Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(7)

“I agree.” Harristan thinks about this for a while. “And I have no idea who he could have sent. Most shipbuilders consider the Flaming River to be near uncrossable. I don’t know that we have many sailors who’d be willing to chance it without a chest full of silver to make it worth their while.”

That’s true enough. Weeks ago, Tessa asked me directly if Ostriary could be a new resource for the Moonflower. I remember the hope in her eyes, how it cost me something to dash it away. In the Wilds, I was able to be a hero. As Prince Corrick, my hands are often tied by a dozen different knots.

I told her it would be costly—and difficult—to arrange a way for anyone to make the journey to Ostriary. Crossing the river has been done, but it’s rare. The northern half has deep rapids and ice floes. The southern half has unexpected rocks beneath the water that have torn so many ships in half that there’s a drinking song about how the Flaming River turns longing lovers into widows.

“The emissary docked at Artis,” I say. “He didn’t come across the Flaming River. He would have had to travel the Queen’s River.”

“Then you believe he came from Ostriary by way of the ocean? That’s even harder to believe. And if so, why sail into Artis at all? There are ports in Sunkeep and Trader’s Landing. From Ostriary, he’d have to sail halfway around Kandala and up the Queen’s River to reach Artis.”

All true. I think for a while. “Artis holds the closest port to the Royal Sector. Quint said he sailed right into the port and announced himself. That’s a rather bold entrance for nefarious purposes.”

“I’ve sent guards to retrieve the logs from his ship,” Harristan says. “And his flag. It should be aged if it’s been so long. There should be proof that he came from Kandala originally.”

He inhales to say more, but instead, he coughs into his elbow, then frowns.

“You’re still coughing,” I say. “I noticed during the meeting.”

“I’m fine.”

I rise from my chair. “I’ll fetch Tessa. She’ll talk some sense into you.”

“I’ll send her right back out. We have more pressing matters.” He coughs again, but lightly, then glares at me when I don’t sit back down. “Truly, Corrick. This emissary couldn’t have come at a worse time. After the way Allisander conducted himself with the rebels, Lochlan will be returning to the Wilds with stories of how we’re planning to use the poor to test wild theories.”

“I don’t think Lochlan will say anything of the sort,” I say.

My brother looks up. “You don’t?”

“No. I think it’ll be worse.” I cross my arms and lean back against the table. “He’ll tell everyone that we don’t care about their plight, that their efforts were wasted, that we have no plans for real change, only deceit and trickery.”

Harristan looks exasperated. “Oh, is that all?”

“Of course not. He’s probably calling for revolution already.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “We’ll be back where we started.”

I should disagree—but I can’t. He’s right.

Tessa has been so hopeful, but nothing about this situation is simple or easy. If it were, we would have solved it long ago. She once implied that my brother could snap his fingers and turn his desires into laws. I wish he could. I wish I could. I don’t want life in the palace to burn out her hope just like it’s done to so many others.

Harristan’s expression is grave. I’m sure my own isn’t much better.

“Shall we go find out what news this emissary brings?” I say. “Perhaps he has a ship full of Moonflower petals and we can toss Allisander from the palace roof.”

I’m joking, but he doesn’t laugh. He makes no move to rise either. His gaze falls on the window again.

Anyone else might think he was stalling on purpose. I know better. He’s the king, and the world has a way of turning at his whim, but Harristan never uses his station as a means of manipulation. As the silence stretches on, I wonder if there’s more to my brother’s decision to come here, instead of immediately addressing our visitors.

“Do you not want to meet with this emissary?” I say quietly.

“I don’t trust this,” he says.

“Why?”

He shakes his head faintly. “It’s too much time. Too … unexpected. Why now?” He pauses. “We were attacked once already. Father and Mother were caught unaware, too.”

I say nothing. I remember.

A guard raps at the door, and Harristan calls, “Enter.”

The door swings wide, and the guardsman there says, “Master Quint requests an audience, Your Majesty.”

“Send him in, Thorin.”

Harristan’s tone is mellow, which shouldn’t take me by surprise, but somehow it does. Quint has been a close friend of mine for years, so my brother has always grudgingly tolerated him for my sake, but they’ve never been friends. I’ve been present on more than one occasion when Harristan has told Quint in no uncertain terms to go away. Quint sometimes comes across as a bit scattered and melodramatic, and many people in the palace find him to be a bit … much.

I can count on one hand the number of times that my brother has said, “Send him in,” without at least demanding to know what the Palace Master could want now.