The Burning Hand (3 page)

IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON by the time I was ready to face the world.

Preparing involved no small amount of flesh-colored cosmetics, a large bandage around my chest to restrict movement, and treatments with medicine pilfered from the royal physician's storeroom. I also took a generous amount of painkillers, but that made my head swim for a while and I needed another hour or two before I was actually presentable.

A page skidded to a halt as I left my room. “Oh, Your Highness. Their Majesties have sent for you.”

My parents wanted to see me? This couldn't be good.

“Tell them I'll be there shortly.”

He ran ahead.

With my four usual guards in tow, I made my way to the office where our family meetings were conducted. It wasn't a long walk, but with a cracked rib—James's diagnosis—I wasn't
exactly quick on my feet.

But finally—or maybe too soon, actually—I left my guards in the hall and entered the office where Mother and Father waited. Both looked disappointed and ready to dispense criticism.

Father didn't invite me to sit, even though I must have looked ready to collapse; he glanced over me and quickly masked expressions of concern, bafflement, and annoyance. How
dare
I enter his presence in this condition? Never mind that he'd called me here.

Mother scowled and brushed her finger along her jaw in a meaningful way. She'd noticed the cosmetics concealing a bruise. I'd missed a spot.

I was definitely a master of disguise.

Papers shifted on the desk as Father leaned against it and crossed his arms. “We should talk about Professor Knight first.”

First. Saints. He had a list.

“I'm interviewing tutors to replace him, and I'll be more thorough this time. I know he meant a lot to you, and he came highly recommended from the Academy, but to be mixed up in shine like he was . . .” Father shook his head. “Well, that was disappointing.”

I nodded stiffly, jaw clenched against the urge to say anything about how
disappointed
Father would be if he knew the truth—that Knight had been working for Hensley, who Father believed was working for
him
.

No, Knight had been
used
by Hensley. And then discarded when he was no longer useful. Knight had been a good man who'd made a terrible choice, and paid for it.

“This hasn't been easy, I know. You and Professor Knight were close. First that attack. Then his death. I've no doubt it has put a lot of emotional strain on you, but these are the kinds of trials future kings must learn to overcome. As sorry as I am this happened to you, it's best you learn how to deal with this sort of grief before you're king and have a country to care for at the same time.”

The unspoken words were, of course, that it'd likely be his death that would put me on the throne, unless he abdicated in his old age.

“Your new professor will begin next week,” Father continued. “And I expect you to behave in a manner more befitting of your rank. You're a crown prince. Not a sloth. I hope I'm finished hearing reports of your absence, tardiness, disinterest—all of that. It ends now.”

Right. The plan to just tell Father I was lazy wasn't going to work.

“Secondly,” he said, “I expect you to spend more time with Lady Meredith. She enjoys your attentions and I'd like for you to make overtures of a more”—he glanced at Mother—“permanent relationship.”

Oh, saints.

Marriage. He was talking about marriage.

“Father, I hardly know Lady Meredith.”

“Why do you think I'm asking you to spend more time with her?” Father pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and coughed into it. “I'm not asking you to marry her now. Just cement the relationship so that when you do ask, she'll say yes.”

It seemed unlikely she could refuse without insulting the
royal family.

I glanced at Mother, hoping for support, but she shifted her weight toward Father. Siding with him. Of course.

“Is there someone you'd rather marry instead?” Father asked.

“No.” The word came out too quickly. “There's not anyone else I'd like to ask. I suppose I'd just like the chance to court—and
perhaps
one day marry—someone I love.” A naive hope, I realized.

Mother offered what was meant to be a gentle smile, but I saw through it. She was placating me. “You may find love with Lady Meredith. She's kind and generous, and beautiful, you must admit. The people of Hawes adore her. Also, she's a duchess, or will be.”

And one day a queen, if my parents had their way.

No doubt there were a hundred other benefits to the match, at least from their perspective. The Corcoran family was wealthy, and while dowries had been done away with long ago, there was still a certain expectation of financial commitment when two powerful families merged.

Marry Meredith Corcoran. I'd always known I'd marry for the kingdom, and that love would not likely be part of the arrangement. But Mother was right: Meredith was kind and generous and beautiful. There were certainly worse matches. And just because I didn't love her now didn't mean I couldn't love her in the future.

I sighed, then grimaced at the stabbing in my chest. Saints. Cracked ribs hurt.

