“Who are you?” Magnus snarled.
The guards yanked back his hood. For a crazy, heart-stopping moment, Cleo was certain it would be Jonas.
But it wasn’t. It was a boy not much older than Magnus whom she’d never seen before today.
“Who am I?” he snapped. “I’m someone whose village you destroyed. Whose people you enslaved to work your precious road. Someone who sees through your father’s lies and wants to watch you both bleed and die.”
“Is that so?” Magnus stepped forward to inspect the boy with withering distaste. “It seems you’ve failed in your quest.”
“She didn’t want me to try to kill you.” The boy struggled against those who held him firmly in place. “I disagreed.”
“She? Who are you talking about?”
The would-be assassin raised his chin, his eyes cold and full of challenge. “The Watcher who speaks to me in dreams. Who guides me. Who gives me hope that not all is lost. Who tells me that that which is lost should never be found.”
Magnus’s gaze narrowed. “And this . . . Watcher . . . didn’t want you to try to kill me.”
“On that much we disagreed.”
“Obviously.”
Twisting her ring nervously, Cleo watched Magnus closely for his reaction. The prince claimed not to believe in magic, and all but mocked Lord Gareth for his choice of wedding gift. Yet a mention of Watchers now seemed to give him pause.
An assassination attempt—especially one as bold and as public as this—should earn an immediate command of execution.
Silence fell as all waited for Magnus’s decision.
“Take him to the dungeon,” he said, finally. “But not the one here. Take him to Auranos where he’ll be questioned further. I’ll send message to my father today.”
“Your highness, are you certain that’s what you want?” a guard asked.
Magnus sent a cutting look in the man’s direction. “Don’t question me. Just do it.”
“Yes, your highness.”
Cleo watched tensely as the boy was dragged away, a hundred questions swirling in her mind. Was what he claimed real? Or was the boy simply mad?
Why did Magnus want him returned to Auranos for questioning? Did the prince believe what he’d said?
“Your highness,” another guard approached Magnus. “My deepest apologies that he was able to get so close to you.”
Magnus’s jaw tensed. “See that it doesn’t happen again or you’ll be joining him.”
“Yes, your highness. Your arm . . .”
“It’s nothing. Lead the way to the balcony.”
“That son of a bitch shoved you,” Nic whispered to Cleo. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” But confusion still clouded her thoughts and not only about the boy’s claims. Magnus had acted instinctively at the sight of the dagger. He hadn’t shoved her to be cruel. He’d done it to . . . protect her.
Cleo was breathless as they were led to the black balcony overlooking the gathered crowd in the square below. Snow still fell in soft flakes, coating the ground with a layer of pristine white. The sky was the color of slate. The moment she and the prince came out into view, the crowd began to cheer at the top of their voices. Such a welcome would have been close to pleasant before, but after the drama that had just occurred . . .
It was an important reminder that this was all lies. A thin layer of snow that would soon melt to reveal the ugliness that lay beneath its beauty.
The prince moved to the railing, holding up his hands to silence the crowd. And then he began to speak—confident, proud, and with command . . . Or so it seemed.
His mask was perfectly in place. He was Prince Magnus, heir to the throne. And he held his own, even a short time after an assassination attempt.