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“Not to my face.” No, to my face, I’m Your Highness, or Prince Corrick, or sometimes, when they’re being especially formal, the King’s Justice.
Behind my back, I’m called worse. Much worse. So is Harristan.
We don’t mind. Our parents were loved—and they were loving in return. It led to betrayal and death.
Fear works better.
I move to the closet and pull out a laced shirt to toss at my brother. “You don’t want a nursemaid? Then stop lazing around. There’s a country to run.”
The midday meal is already arranged on the sideboard when we enter. Roasted pheasant drips with honey and berries, nestled among a dense bed of greens and root vegetables. A few feathers have been artfully placed along the gilded edge of each platter, held in place by a glistening drop of crystalized honey. Though the stewards stand in silence along the wall, waiting to serve, the eight other Royal Consuls are engaged in lively conversation by the window. I’m the ninth, but I have no interest in lively conversation.
There used to be ten, but Consul Barnard led the plot to have my parents killed. He would have killed us, too. After Harristan saved my life, I saw Barnard coming after him with a dagger.
My brother was on top of me, his breath panicked and full of pain in my ear. I pulled that arrow out of Harristan’s shoulder and stabbed it right into Barnard’s neck.
I blink the memory away. The consuls fall silent when we enter the room, each offering a short bow to my brother before moving to their chairs, though no one will sit until Harristan does, and no one will eat until we both have taken a bite.
The table is shaped like a rectangle at one end, narrowing to a point at the other, like the head of an arrow. Harristan eases into his chair at the head of the table, and I ease into mine, directly to his right. The eight consuls ease into theirs, leaving one seat empty. It’s the one directly beside me, where Consul Barnard used to sit. The Trader’s Landing sector has no new consul, and Harristan is in no rush to appoint one. In whispers, the people often call it Traitor’s Landing, after what Barnard did, but no one says it in front of us. No one wants to remind the king or his brother of what happened.
They respect my brother—as they should.
They fear me.
I don’t mind. It spares me some tedious conversations.
We’ve known everyone in this room for our entire lives, but we’ve long since doused any comfort born of familiarity. We saw what complacence and trust did to our parents, and we know what it could do to us. When Harristan was nineteen, blood still seeping through a bandage on his shoulder, he ran his first meeting in this room. We were both numb with grief and shock, but I followed him to take a place standing by his shoulder. I remember thinking the consuls would be sympathetic and compassionate following the deaths of our parents. I remember thinking we would all grieve together.
But we were barely in the room for a full minute before Consul Theadosia snidely commented that a child had no place attending a meeting of the King’s Council. She was talking about me—but her tone implied she was talking about Harristan, too.
“This child,” said Harristan, “is my brother, your prince.” His voice was like thunder. I’d never heard my brother’s voice like that. It gave me the strength to stand when I so badly wanted to hide under my bed and pretend my world hadn’t been turned upside down.
“Corrick saved my life,” said Harristan. “The life of your new king. He risked himself when none of you were willing to do the same, including you, Theadosia. I have named him King’s Justice, and he will attend any meeting he so pleases.”
I went very still at those words. The King’s Justice was the highest-ranking adviser to the king. The highest position beside Harristan himself. Our father once said that he was allowed to stay in the people’s good graces because the King’s Justice handled anything . . . unsavory.
Another consul at the time, a man named Talec, coughed to cover a laugh and said, “Corrick will be the King’s Justice? At fifteen?”
“Was I unclear?” said Harristan.
“Exactly what justice will he mete out? No dinner? No playtime for Kandala’s criminals?”
“We must be strong,” said Theadosia, her voice full of scorn. “You dishonor your parents. This is no time for Kandala’s rulers to be a source of mockery.”
You dishonor your parents. The words turned my insides to ice. Our parents were killed because the council failed to uncover a traitor.
“He looks like he’s ready to cry,” said Talec, “and you expect to hold your throne with him at your side?”
I was ready to cry. But after their statements, I was terrified to show one single flicker of weakness. My parents were killed by someone they trusted, and we couldn’t allow the same to happen to us.
“No dinner and no playtime,” I said, and because Harristan sounded so unyielding, I forced my voice to be the same. I felt like I was playing a role for which I’d had no time to rehearse. “You will spend thirty days in the harvest fields. You are to fast from midday until the next morning.”
There was absolute silence for a moment, and then Theadosia and Talec exploded out of their seats. “This is preposterous!” they cried. “You can’t assign us to work in the fields with the laborers.”
“You asked for a demonstration of my justice,” I said. “Be sure to work quickly. I have heard the foremen carry whips.”
Talec’s eyes were like fire. “You’re both children. You’ll never hold this throne.”
“Guards,” I said flatly.
