Destroy the Day, page 29
“All this food could be poisoned.” He shoves the basket in my direction. “Have a pastry.”
I sigh and take one.
Lochlan does, too, then pours himself a glass of water. To my complete and utter surprise, he fills my glass as well.
“Don’t get used to it,” he says when he sees my look.
“I guarantee I will not.” What a weird truce we’ve formed. I consider what he said about Karri, turning his words around in my head. “And you’re not stupid. Your judgments have been sound at every turn.”
He sets the glass on the table, then sighs. “Not every turn, Cory.”
I scowl at the use of my nickname again. Of course he’s going to ruin it.
He smiles a little deviously. “Sorry. I’ve been calling you that for so long it’s not even on purpose anymore. Not every turn, Your Highness.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not sure your disdain is better.”
“Do you really hate Cory that much?”
“No. Of course not. It’s just—” I break off, digging my fingernail into the wood of the table.
It’s just what my brother calls me.
That sounds so juvenile. But he’s studying me curiously, so I quit squirming like a schoolboy and look at him. “No one ever calls me that but Harristan.”
“No one?”
“My parents. When I was a boy. But not often. And never publicly.” I pause. “And Tessa, too, sometimes. But that’s . . . that’s not the same.” I feel a hint of warmth crawl up my neck at the memory of her quiet voice in those intimate moments. “Even still, it’s quite rare.”
Lochlan says nothing else. His eyes are picking me apart. I feel like a prisoner in the Hold, tense under his scrutiny, and it makes me keep talking.
“For what it’s worth,” I say evenly, “I know how you must envision the life of the ‘spoiled prince who everyone hates,’ and certainly some of it may be correct. But my role as King’s Justice hasn’t exactly inspired close friends and fond nicknames.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I expect him to mock me, because it sounds a little too pitiful, a little too self-indulgent, even for me.
But he doesn’t mock me. Instead he simply says, “I can tell.”
Somehow that’s worse, and I frown—especially since he didn’t say it cruelly.
“But not everyone hates you,” he continues. He looks at the hearth as if this conversation is making him equally uncomfortable. “And you’re not even all that spoiled. I expected you to be a huge pain in the ass on the ship, but you weren’t. I thought you’d be ranting day and night about the food, or the beds, or the coarse talk from the sailors—”
“Oh, please. I spend hours in the Hold. The sailors can’t come close to the language hurled at me on a daily basis. You had a few choice phrases yourself.”
“I remember.”
“I’m certain you do.”
Our voices have gone a bit sharp, and our gazes match. The reminder of the way we met has shifted the conversation again, and I wish I hadn’t mentioned it.
“That day you broke my arm,” he says, “I thought you’d have the guards kill me right there. That consul was telling you to.”
I remember that.
I want him dead, Allisander was saying.
He will be, I said. But I can’t kill him twice.
“It was his mistake to get so close,” I say. “I only broke your arm to get you to stop.”
That’s true, but his eyes are piercing like he doesn’t fully believe me. Our conversation has twisted and turned in a way that keeps making me want to squirm. The air between us goes so silent for so long that I can hear people out on the street, vendors calling their wares.
When Lochlan finally speaks, his voice is very quiet. “You want to know what I think? On the day we escaped your execution, I think you wanted it to happen. I think you were relieved.”
It’s not at all what I expected him to say, and my heart thumps. “No.”
He leans in. “You’re lying.”
I wonder if he wants me to be lying. I hold his eyes, and I keep my voice even. “I’m not.”
“I saw you with Ford. I saw you. You don’t want to do any of this.” He shifts closer. “When we captured you and Tessa in the Wilds, you kept telling me all the times you wished you had killed me. But every single time, you didn’t do it.”
My mood darkens at the reminder. Lochlan kept jabbing me with a crossbow, threatening her life every time he threatened mine. “Oh, I wanted to then, I promise you.”
“But you didn’t kill me. You were relieved that we got away. You wanted us to escape. You traitor.”
“Can I kill you right now?”
“Admit it!”
“I can’t, because it’s untrue.”
He slaps the table. “You were! You wanted us to escape so you wouldn’t have to do your job! Admit it.”
“No! Because you’re wrong!” I shout. “Where’s the relief, Lochlan? Where? You think Sallister was bad after you punched him in the face? You should have heard him after you escaped. You should have heard all of them! I’m the King’s Justice. Your escape wasn’t a relief at all! It meant I was going to have to hunt you down. It meant I was going to have to order your death again.” This time I slap the table. “After your calls for revolution, they wanted me to make it worse.”
He jerks back like I’ve hit him.
“You know it, too,” I growl. “Or was there some other spoiled prince you were going to execute on the night you captured me?”
His eyes are dark and haunted in the afternoon shadows.
“You think I didn’t want to release every single prisoner in the Hold? I couldn’t. There’s never any relief for me,” I snap. “Not ever.”
“There’s never any relief for us either!”
“I know!” I cry. “You don’t think I know? Why do you think I was Weston Lark at all?”
His chest is rising and falling rapidly. So is mine.
