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CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Tessa
I’d envisioned climbing the walls or returning through the tunnel with the king, but instead of heading toward the Royal Sector, Harristan chooses to head deeper into the Wilds. He said he wants to enter the sector through the gates, to have more guards at his back before we step into the fray. He left his jacket over his brother and stripped the rings from his fingers, then traded his jeweled dagger belt for the less adorned one that Quint wore. Thorin still has his weapons, but he’s also in his shirtsleeves because Harristan didn’t want anyone to see the royal insignia. In the dark, no one will know him. Hopefully, no one will look at us twice.
I’ve traveled these paths a million times with Corrick, but it’s entirely different to walk with Harristan. The horns in the sector have gone quiet, but I can see the searchlights skipping over the wall at regular intervals. I keep glancing over at the king as if he’s going to vanish, like maybe everything has been a dream up till this point. The first shadow of beard growth has grown to cover his jaw, making him look younger, less intimidating somehow. I consider Lochlan and some of the others, and I don’t know if that’s a good thing. The farther we walk, the more I become aware of the sound of his breathing, the wheeze that’s not quite a cough but sounds like it needs one.
“Do you need to rest?” I ask carefully, then quickly tack on, “Your Majesty?”
He glances at me. “No. Do you?”
I frown but keep walking.
“And you can’t call me that,” he says. “Not here.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“What did my brother call himself?”
I almost don’t want to tell him, because for a fleeting moment, I’m worried he’ll want to adopt it for his own, and Corrick’s secret persona is something precious that only belongs to me. But that’s silly, and I’m too tired to think of a good lie, so I say, “Wes. Weston Lark.”
The king startles. “Really.” He gives a soft laugh. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Why?”
“Because that was his name when we would sneak into the Wilds as children.” He’s quiet for a moment, probably remembering it. “Do you know—well, I suppose you wouldn’t. Weston and Lark were the names of Father’s hunting hounds.”
I giggle in spite of myself. “He named himself after dogs?”
“He did indeed.”
“What was your name?”
“Sullivan, after the fastest horse in the stable. Corrick used to call me Sully for short.”
The fastest horse in the stable. I almost snort before catching myself. They were such boys.
The thought, once it strikes me, is surprising for some reason. I’ve seen it in a dozen ways since I first snuck into the palace, but their closeness is still startling. It’s the most humanizing thing about them. It’s the most . . . ?gentle thing about them.
“Tell me your thoughts, Tessa,” says Harristan, and because he doesn’t say it like an order, I do.
“I was thinking that you could be loved,” I say softly. “Even if your people are sick.”
He looks over at me and says nothing.
I blush and turn my eyes forward. “I was thinking that you’re not horrible, not really. And he’s not cruel. I have no idea what it was like to lose your parents, but I know what it was like to lose mine. I can’t imagine having to . . . ?to rule a country after that. When my parents died, I hated the night patrol. Who did you hate? Everyone in the palace?”
“Yes,” he says simply. His eyes are in shadow now, but the memory of loss is thick in the night air. “Well. Almost everyone.”
Corrick.
I reach out and touch his hand, giving it a sympathetic squeeze. It’s automatic, the way I’d do for Corrick—or anyone, really.
But the king looks at me in surprise, and I let him go. “Forgive me, Your—ah, Sully. Sullivan.”
I swallow.
He says nothing. Thorin, walking at our back, says nothing.
