he was listening to everything said. I read every word twice, hoping to have an opportunity to share my “worldly” insights on something. Anything.
By the time the meeting pushed past two hours, however, I was bored and looking for any excuse to leave. I’d begun sketching caricatures of the consuls in the margins of my folio, complete with Nathaniel urinating on a pile of papers. Harristan glanced over, choked on a laugh, and drowned the sound in a sip of water.
Stop it, he mouthed at me, and I grinned.
Across the table, my mother gave us both a look, but her eyes were twinkling.
Then a crash and a shout echoed from the hallway, and the twinkle disappeared from her eye. Everyone at the table went silent. Another shout, followed by many more. My father was blocking my mother against the wall. Harristan grabbed my arm and shoved me behind him, but I wrestled to get in front of him.