I force my hands to unclench, and when I can speak again, my voice is deadly quiet. “I truly care about the people of Kandala. I try to be as fair as I can. I try to be just. You were already sentenced to death for smuggling. That’s why I didn’t retaliate for what you did to Sallister. That’s why I don’t care if people swear at me in the Hold. The cruelty is an illusion. Because you’re right: I don’t want to do any of it.” I pause. “But who else is there?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but he runs a hand across his jaw and seems to consider it anyway. There’s no good answer, though, and he seems to come to the same realization. We fall into silence again, but any amicability between us seems to have evaporated. Maybe it can never really exist for very long. We’ll tolerate each other until we manage to get out of here, and then that will be it.
But he drains his glass and sits back in his chair. When he speaks, his voice is very low, quiet and rough. “My little brother used to call me Lolly.”
I look over. “You have a brother?”
“I used to.”
Oh. I clamp my mouth shut.
“When we were little, he couldn’t say Lochlan, so he started with La-La, which quickly turned into Lolly. He never stopped, even when it would make me crazy. Even when we were way too old for it. It sounds like a name you’d give a dog.” Lochlan rolls his eyes, but there’s fondness in his voice. He shrugs a little. “He died a year ago. He was nineteen. He and Da got the fever sickness, and they managed for a few days, until they just couldn’t breathe anymore.” He pauses. “I was working in the southern part of Steel City then. My mother sent word, but I didn’t make it home in time. When Ma caught it, she went like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Maybe that was a mercy. I don’t know.”
I’ve heard hundreds of stories like this all over Kandala. Maybe thousands.
I inhale to say that I’m sorry for his loss, but Lochlan’s eyes flash to mine.
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he says sharply.
“I won’t say it.” I pause, and the weight of loss is thick in the air. “But I am. I lost my parents, too. A quick death might be a mercy on the dying, but it’s usually not for anyone else.”
He’s quiet for a moment after that, and he looks into the hearth. “They probably would have gone a lot quicker, but I heard they might have been getting extra medicine from some outlaws who’d make the rounds through the Wilds.”
My head snaps around.
Lochlan puts up a hand. “Don’t. I don’t know if it was you. I don’t know if I want to know if it was you.”
I swallow. “Fine.”
“I only told you because . . . because I didn’t know that. About Cory. I’ll stop.”
As soon as he says it, I feel a jolt in my heart, and I’m not sure what’s causing it. Maybe it’s about us both missing our brothers. Our families. Or maybe it’s the way Lochlan said I can tell when I told him I don’t have a close circle of friends.
Maybe it’s the thought that I might have been helping his family as Weston Lark—only to lock him up for execution as Prince Corrick.
Maybe it’s all of it.
Before I can help myself, I say, “You don’t have to stop. I’ve gotten used to it, too.”
Then I look at the table and dig my fingernail into the wood again because I don’t want to meet his eyes. Everything inside me feels jangled up and uncertain, but I’ve already been too vulnerable. I need to lock these emotions away, but we’ve gone in too many directions, and I’m not sure how anymore.
The air between us is so heavy, and Lochlan must also feel the need to focus on something else, because he reaches for the piece of paper with the names on it. He slides it back in front of himself, then runs a finger over Karri’s name again. He’s frowning at the letters as if he’s trying to read through sheer force of will.
“If the letters all make different sounds,” he says cautiously, “then . . . then why do Karri and Corrick start differently?”
He’s really not stupid at all. “Sometimes they make the same sounds.” I clear my throat, glad for a new task. “Here, we should start with shorter words.”
I shift my chair forward and pick up the fountain pen again. My heart is still thumping, but on a new piece of paper, I write CAT.
As if he can see through me, Lochlan says, “I know you’re still worried about Rian. You might give him Oren Crane, but he could turn on you anyway. He could use you against your brother.”
Those words force me still, because aside from losing Tessa, this is truly my greatest fear. Harristan would give him anything he asked for.
Lochlan is quiet for a moment. “I don’t trust him either. We might hate each other, but I’ve got your back.”
I don’t hate you anymore, I think—but I can’t say it.
Instead, I say, “Rian could have an army.”
He shrugs a little. “Well, I’ve faced an army before.” He holds out a hand. “Still breathing, Cory.”
I give him a nod. “Still breathing.”
Then I reach out and clasp his hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tessa
The morning after we return from Rian’s palace, Erik doesn’t wake at sunrise, which takes me by surprise. Now that we have animals, there are chores to be done, so I occupy myself with feeding them and cleaning out the pens and stalls, then sweeping the small barn free of cobwebs. Once the animals are taken care of, Erik is still sleeping, so I set a hay bale against the wall of the barn and practice with a new dagger the way he showed me. I remember the way Rian grabbed my arm, and I swing hard each time, trying to keep my aim straight, my movement swift.
By the time I’m done, my shoulder aches, so I slip back into the house to start sorting through everything Rian provided, using one of the spare bedrooms to organize my apothecary supplies. I lay out bottles and instruments and my books and any herbs I have from the ship, then grind and pour and measure anything that might be useful when we head into town tomorrow. Within a few hours, I have a rather comprehensive kit assembled, but now it’s midday and there’s still been no sign of Erik.
