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Whenmy parents died, I had Corrick. In a way, he had Quint, and he had me.
Corrick hid so much of himself from his brother. To protect him, for sure, but it created a barrier between them. When their parents died, I wonder who Harristan had. I wonder if he had anyone at all.
When I glance at him again, he’s still watching me.
“I’m the king,” he says. “I don’t deserve anyone’s pity.”
“I don’t pity you.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Tessa.” He shakes his head and looks forward—then stops short so suddenly that Thorin draws a blade behind us.
But the king is merely staring. We’ve reached the clearing before the gates. It’s deserted—which isn’t too surprising for the middle of the night. The sound of shouts and screams echo from farther into the sector. But here, the gates have been blown off their hinges, and they’re lying in mangled twists of steel on the ground. The guard station is deserted.
The bodies that once hung beside the gates are gone, replaced with huge white sheets painted with one word.
Revolt.
“I’d hoped for guards,” King Harristan says. He looks at Thorin. “Advise.”
The guard takes no time at all to consider. “We can travel through side streets, though we don’t know how much damage has been done to the sector. There may be looters.” He pauses. “I don’t like the idea of being on foot. We could try for horses at Fosters’ Livery—but it’s not far from the palace, and it will be a risk if the rebels have been there first.”
“I don’t think rebels will go for the horses,” I say, and they both look at me. “Not many people in the Wilds know how to ride—and I didn’t see evidence of horses in either of the rebel camps I saw.” I pause. “It wouldn’t occur to me to get a horse. People in the Wilds are used to doing everything for ourselves—including walking.”
The king nods. “Fosters’ Livery it is.”
