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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tessa
The room was so silent and still when I was alone with Corrick, but now it’s loud with guards and advisers who bustle in and out, carrying orders and messages. King Harristan joined us within ten minutes of the first explosion. He clearly dressed in a hurry, because he’s in his shirtsleeves along with simple calfskin trousers and unlaced boots. He and Corrick are sitting at one of the long tables with Quint standing to one side, the Palace Master hurriedly scribbling notes that are taken by runners as soon as he tears them free. Several consuls are also in the room, including Consul Sallister, Consul Cherry, and Consul Marpetta, the woman I saw at the gates on the morning I came to the sector for Mistress Solomon. I don’t know the others. At first they surrounded the king, arguing over whether the entire sector was under attack, over the best way to fight the fires, over who was behind the explosions. Harristan listened to their bickering for one full minute longer than I would have, then said, “Enough. If you have so much to offer, go find a bucket of water and get to work.”
They all fell silent. Now they’re sitting at the table closest to the hearth. Their voices are a low rush, and I can tell they’re still arguing, but they have the sense to stay out of his way. I hear murmurs of funding and rebels and planned attack.
I’m clinging to a corner, hoping everyone has forgotten I’m here. The tension in the room is palpable, and I’d leave if I didn’t think it would draw more attention.
It’s hard to imagine that two days ago, I was sitting across a worktable from Karri, bleakly grinding roots and herbs into powder, and now I’m in a crimson gown on the top floor of the palace, staring out a window as fire rages in the city below.
I’ve overheard enough to know that this was a coordinated attack on the Hold, though flames have spread to nearby buildings. Explosives blasted through the front doors—but also the rear, causing a wall to collapse. The fires are so massive that workers seem to be having trouble putting them out. At first, there was some worry that the palace would be attacked next, which is why everyone is in this room, a dozen armed guards blocking the doors. But no further explosions have occurred.
A young man appears in the doorway, his cheeks flushed, sweat dampening his hair. His clothes are singed, his fingers a bit sooty. The paper clenched in his hand looks crumpled and damp. “Your Majesty,” he says breathlessly.
Harristan takes the missive and reads it. After a moment, he sets it down and slides it toward Corrick. When the king speaks, his voice is resigned. “This wasn’t just an attack on the Hold. This was a rescue mission.”
Atthe table near the hearth, Consul Sallister stands. “What?”
Corrick runs a hand across his jaw. “Most of the prisoners escaped. They had help.”
If I were in the workshop with Karri and I heard this news, my heart would leap with relief that people had escaped the cruel tyranny of the king and his brother. In a way, my heart leaps here, too. But I’ve learned enough now to know it’s not as simple as us versus them, and I know this won’t be seen as a relief by anyone else in this room.
For a moment, the room is absolutely silent, but then Consul Sallister approaches the table. “Escaped,” he says, and his voice is low and vicious. “Again, they escaped.” His face reddens. “Corrick, you said they weren’t organized. You said they were ‘roughshod laborers.’ You said—”
“Consul,” says King Harristan. His voice isn’t harsh or sharp, but the other man goes silent anyway.
“This took planning,” says Consul Marpetta. Her voice is very soft, but firm. “And funding.”
“Yes,” snaps Consul Sallister. “Funding, from some sympathizers called the Benefactors. What do you know about that, Arella?”
“Do you mean to accuse me of something?” she says levelly.
“Do you need to admit to something?”
They’re both deathly silent for the longest moment, and I can feel their hatred from here.
“The gates are locked, I presume,” says an older man at the table who sits near Consul Cherry. “Is the night patrol searching the sector?”
“Yes,” says Corrick. He glances at the crumpled paper on the table. “Two have already been captured.”
“Then execute them,” says Consul Sallister. “Right now.”
His voice is so cold. So callous. Almost as if he’s not talking about people at all. Like he’s talking about livestock.
King Harristan and Prince Corrick exchange a weighted glance. My heart seems to pause in its beating. So much has changed since I first slipped into the palace. I’m hopeful. I’m terrified. I’m . . . ?I don’t know what I am.
Then Corrick stands up and says, “I’ll see to it.”
“No!” The word flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I gain the attention of everyone in the room.
Except Corrick. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t turn, doesn’t meet my eyes. “Consul,” he says, his tone flat. He heads for the door. Consul Sallister follows. After a moment, so does Consul Marpetta.
I want to chase after Corrick. I want to beg him to stop. What did he say? You remind me of how it felt to be Wes.
He was Wes. He doesn’t want to do this. I know he doesn’t.
But he walks through the door. I’ll see to it.
