Frozen Tides (Falling Kingdoms 4)

“Lysandra,” she hissed.

“Lysandra, darling, I strongly suggest you stop pointing that weapon at me. It’s very rude.”

“Put it down, Lys,” Olivia gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Why should I?” Lysandra snarled. “This is the same snotty royal who looked on, as if watching a puppet show rather than an execution, while my head was about to be chopped off.”

“Ah, yes. Of course,” Lucia said, her tone calm and even somewhat sweet. “I know you. You’re the savage little rebel girl who slipped away from the execution stage, as free as a bird. I really must congratulate you. Do you know you’re one of a very small group of prisoners who’ve managed to escape King Gaius’s punishment?”

“My, what confidence you have. Even right before I kill you.”

“Confidence is a virtue I lacked in the past. But now I find I’m overflowing with it.” Lucia took her eyes off Lysandra and addressed the rest of Jonas’s group. “Now, enough of this. You’re boring our audience. They’d much prefer to see a little action, don’t you think? Let’s start with some dust.”

Lucia flicked her wrist, and Lysandra’s bow and arrow disintegrated into a pile of sawdust and ashes, drawing gasps from the crowd.

“She’s a witch!” someone yelled. “An evil witch!” The mass of people rose up in murmurs and yells, and then a rock came hurtling toward Lucia’s head.

She held up her hand, palm forward. The rock froze midair, less than a foot from her face. Another flick of her wrist and it, too, was transformed to a fluttering of dust.

ng man wearing a black eye patch stood over the thief, the sole of his boot pressing against the man’s chest. “You know,” he said, leaning over to snatch the purse from the thief’s grip, “you’re the sort of scum who gives all of us Paelsians a bad reputation.”

Lucia’s purse in hand, the young man lifted his boot from the thief’s chest.

“You should learn to mind your own business,” the thief growled as he scrambled to his feet.

“I’ve always been terrible at that. Now go. Before I change my mind.” He removed a dagger with a jeweled hilt from a sheath on his waist and showily spun it around on his hand.

The thief took one brief look at the knife before running off in the other direction.

Lightning crackled in the darkening skies.

The young man with the eye patch looked up then brought his gaze down to Lucia, who drew closer to him. “Seems we’re due for a storm,” he said to her. “You can never tell here in Paelsia. They always come upon us without warning, as if by magic.”

He was young, not much older than her, with dark hair like Magnus’s, though much shorter than her brother’s. His skin was deeply tanned, and his visible eye was a cinnamon shade of brown.

“Are you all right?” he asked, frowning at her silence.

The darkness within her continued to swell, still craving a release.

“Here.” He handed her the drawstring purse, and she hesitated only a moment before taking it from him and tucking it beneath her cloak.

“I suppose you want a reward,” she said.

“Of course not. Assisting a lovely young lady such as yourself is reward enough.” He gave her a toothsome grin.

And then it hit her like a thunderbolt. She knew exactly who he was.

“You’re Jonas Agallon.”

He blinked. “Sorry, what—?”

“You’re Jonas Agallon. The rebel leader wanted for the murder of Queen Althea.” She’d seen his wanted posters, heard rumors about his crimes, though she couldn’t recall ever seeing him in person before. Surely, she would have remembered. “Apologies, but your disguise is a disgrace.”

“Oh, you mean this?” He pointed at his eye patch. “An accident involving a pitchfork. Very gruesome. And sorry to disappoint, but I’m not this Jonas Agallon person.”

His attempts at denial were very nearly comical. “Don’t worry, I won’t turn you in. I’m grateful for all you’ve done in your fight against the king. Why did you stop?”

The boy glanced up at the sky again. “Seems the skies are clearing. No storm after all.”