Rebel Spring (Falling Kingdoms 2)

“Tuck it away. Open it when you’re alone. Not now.”

She looked into his eyes, confused. But she nodded and slid the small object into the folds of her gown.

“Much gratitude to you, Prince Ashur.”

“Think nothing of it.” He leaned against the balcony railing, gazing out at the rolling vista visible beyond the city walls. In the moonlight, his eyes appeared to be silver, but she wasn’t sure what color they really were. “Tell me of the magic here, princess.”

The question took her by surprise. “The magic?”

“It’s quite a history Mytica has for such a small group of kingdoms. Such mythology, what with the Watchers . . . the Kindred. Fascinating, really.”

“Just silly stories told to children.” She clasped her hands together to cover up her ring. There was something in the prince’s voice . . . something that told her he wasn’t asking this only out of random curiosity.

“I don’t think you really believe that.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “No, you strike me as the kind of girl who, despite her youth, has very specific beliefs.”

“Then that just proves how little you know about me. Ask anyone. I’m not interested in history or mythology. I don’t think very deeply about anything at all, especially not fantastical things like magic.”

Prince Ashur looked at her steadily. “Does the Kindred exist?”

Her heart began to pound harder. “Why do you care if it does or not?”

“That you ask that proves how little you know about me,” he echoed her previous words. “It’s all right, princess. We don’t need to discuss this right now. But perhaps one day soon you’ll wish to talk more about this with me. I plan to stay here for a while and explore. There are answers I seek and I won’t be leaving until I have them.”

“I wish you the very best of luck in finding your answers,” she said evenly.

o;Ridiculous,” she mumbled. “All of it.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Magnus replied.

Her cheeks heated. She hadn’t meant to say this out loud. She’d had too much wine, downing glass after glass as it had been presented to her. Magnus had been drinking nothing but spiced cider. She realized she now did an excellent impression of Aron—who sat in the front table and cast occasional drunken, miserable glances in her general direction.

“I need air,” Cleo whispered after a time. “May I have a moment?”

Would Magnus expect his wife to always ask permission for her every move? Would he be cruel to her and controlling on this, their first night of marriage?

First night.

Her heart began to race at the thought. She wanted to remain in public for as long as possible. What came later she couldn’t deal with. Not with him. Never with him.

“By all means,” he said, not bothering to look directly at her. “Go get your air.”

She left the dais without delay. Her walk was more of a stagger as the amount of wine she’d consumed during the banquet became more apparent. Too much. And yet, not nearly enough. She moved as calmly as possible toward the archway leading to the hall . . . to escape.

Or as much of an escape as she could manage with a limitless number of guards keeping watch over her every move.

Cleo pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself. Once she found an exit to a balcony, she grasped hold of the railing and tried to calm herself.

“Quite the ceremony,” a voice greeted her from the shadows and she jarringly realized she wasn’t alone. Prince Ashur was already taking air on the balcony.

She attempted to compose herself. “It certainly was.”

The prince wore a dark blue overcoat, trimmed in gold. It fit his impressive form perfectly. His shoulder-length black hair was tied back from his face, but one long lock fell over his left eye. “I can’t honestly say I’ve ever been to a wedding like that before. If I were a superstitious man, I might be more wary of returning to the palace tonight. It was very brave of you to want to continue on despite such unpleasantness.”

Cleo let out a half-laugh that sounded more like a hysterical hiccup. “Yes, so brave of me.”

“You must be very much in love with Prince Magnus.”

She pressed her lips together to keep herself from blurting out the truth. She did not know this man, only that his father had gained his expansive empire by conquering other lands, crushing each one easily. Cleo’s father had once told her about the Emperor Cortas and how his empire compared to that of Mytica . . . like a watermelon next to a grape. At the time, she’d found such a comparison amusing.