But then, when they were teens, Allisander’s father, Nathaniel Sallister, requested additional lands from a neighboring sector, claiming his farmlands yielded better crops—and would therefore yield better profits, and greater taxes for the Crown. Our father, the king, refused. Allisander then made a plea to Harristan, leaning on their friendship, asking him to intercede on the Sallisters’ behalf—and still, our father, a fair and just man, refused.
“We cannot force one sector to yield lands to another,” he said to us over dinner. “Our lands were divided by law, and we will not unjustly take from one to give to another.”
He made Harristan reject Allisander’s request personally. Publicly. At a dinner with all the consuls present.
In retrospect, I think Father meant to send a message, that it was unfair to seek favoritism through his children, and he wouldn’t play those kinds of games.
But Allisander took it personally. We didn’t see him in the palace much after that.
Not until last year, when his silver-hoarding father stepped down. Harristan had hoped Allisander would be a new voice for his sector, the key to distributing more of the Moonflower petals among the population.
Instead, he’s worse than his father was. Under Nathaniel Sallister, Moonflower prices were expensive, but stable. Allisander never misses a chance to negotiate for more. Harristan doesn’t like to think that their controversy as teenagers would have anything to do with the way Allisander barters now, but I have no doubt.
I spend a lot of time at these meetings imagining ways to irritate him.
“A new bridge along with extra medicinal rations would give Artis an unfair advantage at trade,” Allisander says.
“An unfair advantage!” Jonas sputters. “You and Lissa control the Moonflower, and you want to accuse me of seeking an unfair advantage?”
Allisander steeples his fingers and says nothing.
Jonas isn’t wrong. Allisander Sallister represents the Moonlight Plains, and Lissa Marpetta represents Emberridge—the two sectors where the Moonflower, the only known treatment for the fevers that plague Kandala, grows.
Therefore the richest sectors. The most powerful.
Also, the reason all my imagined irritants for Allisander stay in my head. I can hate him and need him as an ally at the same time. “Regardless of advantage,” I say, “your motives in your proposal were deceitful, Jonas.”
Allisander glances across the table at me and gives a small nod of appreciation.
I nod in return. I want to throw the fountain pen at him.
Roydan Pelham clears his throat from the other end of the table. He’s pushing eighty, with weathered skin that can’t seem to decide if it’s more beige or more sallow. He’s served on this council since my grandfather was king. Most of the others seem to grudgingly tolerate him, but I rather like the old man. He’s set in his ways, but he’s also the only consul who seemed genuinely concerned for us after our parents were killed. No one dotes on Harristan—or me, for that matter—but if anyone could be considered doting, it would be Roydan.
“My people suffer as greatly as Artis’s,” he says quietly. “If you grant this petition, I will seek the same.”
“You have no river to cross!” says Jonas.
“Indeed,” says Roydan. “But my people are just as sick.”
My brain wants to drift. This is a common argument. If the proposal from Artis hadn’t started it, something else would have. The fever has no cure. Our people are suffering. Allisander and Lissa won’t yield the power and control granted to them by their lands and holdings—and as much as Harristan would love to be able to seize their properties, the other consuls would never stand for it.
Harristan lets them argue for a few minutes. He’s more patient than I am. Or maybe he’s just better rested. I did let him sleep till noon, when I’ve been up longer than the sun.
Eventually, my brother shifts his weight and inhales, and that’s all it takes for them to shut up.
“Your petition was rejected,” Harristan says to Jonas. “You are free to file another before we convene next month.”
The man sucks in a breath like he wants to argue, but his eyes flick to me, and his mouth claps shut. My brother’s temper has a limit, and no one here wants to find it.
“When your people are suffering,” Arella says fearlessly, “it would not be inappropriate for the Crown to help make them well.”
Harristan looks down the table at her. “At what cost? All of Kandala is suffering. The supply of Moonflower petals is not endless. How would you choose, Arella? Would you sacrifice your doses? Your family’s?”
She swallows. She wouldn’t. None of them would.
I think of Harristan’s cough this morning, of his fever last month, and I can’t even blame them.
I wouldn’t either.
“We will dine now,” says Harristan, and the silent attendants shift away from the wall to begin serving the food. For a short while, the only sound in the room is the clatter of silver against china. But under it all, I catch the low hiss of Jonas’s voice, spoken under his breath to Jasper Gold, the consul from Mosswell.
“They’re heartless,” he says.
I freeze. From the corner of my eye, I see Harristan’s fork go still as well. It might be a coincidence. I wait to see if he’ll acknowledge the words.
He doesn’t.
And because I’m not heartless, I don’t either.
CHAPTER THREE
Tessa
On a good day, Weston and I can make over a hundred deliveries of the elixir. I once thought we’d be better off making our rounds separately, because we could hit twice as many families, but Wes insists that one of us should always stand as lookout—and honestly, the stoppered vials get so heavy that I doubt I could carry enough for one hundred homes by myself.
Some days it feels impossible. Thousands are suffering. Possibly tens of thousands. We hardly make a dent—and sometimes we’re too late, or we can’t steal enough, or someone falls ill so quickly that the medicine refuses to work.
Those are the worst, when someone goes from mild body aches to dead between one visit and the next.
Today, we’re able to get started on our rounds quickly, because we built up a good stash of crushed petals yesterday, so we don’t need to waste time thieving. I won’t admit this to Wes, but I’m still a little shaky over the few moments he was late. He’d never let me hear the end of it. As it is, we’re walking through the woods while he whistles under his breath. He probably thinks I don’t know the melody, a bawdy tavern song about a sailor wooing a maiden, but my father used to sing them all the time when he was busy crushing roots and measuring medicines, just because they would make my mother blush and giggle.
Thoughts of my parents still have the power to make my throat tight, so I shove them away and kick at pebbles in the path.
“You shouldn’t whistle that song,” I say. “It’s vulgar.”
He glances over and knocks the brim of my hat down a few inches. “Love is never vulgar, Tessa.”
“Oh, you think it’s a song about love, do you?”
“Well, I’m certain the maiden feels something for the sailor. Why else would she be removing her underthings?”