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CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Corrick
Within an hour, my cell has a mattress, heavy blankets, and not one, but two chairs. A fresh change of clothes has been provided, so I no longer need to sit here in torn wool that’s stained with my own blood. A basket sits in the corner with bottles of water and wine, along with rounds of cheese, perfectly ripe honeyed apples and sugared pears, fresh breads that are still warm from the ovens, and dried beef—more food than I can eat in a week. The rats will probably make a meal out of most of it before I can, but I do appreciate my brother’s tending. It’s very likely more than I deserve.
I also have company of a sort in Rocco, who stands in the shadows of the hallway, leaning against the wall across from my bars.
I don’t know whether I should be relieved that Harristan took Tessa out of here—or worried. He obviously hopes to question her to find out what I was doing.
He should be questioning Arella and Roydan. He should be confining them to their quarters and reading any messages they send. He should be calling a meeting of the consuls to let them make demands of each other.
I keep thinking back to Jonas’s request for a bridge for Artis, the one that Harristan denied. Jonas hates Allisander, so I could see him attacking the supply runs on principle alone, but he doesn’t have any silver to spare. Artis is struggling if the fever is running rampant among the dockworkers. Most of his sector is dependent on those who work along the water.
Arella made a request later that day, though. She also put in a formal request to pardon the prisoners before the execution that never happened. I don’t know why she and Roydan would want to interrupt Allisander’s supply runs—but if she were paying off common folk, it would explain why she needed more silver. Sunkeep and the Sorrowlands both border Trader’s Landing, and the consul from there was responsible for killing my parents. Roydan and Arella have softened their borders to account for the lack of a consul in Trader’s Landing. Have they turned against us as well? Is there something about that sector that bears discontent for the Crown? I don’t know.
That girl with the rebels said that explosives came from the mines of Trader’s Landing, too.
I wish I were in the palace. I wish I had my records and a map. I wish I had Quint, who’d be gossiping endlessly, but knows everything about everyone.
Instead, I have Rocco.
I limp to the bars and offer him an apple. “Peace treaty?”
He doesn’t move from his spot on the wall. “Are we at war, Your Highness?”
“You’re my brother’s spy. You tell me.”
“I am no one’s spy.” He looks at me dispassionately. “The king asks questions, and I answer.”
I shouldn’t be irritated. I know all my brother’s guards, and I know where their loyalties lie. This is just the first time it’s ever put me at odds with them. I toss him the apple. “Will you answer mine?”
He catches it easily. “Certainly.”
“What are your orders?”
“To ensure you’re unharmed.”
“The Hold guards won’t harm me.”
“An easy night for me, then.”
“Are Arella and Roydan still in the palace?” I say. “Have they had any more secret meetings today?”
He frowns slightly. “I don’t know. I was off duty until dusk, and I have been with the king since then. He has only met with Consul Sallister.”
“What did they talk about?”
“I was not privy to their conversation.”
I give him a look. He gives me one right back, then takes a bite of the apple.
I sigh and press my forehead against the bars. I don’t know what I’m doing. Like when Tessa was stitching up my forehead, I’m grasping for information, and I don’t know what I can do with any of it. Before, I was facing death, and now I’m facing . . . ?what? An eternity in the Hold? Harristan can’t let me out of here unless we can determine who’s truly behind the attacks. Even then, there’s already been enough talk. I was found with rebels. It doesn’t matter what they were doing to me—just that Harristan sent the army looking, and they found me.
Lightflickers in the stairwell, men’s voices echoing. I wonder if my brother might be returning, or possibly Tessa, but then Allisander himself turns the corner.
I jerk back from the bars automatically, but there’s nowhere to go. That’s the problem with a cell.
Allisander stops in front of me, inches from the bars. He’s holding a handkerchief over his face as usual. “I had to see it for myself,” he says.
