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Harristan doesn’t trust him any more than I do, but I can see the consul using his significant status to force my brother’s hand. It would make Allisander the second-most powerful man in Kandala. He could take whatever action he wanted against the smugglers—and he’s been desperate to do so for months now. My heart thrums along at a rapid clip.
Allisander would make an example of me. I have no doubt.
Maybe he already is. Maybe that’s why there’s been no food, no water. I never starved my prisoners, and he made his thoughts very clear about that.
The thought of Allisander in my place makes my chest tight, and it’s painful to swallow. I spent my life trying to protect my brother, but Allisander would spend his life trying to undermine Harristan at every turn. Against my will, my eyes burn.
Footsteps echo in the hallway, and I try to calm my hitching breath. The guards are changing again. It must be midnight. Shame curls in my belly, and I want to roll into the darkened shadows. With each new guard, it’s a new moment of gawking, the fearsome prince reduced to powerless captive.
I press my fingers into my eyes. Poetic justice, for sure.
“Corrick.”
I jerk my hands down. Harristan stands on the other side of the bars, flanked by his guards. His expression is cool and still. Unreadable.
I’m not facing my brother. I’m facing the king.
I wait for him to say something else. He doesn’t.
That’s not reassuring. A tremor rolls through me, a clenching in my chest. I struggle to force myself upright. I’ve been lying on the cold ground for hours, and none of my joints want to work. By the time I’m on my knees, I’m lightheaded and breathing heavily. Harristan watches this impassively.
I don’t know if I want to cry or if I want to beg for my life. So many times I wished for my brother to come to the Hold, to witness what I was forced to do.
Now he’s here, and I wish he were anywhere else.
“Your Majesty,” I say, and my voice breaks. My breathing won’t steady. I can’t look at him.
He glances at the guard by the corner. “Open the gate.”
The man scurries. When Harristan enters the cell, two of his guards come with him, as if I’m a threat. One of them is Rocco.
Maybe my brother is going to have them execute me right here. My heart races in my chest, but I keep my eyes on the straw, on the boots of the guards.
When Harristan’s fingers touch my chin, it’s so unexpected that I jump, but he’s simply lifting my gaze.
“You’re injured,” he says, and the way he says it is interesting, like he had no idea until this very moment. Which is possible.
He casts a glance around the empty cell. “You outfit your prison rather sparsely. Have you no chairs?”
I frown. “What?”
He looks at Rocco. “Send for food.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
To my surprise, Harristan drops to a crouch to look at me eye to eye. He’s so out of place here, resplendent in green brocade and shining silver buttons, while I’m covered in dust that clings to dried blood and sweat. My face is surely a mask of bruises and cuts, while his is unmarred perfection.
Istill can’t read his expression, and for a long moment, we stare at each other.
“You swore to me,” he finally says.
I look away. “I did so truthfully.” But my words sound hollow. I know where I was found. I know how it looks.
“I’ve had Allisander in my face since before dawn, insisting you’re behind the attacks on his supply runs. That you’ve been funding the rebels.”
I jerk my head around. “No! Harristan, I—”
He puts up a hand, and I stop short.