“What's wrong with you?” Mother stepped forward.

Glaring, I muttered, “I don't want to talk about it,” and pressed a hand against the bandage around my chest. Let them think I was becoming surly and unpleasant, acting out because Father hadn't believed me about Hensley, my teacher had been murdered, and now I was being asked to marry a sweet, pretty girl.

Both parents scowled, but didn't push.

“I'll marry her, but on one condition.” I locked eyes with Father. “James becomes my personal guard.”

He nodded. “I was hoping to use that as a bargaining tool for your better behavior, but it'll do in this case.”

“My
only
guard, unless I require others. When
I
say.”

Both their expressions dropped into blank masks. Shock? Annoyance?

“Son, you have so many guards for a reason.” Father stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. “The night you were taken from us—”

“Was eight years ago.” I lifted my chin. “I'm not that child anymore. I'm a trained swordsman, and I actually
want
to have James around. I don't mind if the others stay on, but James will be principal and I will not be burdened with the others' presence every moment of my life.”

“Tobiah . . .” Father looked as though he wanted to argue, but I crossed my arms and clenched my jaw.

I refused to give in. This was my one chance to get James where I needed him, and I would not back down.

“Very well.” He didn't look happy.

Perhaps my battered, sullen appearance was convincing. I almost took the opportunity to ask about attending the
Academy, but this didn't seem like the right time to force him further. I'd gotten what mattered most. And I'd only traded any hope of romance outside of Meredith.

After a brief admonishment for me to take care of myself—having James as my principal bodyguard was still something that could be taken away—Father excused himself, saying he had work to do.

“A moment, Tobiah.” Mother stopped me as I started for the door after Father.

I lingered by the door, ready to deploy another sullen expression just in case.

She lowered her voice. “Please sit for a moment. There's something I want you to know. About James.”

My heart pounded. About
James
? She couldn't mean—

I shook away the thought as I sat on the corner of the desk. No one knew what happened that night. My only accomplice was likely dead.

“What is it?” Somehow, I managed to keep my voice steady.

Mother licked her lips. “I've been waiting for the right time to tell you this. Your father would prefer it was never discussed, but I think you deserve to know, particularly if James is to be your guard from now on.”

I held my breath.

“James is . . . your cousin, of course. But his mother—your aunt—wasn't married at the time of his birth. That's always been something of a scandal.”

Of course I knew that, but it had never mattered to me.

Dread knotted in my stomach. “Do you know who his father is?” James used to wonder when we were younger, but
after years of my assurance that it didn't matter—his father clearly hadn't cared enough to claim him, so should be forgotten—James believed me.

“Yes. I know.” Mother closed her eyes. “Terrell is his father.”

I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. James was my
brother
?

My father had an affair with Mother's sister?

My father refused to claim James, or even admit it to us?

Mother pressed on, heedless of the punches she'd thrown. “I won't go into the details—”

Thank saints. I knew how it worked. Discussing it with my mother would have been worse than everything that had happened last night.

“—but he later admitted what he'd done and that he'd gotten her pregnant.”

He'd gotten her pregnant
. All nine saints, help me. “Why are you telling me this?”

“It's only right that you know your guard is a bastard.” Mother's lips thinned, and suddenly I understood.

The way she always sat between my father and aunt, even while Aunt Kathleen had been married to Lord Roth. Her presence between them was a way to claim my father—to separate him from the object of his faithlessness.

The way she sometimes looked at James, like she wanted to hate him but couldn't; it wasn't
his
fault.

“I don't see what his lineage has to do with his ability to protect me,” I said at last. My voice felt thin. “James is my most steadfast friend. He has always been as a brother to me.”

What was I going to tell him? How was I going to explain this?

Mother just nodded slowly, like she'd hoped I would explode or ask what this meant or
something
. “His lineage is to remain a mystery. Your father will never acknowledge him as a royal bastard, and my sister won't speak of it. Neither knows I'm telling you now.”

No doubt Aunt Kathleen was too afraid to speak of it. The king. The queen—her older sister.

“He's not in the line of succession,” Mother said, as if this were in question. As if this were my concern right now. “He will never challenge your claim to the throne.”

“James isn't the kind of person to challenge others for more power, but that's quite a statement to make. Unless . . .”

“He can't know.” She lowered her voice and stepped toward me. “He's a good boy, as you've said, but imagine how it would hurt him to know the truth.”

