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“I’m not working with the smugglers,” I say. “I would never betray you. I have never betrayed you. I swear it.”

He stands there fighting to breathe, until his grip on my sleeve feels less like a demand and more like a plea.

“I swear,” I say again, my voice softer. “I swear.”

Forthe first time in what feels like an hour, he draws a full breath. His grip eases. He nods and straightens.

He’s not dying. I didn’t kill him. Relief is potent, but some of my rage slips back into my chest, turning my voice rough. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re hiding something from me.” He hesitates. “And Allisander expressed concern—”

“That son of a bitch.”

“You can’t blame him. You’ve changed these last few weeks.”

My brother’s voice is still a bit thin, a bit reedy. I look at him. “I have always worked in your interest, Harristan. Always.” I pause, remembering the moments I stood in the deserted chamber of the Hold and wished for my brother to appear. How I wished for him to see how this was destroying me as effectively as the fever is destroying all of Kandala.

But he didn’t. He’s not seeing it even now.

I straighten, and I don’t even have to try to tinge my voice with regret. “Sic your guards on me if you must. Measure my every movement. Attend every interrogation. Tether your horse to mine if you like. I commit very little treason on the toilet, but if you want to be absolutely thorough—”

“Cory.” He draws a breath, then hesitates.

I stare back at him, and I wonder if he can read the emotion in my eyes. I remember when we were young, how we’d sneak into the Wilds, how he’d lead and I’d follow, but I always felt an obligation to protect him. Some of it was due to growing up beside a brother whose health was monitored and protected and worried over for so long. Some of it was due to the fact that he would one day be king, and I would not. It’s an obligation I still feel, and it seeps into every action I take. I thought he knew that.

Forthe first time, I feel as though he has betrayed me.

Maybe he can see it, because he lets that breath out slowly. He claps me on the shoulder, giving my arm a gentle squeeze. “Forgive me. Please.”

I nod.

But something has fractured between us.

I think he must feel the same, because he holds on for a moment too long, then steps back and turns for the door.

I should tell him everything about Tessa. About Weston. The words burn in my throat.

Then again, maybe that would confirm all his worries. I am committing treason, brother, I’ve been committing it for years.

I swallow the words. I swallow my anger. I swallow my disappointment. When the king pauses at the door to glance back, the King’s Justice looks back at him.

Once he’s gone, and I go for the door to have a message sent for Quint, I find Rocco there guarding my door.

Hours pass. Quint doesn’t arrive.

I’m not desperate enough to send word to Tessa, because every syllable will be scrutinized and reported back to my brother, and I can’t think of anything to say that won’t bolster his suspicion. I also don’t want to leave my room with my brother’s guards trailing behind me, because I know it will generate gossip: either people will think we’re more at risk because of the explosions at the Hold, or they’ll think Harristan is doing exactly what he’s doing.

I don’t like either option.

I’m also petty enough to like the idea of Rocco having to stand outside my door for hours on end, because it’s interminably boring.

Only slightly more boring than sitting in here by myself. I’ve been spending the time reviewing the documents that Tessa abandoned, and discovering nothing new. Tessa was right: no one will speak to me like this, but they’ll speak to Wes and Tessa.

I’m fidgety and eager for nightfall.

Quint finally appears when I’m debating whether I’m going to eat dinner in my quarters alone, like a prisoner.

A guard announces him and swings the door wide.