He grimaced. “Sorry, Lys. You know I have to tell him.” Galyn turned his patient face to Jonas once again. “Jonas, the king is having a ship prepared. Nerissa doesn’t know exactly when he’s leaving, but it’s certainly only a matter of days.”
A king preparing to travel wouldn’t usually qualify as important news. But King Gaius had sequestered himself in the palace for months, not setting foot outside the walls since the disastrous wedding between Cleo and Magnus. It was said he feared another rebel attack, and Jonas wasn’t sure if this made him cowardly or smart.
So if the King of Blood was not only leaving the palace, but leaving it for a long journey by ship, it was huge news.
Jonas’s heart began to race. “Did she say where he’s going? Back to Limeros?” The northern kingdom could be reached by land, but it was much more comfortable—and royal—to take a ship along the western coastline.
“No. All she knows is that he’s preparing to sail somewhere, and that no one knows where or when.”
Jonas glanced again at Lys, whose eyes were still trained on Galyn, her face now red with anger.
“Don’t look at him like that,” Jonas said. “You should have told me all this yourself.”
“When? You’ve been unconscious for days.”
“Yes, but now I’m awake and feeling much better.” It was a lie. He felt weak and unsteady, but he didn’t want her to know. “So, what? Your plan is to go out on your own and assassinate the king as soon as he sticks his nose out into the fresh air?”
“That was the general idea, yes.”
“It’s a stupid plan.” Frustrated fury rose within him, blocking out the pain in his shoulder. “You’d do that, wouldn’t you? Run off and get yourself killed trying to vanquish the King of Blood.”
“Perhaps I would. Or perhaps I’d succeed and get him right between the eyes with an arrow, and put an end to him once and for all!”
Jonas glared at her, fists clenched, livid that she’d willingly put herself into danger like this with no one to back her up. “Why would you do this? Go off all by yourself?”
Eyes blazing, she dropped her satchel, bow, and quiver to the floor. She moved toward Jonas so quickly he was certain she meant to hit him. Instead, she stopped just short of touching him, and her gaze softened.
“I thought you were dead,” she said. “When I saw you there, pinned to the floor with that dagger . . .” Her words faded as her dark eyes filled with tears and she rubbed at them angrily. “Damn you, Jonas. First my parents, then Brion and my brother, and . . . and then I thought I’d lost you too. And then even when I knew Felix hadn’t killed you, you were still so sick. Your fever was so high . . . I—I didn’t know what to do. I felt helpless, and I hate feeling helpless. But now, with this news of the king’s departure . . . I have a chance to do something, to make a difference. To . . .” Her voice caught. “To protect you.”
ith each failure, he had learned. He had grown. He wasn’t the same person he’d been when he’d foolishly followed Chief Basilius and the King of Blood into a war of lies and deceit, in which he and his fellow Paelsians had been used as nothing more than pawns. He had stormed into battle when neither he nor his rebels had been fully prepared. Now he bore the battle scars in both mind and body, each deeper and bloodier than the last.
“No,” Jonas whispered.
The other Jonas cocked his head. “What did you say?”
“No,” he said, louder. “It can be different. I can be different.”
“Impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible.” He raised his gaze and glared directly into his own brown eyes. “Now leave me the hell alone so I can do what I have to do.”
His mirror image smirked and gave him a shallow nod of approval before disappearing into thin air.
Jonas woke up on a cot, drenched in sweat, and stared up at a black ceiling. The moment he tried to move, his left shoulder screamed with pain.
Beneath the tight bandages covering his wound lay a layer of grayish-green mud. Galyn, the owner of the Silver Toad Tavern and Inn, had put it there, telling Jonas that a witch had once stayed there and his grandfather Bruno had accepted the healing substance as payment.
His feverish body ached as he forced himself out of bed and slowly made his way down the hall, past doorways emanating with both silence and snores. He carefully descended the rickety wooden steps leading down to the tavern. He didn’t know the time, but it was still dark, still night, and the only things keeping him from stumbling were a couple of lit wall sconces. His legs were weak and nausea had fully settled into his stomach, but all he knew for sure was that he couldn’t stay in bed. There was far too much to do.
He would start by getting something to drink; his mouth was as dry as the wastelands of Eastern Paelsia.
He came to a stop when he heard hushed voices within the dark tavern.
“Not a chance. He doesn’t need to know,” said a female voice.
“The message was for him, not you,” her male companion replied.
“True. But he’s in no shape for any of this.”