As if it didn't hurt
me
to know the truth and not tell my best friend? My cousin? My
brother
? How could I keep that from him?

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you deserve to know.”

“And James doesn't?”

“It doesn't affect him.”

It wouldn't have affected me, either, if she hadn't told me. I would have been happier not knowing that my father was a cheat and my mother harbored a deep resentment and my cousin was—

No one was what they appeared. Not even me. Not anymore.

“Are you sure you want him as your guard now?” she asked.

Finally I understood. She'd hoped I would be angry at James in the same way she was. She would always see him as a reminder of betrayal—her husband's and her sister's, both. She would always look at James and see the product of that affair. Even though it wasn't justified, some of the blame fell on him.

With James as my bodyguard—as if he wasn't my constant companion anyway—she'd see him even more. She wanted me to see him the same way, so that maybe he'd go back to Hawes with his mother when she left in a week.

“I'm not changing my mind.” My voice cracked, and everything hurt again. My ribs. My heart. “I have things to take care of. I hope we'll never speak of this again.”

She frowned.

I lifted my eyes to hers. “I won't tell him what you've told me.” Not now anyway. “But I think you should. Or Father should. If I deserve to know, so does he. It affects him the most.”

Her voice came softly. “Perhaps I will, then.”

But as I left the office, I knew she never would.

I SPENT THE next few days in a haze of anxious confusion and pain.

Every morning, I slept too late and missed breakfast, but of course the kitchen sent one up; it wouldn't do for the crown prince to go without.

Every day, I stayed drowsy and distracted, thanks to the painkillers and that conversation with Mother. I attended my classes and duties with Father, but bowed out early whenever possible. They accepted it for now, but soon I'd have to be a model student and son, or risk losing the leniency when I needed it.

Every evening, I skipped formal dinners with my parents—easy and understandable, given the recent paternal revelation—and headed to the storage building with James, where we had cleared a space. We practiced until well after dark. No other guards accompanied us, and were it not for the huge
secret hanging between James and me, it would have felt like freedom at last.

Then, every night, I went into the city to search for hints of Hensley's firefly-manufacturing building. Not that I had much luck. The city was so huge and crowded, and for every new place I searched, I found five more possibilities.

Four days ticked by, and I was no closer to stopping Hensley and the Nightmare gang than I had been when I fell off a roof and into a pile of garbage.

Now, crouching on yet another roof in Thornton—safely in the middle and away from the mirrors—I took in the dark city and vowed to find a good map. Not just of the city overall, or districts, but individual neighborhoods, too. Down to every last building. Seeing the city on paper wouldn't be the same as experiencing it in person, but it'd be a start, and a way to keep track of places I'd seen, what kind of area it was, and whether it was a place a vigilante might want to frequent.

A shadow crossed a rooftop mirror nearby, and I tensed, but the short, skinny shape resolved into a familiar girl. Romily.

I pushed to my feet and met her halfway.

“Where have you been?” When she flinched, I cooled my tone. “I looked for you the other night.” And every night since then, but I didn't want to seem desperate. “I really could have used your help.”

Romily knelt near a chimney and lowered her eyes. “Sorry. What happened?”

I gave her a quick summary.

“I heard someone cut off his hand. That was you?” Romily brightened. “Tell me
everything
about it.”

I knelt next to her. “There isn't much to say about the event itself. But the dramatics following might be worthy of a story.”

She leaned forward and nodded.

“The way I hear it”—because I'd only heard about it, having been half dead at the time—“a messenger hurried into the king's court the following morning. He told a tale of Hensley's charity, like that flasher was actually out in the Flags handing out food and clothes.”

Romily snorted.

“And then, out of nowhere, and completely unprovoked, a masked fellow came out of the shadows and cut off Hensley's hand and stole the basket of fresh-baked bread he was giving out to the homeless.” The last part was embellishment. Father would have excused Hensley's presence in the city, thinking he'd been working for the crown. But clearly he'd been keeping the mandate quiet; perhaps “charity” was their code.

“Oh, saints!” Romily shook her head and looked skyward. “Are you serious?”

“That's the way I heard it.” Under the safety of my mask, I let out a faint smile. “As for Hensley's health, well, he'll be fine. The story is that his guards cauterized the wound to stop the blood and infection; it's not as if the hand can be reattached.”

Romily made a face.

