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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tessa
When the crowd surges forward, I’m sure they’re going to attack us both, but their target is Corrick, only Corrick. My hands are bound, my fingers numb, and someone has a grip on my arms to hold me upright. My throat feels raw, and I don’t know how long I’ve been screaming. My ears hurt from all the shouting. I can’t see him. Too many bodies are in the way. I can hear them, though, the sound of punches and kicks. The sounds of people calling for vicious violence.
This is worse than the riot in front of the gates. This is worse than the execution.
Is it because it’s Corrick? Is it because I know him? Does that make me weak?
A week ago, if Prince Corrick had been dropped on the ground at my feet, I might have been a part of the mob.
Now, I have no way to help him. Begging hasn’t worked. Screaming hasn’t worked. They know what they’re doing.
Ispot a woman in the crowd. Her name is Bree. She has five sons, all under the age of ten. She was afraid to take medicine from us until her husband died of the fever and one of her boys started coughing the next day.
She’s behind some of the men, her fists clenched, her eyes clouded with fear and anger.
“Bree!” I call desperately, and she looks at me in surprise before turning away.
I shout at her anyway. “Bree! Stop this. Wes helped you. Prince Corrick helped you. He used to let your boys tackle him in the yard. You begged for medicine after David died, and of course we brought it to you.”
She’s looking at me again. She’s stopped trying to surge forward.
“He did what he could,” I yell. I look for someone else I recognize. “Niall. Niall—stop. Listen. When you broke your arm last winter, Wes spent two hours splitting firewood in the dark because a storm was coming. Prince Corrick did that.”
He hesitates, his eyes finding mine.
I look for someone else. “Percy Rose! Percy! Remember when your wife was up coughing all night, and Wes and I sat with you until it eased? That was Prince Corrick.” I search the crowd. “Yavette! You were worried you wouldn’t live until your wedding! Wes and I made you take the medicine every day. Prince Corrick did that. And now you’re expecting a baby!”
I don’t know if the shouts are quieting. I don’t know if I’m making a difference. I keep searching. I keep begging. My tears keep flowing.
“Zafra! Prince Corrick used to bring you squares of fabric for your winter quilts. Norman! Prince Corrick used to give you an extra dose for your sweetheart in Artis. Warley! Prince Corrick helped you fix that door when the hinges rusted off.”
“Da!” shouts a little voice. “Da, he stopped the night patrol.”
Forrest. The boy we rescued earlier. My throat chokes on a sob.
His father is a burly forge worker named Earle, and I find him in the crowd. He grabs the arm of a man who looked to be ready to throw a punch. He’s big enough to force his way through the people, shoving them back, shoving them away. His voice is bigger than mine. Louder than mine.
“He saved my boy,” he says, his voice grave. “And he saved a lot of you, too. They both did.”
The shouts have dimmed. Rain drizzles from the sky. Everyone is mud-splattered and breathing heavily.
And staring at me.
I can’t look for Corrick. I’m terrified of what I’ll find. There are so many of them, and he’s only one man.
I steel my nerve. “I know—” My voice breaks, and I gasp and try again. “I know Prince Corrick has done a lot of awful things, but he’s also done a lot of good. He risked so much to help you. To help all of you. He’s not an awful man. The fevers are awful. The situation is awful. This—” I have to take a deep breath. “This . . . ? what you’re doing . . . ?this is awful. He helped you. I helped you. Please stop. Please.”
“Cut her loose,” says a voice, and to my surprise, it’s Lochlan.
A knife brushes my skin, and the ropes fall away. No one grips my arms.
Idon’t want to look. I have to look.
As if following my gaze, people step aside, and there he is, a pile on the ground. It’s dark, and his clothes are torn, blood stark against the paleness of his skin. Half his face is shadowed with dirt and blood and bruises. There’s a laceration across the bridge of his nose that narrowly missed his eye and bisected his eyebrow. Blood has caked on his eyelashes. I thought there was no way he could look worse than the way I found him in the crumbling ruins of the Hold, but I was wrong.
I stagger toward him and drop to my knees in the mud. “Corrick. Corrick.”
