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Lucky.
Karri squeezes my hand. Her gaze has turned pitying. “I find it upsetting, too,” she whispers.
Not like I do. Her parents never do anything wrong. They’re almost afraid to take the medicine allotted to them, as if they’re being greedy. But she means well, so I squeeze back.
The gates to the Royal Sector are closed, but a massive wooden stage has been dragged into place before it. I’m too far away to see much detail, but the stage is high enough for everyone to get a good view. Eight armored guards stand in a line, crossbows in hand. At their feet kneel the eight prisoners. They’re all in muslin tunics, with burlap sacks tied over their heads, so I can’t tell who’s a man and who’s a woman. They must be bound in place somehow, because two seem slumped, their heads hanging at an odd angle.
I wonder if those two are already dead. One has a stain at the front of the burlap, something soaking into the material. Blood, maybe, or vomit.
I have to look away. My throat is tight.
The road is mobbed with people, and I’ve already lost sight of Mistress Solomon. People mill and churn, and gossip runs high. The emotion of the crowd is overwhelming, pressing against me like something alive.
“Look,” says a man nearby. “That one’s pissed himself.”
I don’t want to look, but my eyes are traitors and they shift to the stage anyway before quickly flicking away. The man is right. I wonder how much terror you need to feel before that would happen.
It’s not a hot day, but I feel sweaty and sick.
The burlap is awful. The guards are awful.
Theking is awful. The prince is awful.
I want to rush the stage. I want to grab a crossbow. I want to lie in wait and fire a bolt right into them both.
It’s a ridiculous thought. I’d be dead before I got anywhere close. I swallow hard, and rage pushes away some of the emotion churning in my gut, replacing it with white-hot fury. It allows me to look up, to lock my gaze on those prisoners.
If they have to die, I can watch it happen. I can remember them. My soul burns with a promise that things will get better. That they have to get better.
I wish Weston were here. I’m better with the medicines, with the dosages and the treatments and our patients, but he’s better in the face of violence and danger. He’s cool and reserved when I’m hot and rattled.
I look around the crowd, at the hundreds of people who’ve gathered, and I think he must be here somewhere. It gives me some comfort. I search the faces around me, looking for the ice blue of his eyes, for the faint freckles I know dust his cheeks below where the mask sits.
Men are everywhere. Blue eyes are common. So are freckles.
I close my eyes and whisper a prayer. Oh, Wes. I need you.
He doesn’t appear. But horns blare, and conversation quiets almost immediately. Figures ascend what must be a set of steps on the opposite side of the stage: more guards, these with armor trimmed in purple and blue, signifying them as members of the palace guard. One carries a staff; the other carries the flag of Kandala, a panel of blue and purple split diagonally, with a lion encircled in white sitting directly in the center. They’re followed by two more guards who are heavily armed.
ThenKing Harristan appears, though as usual, he’s too far for me to see much more than dark hair, booted feet, and a long black jacket that nearly reaches his knees. A silver crown sits on his head, glinting in the sunlight.
A herald calls out, “His Majesty, the highly esteemed King Harristan.”
For a moment, I can see more clearly, because people are dropping to a knee, and Karri is pulling at my hand.
I don’t want to kneel to him. I want to spit at him.
I imagine what Wes would say. Mind your mettle, Tessa. My knee hits the cobblestone of the roadway. Karri squeezes my hand again.
“Rise,” says King Harristan, and his voice is loud and clear. It’s all he says, before stepping back to stand between his guards. He’s probably bored. Irritated that this bothersome little execution is taking him away from a game of chess or a luxurious bath or whatever ridiculous diversions he enjoys while the rest of us are out here in the sectors, trying to survive.
We rise. I can taste bile in my throat. I focus on not breaking Karri’s fingers with my right hand. The fingernails of my left hand are cutting into my palm.
Another man arrives on the stage. His hair is lighter than his brother’s, more red than brown, but from here, his eyes are shadowed and dark, unreadable. He also wears boots and a long jacket, but no crown sits on his head. He doesn’t need one. He wears his role like a mantle, some kind of invisible weight that clings to his frame, echoed in every step. This is Prince Corrick, the King’s Justice. He’s not usually the one to swing the blade or light the fire or draw the arrow, but he’s the one to give the order to kill. The executioner.
“They’re very handsome, don’t you think?” whispers Karri.
NO, I DO NOT THINK.
