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“There’s something . . . ?familiar about you,” says Lochlan. “Have we met?”
“No.” Corrick jerks his head toward the trees. “Tessa. Head for our place.”
I don’t understand what’s happening, but I can hear the urgency in his voice. I don’t want to be unarmed, though. I have no idea how to use a crossbow, but I reach for the dagger and pull it free. It jerks out of the patrolman’s neck with a horrific squelching sound.
Lochlan’s eyes follow the motion. “That’s a fancy dagger.”
Something about the way he says it feels dangerous. “Stolen,” I say quickly.
Too quickly. His eyes narrow further.
I think of the prince cautioning me in the room of the palace. You’re too earnest.
Lochlan takes another step closer. His eyes have shifted back to Corrick, lit with careful scrutiny.
“Tessa,” says Corrick. “Go. Now. I’ll follow.”
I’m not sure what’s happening, but I don’t want to leave him. My heart beats hard in my chest.
But Lochlan takes a step back, tossing sandy hair back from his eyes. Any tension drains from the air. “Go ahead,” he says. “If you’re leaving the boy’s pack, I’ve got no trouble with you.” He glances at the bodies and spits at the night patrol, then looks right back at Corrick. “I’ll clean up your mess.”
Corrick doesn’t move.
I reach for his arm, and it’s only then that I realize a wide swath of his shirt is blacker than the rest, and the sleeve is torn. Was he hit? I don’t see an arrow. But now I see that his hand is trembling, and his jaw looks more pale than it should be. “Wes,” I say. “Wes, come on.”
For an instant, I don’t think he’s going to follow. But then he steps past Lochlan, giving the other man a wide berth, and we let the darkness and the trees swallow us up.
Corrick’smanner is tense and prickly, and he keeps casting glances over his shoulder, so I stay silent and close. He holds the crossbow assuredly, like he’s ready to fire a bolt at any moment. I’ve never seen him hold a weapon.
I’ve never seen him kill anyone, for that matter. Not like this.
I saw the aftereffects of what he had to do in the Hold, but that was different. This is different. The night patrol would have killed that boy. They would have killed Corrick and me, too.
I swallow, tasting blood on my tongue. I don’t know if I’ve bitten my lip or if it’s just the scent in the air. My hands are still sticky with the patrolman’s blood.
I’m trying not to think about the fact that I killed someone, too.
I try to force the image out of my brain, but it doesn’t want to shake loose. It’s too tangled up with the sound of the boy screaming for his father. Did we do the wrong thing? The right thing? I have no idea.
We reach a small clearing, and Corrick puts up a hand for me to stop. We’re not far from the workshop now, but I’m savvy enough to know he thinks we might have been followed, so I stay silent and still while we wait.
Minutes tick by. I study the tear in his sleeve. His arm is awash with blood, and he hasn’t let go of the crossbow, so it must be mostly superficial. Still, he needs a bandage, and maybe a sling. I remember the way his fingers trembled when he held the weapon upright.
Then I realize I’m being foolish. He can’t have a sling. How would Prince Corrick explain that away?
Everything happened so fast. Too fast.
Finally, an eternity later, Corrick nods to me, and we stride across the clearing. The crossbow hangs at his side now, in the hand of his good arm. His shoulders are a bit less tense. Moonlight traces every inch of him, though, and I can see the hard set of his jaw, the tension that hasn’t quite escaped his eyes.
“Who was he?” I say softly, because it’s obvious that Corrick has some history with Lochlan.
“A prisoner in the Hold,” he says, his voice barely more than a rasp on the night air. “I broke his wrist.”
I swallow. Every time I want to forget who he is, fate seems determined to remind me. “Why?”
“He was trying to kill Consul Sallister.” He pauses. “He was one of the three who escaped. During the riots.”
“Oh.” The sound eases out of me as I work that through in my head. “And he’s smuggling again.”
