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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Tessa

The workshop was always tiny for me and Wes. With four of us, it’s downright crowded. It feels like a risk after the rebels found us here last time—but we’re outside the sector, and I don’t know where else to go. The guards are outside, Rocco at the door while Thorin walks a perimeter. The king doesn’t want to risk a fire, but we have candles that Quint lights along the table, so we’re not trapped in complete darkness. Corrick is upright in the chair, but his breathing is shallow, and he’s got an arm across his abdomen like everything hurts. It feels like weeks ago that we were kissing in this room, his hands and his mouth warming me from head to toe, when it’s hardly been a day.

The sector alarms haven’t stopped ringing, but they’re not as loud from here, and they don’t inspire panic when the only person I used to worry about is here within these walls.

I pull a low stool next to Corrick’s chair and sit beside him. “I still have some herbs here,” I say softly, touching my hand to his. “But I can’t brew tea without a fire.”

Corrick shakes his head, but his fingers close around mine. His eyes keep falling closed.

Harristan glances at the door, then at the window. He runs a hand across his face and looks down at his brother for a long moment.

“I should have told you,” Corrick says, as if he can feel the king’s gaze. His words are slow and heavy. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I,” says Quint. He’s leaning against the wall in the corner.

I know they’re not apologizing for their actions, just the secret, but I’m not sorry about any of it. I’d do it all again, without hesitation. We couldn’t help all of Kandala, but we helped those we could—and we did it without hurting anyone.

Harristan sighs. “Well, whatever you were doing, you didn’t cause this revolution.”

Corrick says nothing, and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. The shadows under his eyes seem darker. He said he didn’t think his ankle was broken, but he couldn’t put weight on it during the walk to the workshop, and he sweat through most of his clothes by the time the guards got him through the door, so I know he’s more hurt than he’s letting on.

Harristan is watching him too. With another sigh, he tugs at his jacket buttons, then slips his arms free. He lays the garment over his brother, then retreats to sit along the hearth. We sit in silence for the longest time, and it presses in around us, thick with worry. I wonder how many people were in the palace, and how many were killed—or how many were able to escape. Corrick said that rebellion was coming from both sides.

Iwonder if Karri was part of the attack. Lochlan. Earle. All the people we once helped.

I think of what they did to Corrick, and the attack on the palace doesn’t seem too far off.

Corrick’s hand goes slack within mine, and I glance at his face in alarm, but his breathing has deepened. He’s asleep.

“Quint,” Harristan says softly, breaking through my thoughts.

“Your Majesty?”

“You’re still bleeding.”

“Oh. It’s nothing.” But Quint’s voice is softer than I’m used to. “It’s from the exertion.”

Harristan has already uncurled from the hearth, and he stops in front of Quint. The Palace Master was sitting with his arms folded, but now I realize he was pressing his hand against a wound.

“Quint,” I whisper. I should have noticed. I should have seen. My focus has been on Corrick, and now a wash of guilt sweeps through me. “You should have said something.”

“Prince Corrick was by far more—”

“Show me,” says Harristan, and as usual, his voice leaves no room for argument.

Quint hesitates, then lowers his arms and draws his jacket to the side. The entire left side of his shirt is dark with blood. The king peers at it for a moment, then looks at me. “Do you have supplies here?”

“Nothing for stitching,” I say. “I have muslin to wrap it.” I fetch the roll of fabric I used to tend Corrick’s arm, along with the small scissors we kept for cutting bags of dried Moonflower.

“Honestly,” says Quint. “It’s barely a scratch—”

“Sit,” says Harristan. “Remove your jacket.”

Quintsits. Obeys.

I expect Harristan to move out of the way so I can treat the wound, but instead, he holds out a hand for the supplies.