I remember him wincing in the wagon last night and wonder if his wound was worse than he was telling me.
Men. Worry might be twisting in my gut, but I scowl anyway. I wash up from my work, then peek into his sleeping quarters, where he’s snoring in the sunlight.
Well, at least I know he’s still breathing.
I don’t want to disturb him, but he hasn’t slept this late since we arrived, and it doesn’t seem typical. We were gone quite a long time yesterday, and I creep into the room, studying him, trying to determine if his coloring looks off, or whether his skin looks clammy.
No and no.
But still. He could have developed an infection. A fever could make him sleep like this. He’s shirtless, but his blankets cover his waist, so I can’t tell if his wound has started seeping or if the bandages are still in place. I move closer, wondering if I can touch him without waking him.
Someone bangs at the front door to the house, and I jump and give a little yip—but that’s nothing compared to the way Erik startles, throwing blankets aside and pulling a dagger from under his pillow.
“Erik!” I cry, stumbling back. “It’s just me!”
He blinks at me, freezing in place.
Someone pounds at the door again, but it’s abruptly cut off.
Erik straightens. “Then who’s that?”
A woman’s muffled voice is audible from outside. “Ellmo!” she’s saying sharply. “Stop pounding on the door like that. They could be out on the water.”
The boy’s little voice comes back at once. “Do you think we could take the honey if they’re not here?”
“We’re here!” I yell. “I’ll be right out.”
Erik gives me a withering glance, then sighs. “Allow me a few minutes to get dressed, Miss Tessa.” But then he frowns. “Why were you in here?”
I’m already by the door to his quarters, and I can feel heat in my cheeks. “I was worried about you. It’s late.”
He looks at the sunlight streaming through the window and grimaces. “Forgive me. The animals need to be fed—”
“I took care of it. You needed the sleep. I was worried you had a fever.”
He shakes his head. “I’m all right. Just tired.”
Ellmo shouts, “Are you sure you’re in there, Miss Tessa?” before Olive hushes him.
Erik glares, but he rubs a hand over his face. “I’ll be out in a moment. Tell that little demon I’ll soak him in honey if he bangs on the door like that again.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ll tell him yourself.”
When I get to the door, I’m surprised to find Olive with a basket, and Ellmo peering in the windows. I invite them both inside.
“You don’t need to peek,” I tell him. “You were already inside last night.”
“But it was dark!” he says. “I didn’t even get the toys you promised.”
“They’re in one of the bedrooms. You can go look. But don’t bother Erik. He’s getting dressed, and he was ready to soak you in honey for waking him up.”
He scampers off. It looks like Olive has a new bandage on her arm, so I say, “Was your wound bothering you?”
“Not at all. I checked it this morning and wanted to put a fresh bandage over it.” She gives me a smile, then sets the basket on the table in the kitchen and begins unwrapping. “I know you got plenty of food from our king”—that disdainful tone again—“but I needed to make bread today, so I made an extra two loaves for you.” Her cheeks turn a little pink. “A bit of an apology for shooting at you yesterday.”
“You didn’t have to do that! You already helped us unload.”
“Well.” She smiles. “I did.” She hesitates. “I was also going to ask if you still planned to take the wagon back into the city.”
I glance at the hallway. “Erik and I were going to go back to see about getting a goat,” I say. “But I don’t know if he feels rested enough for that.”
I tried not to let any worry into my voice, but she frowns anyway. “Is he unwell?”
“He was injured on the journey here. He’s been trying to hide it, but I know it pains him.”
Olive nods. “I thought he was moving stiffly last night.” Her voice drops. “A bad injury? You sound worried.”
Her brown eyes stare into mine, and I study her across the table. We’ve only just met her, and despite how things turned out, she was shooting at us in the woods. But I keep thinking about the way she warned me about Rian. The way she keeps saying our king.
I don’t know how much Erik would want me to say, but I sense that any admission of his injury would make him unhappy.
“It could have been a lot worse,” I finally say, and I can read in her eyes that she knows I’m hedging. Between us, the loaves have been unwrapped, and they smell heavenly. “I’ll get a knife. I’m sure he’ll be hungry.”
Ellmo’s little voice comes from the next room. “I know I’m hungry, Mama!”
I laugh under my breath. “So we’re feeding both the boys.”
“We can all eat if you like,” says Olive. She unwraps the rest of the cloth and pulls out a roll of cheese. “I brought cheese, too.”
While I start to slice the loaves, she looks around the small kitchen, and her eyes light up a little. “Do you have matches for the stove? We could toast the bread.” Her eyebrows go up. “And are those fresh tomatoes? Our king certainly does want your favor.”
I find the small box of matches and light the stove, setting a cast-iron pan above the flame. “Well, he’s not getting it.”
She smiles. “I like you.”
I like her, too. She has an easy manner that’s hard to ignore.
Or maybe I just like that Rian seems to irritate her as much as he irritates me.
Erik’s voice rumbles from the hallway. “That puzzle is far too hard for a five-year-old.”
“I’m seven!” Ellmo cries.
Olive rolls her eyes and reaches for the small jar of lard on the counter. “Don’t hold it against me, but I haven’t decided about your husband yet.”