More likely, Hensley had cauterized the stump with his own magic, and killed any guards who didn't like the way he'd taken care of it. “I also heard he was in court this afternoon,” I went on. “His right hand was wrapped in bandages, and his wife kept speaking loudly about his bravery. Others admired the kindness he shows toward the poor people of the Flags.”

“Right. Kindness.” Romily laughed, a tiny sound that stayed contained on our rooftop. Mischief filled her eyes, and for the first time, she looked like a girl of twelve or thirteen. “I can't believe you cut off the Burning Hand's hand.”

No doubt everyone would make a joke of it, if they knew.

“Yes, I realize how it sounds.” I started to laugh with her, but the effort hurt my ribs. “Truly, though, it was the only thing I accomplished that night. I was immediately set upon and beaten by the Nightmares. Thank saints for those girls. Even if they did just want to steal from me, they saved my life.”

Cocking her head, Romily said, “I think I know them. Of them. No one's really sure who they are or what they want, but they're not a gang like the Nightmares. They don't touch shine and they're really good fighters. Sometimes they have boys with them. I heard they call themselves the Ospreys.” She shrugged, as though that really were all there was to know about Braid Girl and her friends.

“No one knows who they are?” That seemed difficult to pull off, especially if they took no pains to conceal their identities.

“Not so far as I know. Like someone else I've met, they don't use their real names. Or any names.”

That just made me want to find out about Braid Girl—Nameless Girl, maybe—even more. But right now, I needed to learn more about
this
girl. “So while I was being humiliated the other night, where were
you
?”

Her expression fell, and again she sounded too old and weary for her age. “I was going to be there. I swear. But Mercush was at home and I didn't want to leave my mum.”

Dread knotted in my stomach, and I regretted every
accusation. “What happened?”

She glanced down. “With the Knight gone, he didn't have anyone to get firefly from. He was in a rage. He broke everything in the house, even the stuff that isn't ours. We”—she swallowed hard—“share a house. A lot of people do in the Flags. I was home cleaning up the night of the meeting. Sorry.”

Guilt poured through me. I'd been selfish, thinking that Romily hadn't been there for
me
. Instead, I hadn't been there for
her
. Not that I knew where she lived, besides Red Flag. We kept our homes secret. But still.

I'd thought only of myself.

I
would
do better. I would.

“Are you all right?” I asked. “Were you there when he was?”

Her jaw muscles flexed. “I saw him do it. But I hid in the cupboard, because it looked like he was getting bigger. Changing. He yelled for me, my mum, and even the lady we live with.”

This. This was what my people lived with every day. I tried not to shudder, but she saw it anyway.

“Don't feel bad, rich boy.” She jerked up her chin.

Rich boy. That had been another mistake. When I'd given her the money for my clothes and tools, she'd gaped and glanced around, like someone was going to steal it. She'd asked how I felt safe carrying so much money.

But to me, it had been just enough to buy some clothes. A hook. A line. Enough money to buy what I wanted, but not so much that its absence would be noticed by the royal accountants. It was merely part of my allowance.

I'd had no idea how much my discretionary money actually was.

“Pity doesn't help us,” Romily went on. “Action does. I want Hensley, his men, and the Nightmares all dead.”

“Dead?” We'd talked about taking down Lord Hensley, but we'd never discussed
killing
him.

Would it be so bad if he were gone? Even in prison, he could cause problems. If he were gone forever . . . I didn't want to be the one to do it. I didn't want another man's life in my hands.

Maybe that made me a coward.

“You don't agree,” she said.

“We'll discuss it when we get to that point.” I straightened and adjusted my mask, damp with humidity and sweat. “Do you have any new information? I've been planning ways to put a stop to Hensley's deal, but there's too much I don't know.”

Like everything.

We'd had a stroke of luck when Romily had heard Mercush talking about the meeting with the Nightmare gang, but we couldn't count on that happening again. Especially not if he was . . . changing.

“I did get a hint about the location of his buildings.” She lifted her eyes to mine. “Mercush again. He took some of the money you left for me and paid one of his Nightmare friends to tell him where Hensley keeps the firefly. I know where at least one of the warehouses is.”

“Can we trust him? It doesn't sound like he's thinking straight.”

She gave a single, solid nod. “He wants that firefly. Hensley cut him off, but he's going to get it. He's determined. And so am I.”

I dragged in a deep breath. Romily was back. I was healing.

We could stop Hensley.

We had to.