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CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Tessa
When Rocco appears at the bars of my cell with a water skin, I think my eyes are playing a trick on me. The stone floor is freezing cold, and even though I tried to sweep the loose straw into a pile, I’ve been shivering for hours. I blink at him, once, twice, then a third time, like my eyes refuse to believe it.
“Miss Tessa,” he says, holding the skin through the bars.
“Rocco.” My mouth is dry. I get to my feet, and it takes more effort than it should. My joints are sore and achy, and my head spins. I have to hold on to the bars to take the water skin from him.
I don’t know why he’s here, and right now, I don’t care. I drain the whole thing in a minute, then press my forehead against the bars, panting.
It takes me a moment to notice there are other royal guards in the hallway. Corrick’s cell door looks to be open, but I can’t see him. I can’t see what’s happening to him.
Myheart stops, then restarts itself at twice the pace.
“What’s happening?” I say to Rocco.
“The king is speaking with the prince.”
“Speaking, speaking, or . . . or . . .” My words trail off, because I don’t want to put voice to anything else my imagination is supplying.
“The king is speaking with the prince,” Rocco says again, and I realize that’s all the answer I’m going to get.
I swallow. Corrick said his brother had accused him of treason before we left the palace. We’ve been down here for nearly a full day now, and I have no doubt that King Harristan has known about it. None of that can mean anything good. The smell of this cell has given me a clue to what’s been done within these walls, and I don’t want to think about any of it. I don’t want to think about Harristan ordering those kinds of things done to his brother.
Exhaustion and fear have caught up with me. My throat tightens against my will, and I close my eyes and breathe against the bars.
Please, my love.
A tear slips down my cheek, and I make no attempt to brush it away. Did I prolong the inevitable? Did I save him in the village only to watch him face a worse fate here?
Booted feet scrape against the stone floor, and my eyes flick open. Rocco has stepped back, standing at attention, and to my absolute shock, I find myself facing the king.
I must be speechless for a moment too long, because King Harristan gives me a quick up-and-down glance before looking at Rocco. “Remain with Corrick. I will send supplies and further orders.” He turns his gaze back to me. “Can you walk?”
Ihave no idea. Remain with Corrick. I will send supplies and further orders. What does that mean? What has he done? My mouth has gone dry again, and I take a step back from the bars. “I—I—”
He looks at one of his other guards. “Thorin. Carry her.”
They open the gate, and I put up my hands before the other man can touch me. I don’t know what’s happening, but I do know I don’t want to be carried into it. “Wait. Stop. I—I can walk.”
“Good,” says King Harristan. “Come with me.”
I don’t know where I expected to go, but that guard, Thorin, loads me into a carriage just outside the Hold. I’ve completely lost track of time, because I was ready to step out into sunlight, since it was dawn when we were first taken, but the night sky is ink-black and twinkling with stars. The king must take a separate carriage, because I’m alone with Thorin in this one. He’s not as friendly as Rocco was, and sits stony-faced across from me.
I clench my fingers in my skirts, which are dusty and stained with Corrick’s blood.
I don’t know if Thorin will talk to me, but this silence is so full of tension that it’s going to rattle me apart. “Where are we going?” I say.
“To the palace.”
I want to ask why, but I remember Quint chastising me when he said, He is the king. He doesn’t need to say why.
Once we’re there, I expect to be thrown on the floor like I was on the night I was found in the hallway, but to my surprise, I’m taken to my room, where a sleepy-eyed Jossalyn waits to give me a bath. Thorin stands beside my door—to make sure I obey, I suppose.
Jossalyn ignores him and looks at my face, and then at my clothes, and she frowns. “Where are you injured?”
“I’m not.” I swallow. “It’s not my blood.”
