At some point, my tears slow, and I realize that Wes is nearly holding me, and I want to stand right here in this circle of his comfort, because the idea of anything else is too terrible. The thought feels immeasurably selfish in the face of what happened to Kendall and Gillis, but I can’t help it. Wes is warmth and safety and . . . friendship.
He draws back at exactly that moment, his hand falling to his side. He’s looking into the distance, his eyes searching for trouble. “We should head west now. The night patrol is already keyed up. I don’t want to take a chance. If we have time, we can double back and do the rest.”
I swallow and try to force my thoughts into some kind of coherent pattern. “Yes. Sure.” I sniff back the last of my tears and swipe at my face. I’m full of sorrow now, but I know from experience that later it’s going to rearrange itself into rage. “Should we—should we do something about her body?”
“No,” he says. He reaches out to straighten my hat. “They’re right. Someone will find the body.”
“Weston!”
“Shh.” He puts a finger to his mouth, and he shakes his head. “I’m not being callous. We can’t help her anymore, Tessa.” He adjusts his pack, the vials clinking. “We do have rounds.”
“Right.” I swallow. “Rounds.”
We head into the darkness again, shifting silently through the night. Weston’s usual lighthearted banter is gone. His whistling is silent. The air is heavy, as if we carry the weight of what happened along with us.
“I hate the king,” I whisper. “I hate the prince. I hate what they’ve done. I hate what Kandala has become.”
My voice is so soft that I wonder if he can even hear me, but after a moment, Wes reaches out to take my hand. He gives it a squeeze, for just a second longer than necessary—the only sign that this affected him as profoundly as it did me.
“Me too,” he says.
Then he lets go and nods at the horizon, any hint of vulnerability gone. “Morning is coming. We’ll have to step quick.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Corrick
When Harristan was very young, he was weak and sickly. He fell ill often. This was before the fevers had begun to terrorize our people—before I was even born. I’ve heard rumors that my mother and father were relieved when she became pregnant with me, because there was a time when they worried Harristan wouldn’t survive, that they’d be left without an heir. Our parents spent so many years coddling him that they never seemed to stop, even once he grew out of his childhood illnesses. Weeklong hunting trip? Harristan remained behind in the palace, while I was free to gallop off with Father and the nobles. Journey to distant sectors? Harristan would ride in the carriage, protected from the sunlight and the cool air, while I would ride with the guards and advisers, feeling far older than I was when they included me in their banter.
You’d think this would breed resentment between the two of us: Harristan’s born of envy for my freedom, and mine born of envy for all the attention he received. But it didn’t. No, resentment never bred because Harristan was good at sneaking. Sneaking out of the palace, sneaking away from watchful eyes, sneaking out of his gilded prison, as he used to call it.
Resentment never bred because he always took me with him.
We’d wait until the moon hung high overhead, then dress in the plainest clothes we owned, stuff our pockets with copper coins, and sneak out of the Royal Sector. He taught me how to watch the patterns of the guards, how to sprint through the gates in the shadows, how to tell which smiles were genuine and which smirks meant someone was going to try to trick you.
Some of the elites will sneer about the dangers of the Wilds, but when we were younger, the Wilds were full of magic and adventure. Music would play until late in the night, dancers spinning by firelight. We’d pick at roasted meat with our fingers and drink home-brewed ale that was so much better than the dull wine served in the palace. We’d climb trees and shoot arrows and dodge the patrolmen. And the people! So many people. Fortune-tellers and jugglers and metalworkers and dancers and farmers and artists. We’d listen to stories and sing bawdy drinking songs, and even though no one knew who we were—because who would expect the heir and his brother to be laughing around a bonfire in the middle of the night?—we were always welcome, because no one was a stranger in the Wilds.
Sometimes now, as King’s Justice, I’ll see a face and wonder if it was someone I knew as a child. I’ll wonder if the thieving woman I’m sentencing to a month of hard labor in the limestone mines is someone who once poured me an extra cup of ale. Or if the Moonflower smuggler I’m condemning to die by fire is the man who once read the lines in my hand and told me I’d live a long and happy life, winking as he promised I’d have a big-breasted woman at my side.
I don’t like dwelling on thoughts of the past.
Honestly, I don’t like dwelling on thoughts of the present either.
They’re heartless.
Jonas’s words from yesterday’s council meeting are haunting me. I keep wondering if Harristan heard him. I don’t want to ask. For as close as we are, some of his thoughts are better left a secret, just like my own.
It’s late, and my windows are dark. My brother likely retired long ago, but despite how early I wake every morning, I always have a hard time finding sleep. I have another request to read, another plea for money, this time from Arella. She turned it in after Jonas’s proposal was rejected, and it’s brief and rather hastily written, so there’s a part of me that wonders if it’s being done in retaliation somehow. Or maybe she senses that silver sits ready to be spent, so she should grab it before Jonas can reorganize.
I sigh and rub at my eyes.
When a knock sounds at my door, I look up in surprise. “Enter.”
A guard pushes the door open. “Your Highness. Consul Sallister requests a word.”
I pull my pocket watch free and glance at the face. I want to ask if Allisander is aware that it’s nearly midnight, but he likely knows and doesn’t care. He’s one of the few people who could demand an audience at this time of night and have it granted.
I sigh, then shuffle the papers together and lay them facedown on my desk. “Send him in.”
Despite the late hour, Allisander is still buttoned up in all his finery from the day. I’ve long since abandoned my jacket, and my sleeves are rolled back. He takes in my dishabille and says, “Forgive me. I did not realize you had already retired.”
“I haven’t.”
He waits for me to indicate that he may sit, but I don’t.
“The smugglers have grown more bold,” he says. “I am receiving word of interrupted deliveries, of thievery on the road, of supply loads being raided. And that is outside the Royal Sector. You know it has long been a problem within your own walls.”
I take a sip from my cup of tea. “When smugglers are caught,” I say, “they are punished severely.”
“The rains have been heavy this year. Our crops are not as plentiful as they were last year. Combined with raids on our deliveries, we may have a supply issue.”
“Does that mean you do have an issue, or you might?”
“The promise of a problem is nearly as bad as the problem itself, Corrick.”