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“All right? I’d say we’re as far from all right as we can get.”
Cleo crawled to the side of the stone altar to look at the destruction before her. Jonas lay dead on the floor of the temple.
No, please no. It cannot be!
No, wait. Two guards rushed past his still body. When they had moved out of view, though, Jonas began to stir. Cleo watched him come back to consciousness and push himself up to a sitting, then a standing position, a hand clamped over his wounded side where he had been injured by a blade. His face, too, was bloody. His gaze went from unfocused to grim and moved through the temple, over his fallen rebels, until he finally locked eyes with Cleo.
He held his hand out to her, as if beckoning her to join him. To flee with him while there was still time to escape unseen with rest of the guests.
She shook her head.
They couldn’t both escape this, not with him injured and her in this weighted gown. She had to stay—for Nic. For Auranos.
But he could still save himself. And if he wanted half a chance at that, he had to leave now while he was out of sight of the guards. Go! she mouthed. Go now!
He hesitated only another moment before he shed his red robes, turned, and fled the temple, joining the cluster of the escaping guests as they emerged into full daylight.
“Cleo,” Nic whispered, clenching her hand so tightly it hurt. “This is bad. So bad.”
Truer words had never been spoken.
The rebels had lost. And, oh, how they’d lost.
Every one of them apart from Jonas now lay dead on the broken, crumbling floor of the temple. The guards, who’d been dressed in regular clothes to blend in with the rest of the guests, were beginning to stalk around to make sure the dead rebels were dead, thrusting sword or spear through the still bodies to make sure they’d never move again. There was so much blood spread throughout the temple.
So many had died in so little time.
Nic offered her a hand and helped her to her feet. A gory splash of blood now defiled her beautiful gown. Nic looked at it with alarm before he began checking her.
“It’s not mine,” she said, her voice brittle.
“Thank the goddess!”
“My fault, Nic. This is . . . it’s all my fault.”
“What are you talking about? No, it’s not.” He grasped her arms. “You had nothing to do with this.”
He hadn’t known of the plan because she hadn’t told him. The one person she trusted more than anyone—and she hadn’t told him a thing. If he’d died today as well, she could never have forgiven herself.
Scattered bodies lay in crimson puddles across the pale marble floor. Glazed eyes stared off in every direction, some directly at Cleo as if blaming her for their deaths.
Magnus leaned against a pillar and gingerly touched the shallow wound at his throat. He looked exhausted, but his gaze sparked with outrage. His attention finally fell on her. She looked away before she was forced to meet his eyes.
The king approached. There was a gash on his forehead. Blood dripped into his eyes and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
He’d almost died—she’d seen it herself. He’d nearly been crushed by a pillar, but his son had saved him. And now all he had to show for his brush with death was a bit of blood.
“Did you know this would happen?” Magnus asked.
Cleo’s stomach clenched and her fingers dug into Nic’s arm as if to borrow some of her friend’s strength. As she opened her mouth to deny any prior knowledge of the rebel attack, the king answered instead.
“I thought there was a strong chance of it, but I wasn’t sure.”
“But you took precautions.”
“Of course I did. I’m no fool.”
“And yet you said nothing to me.” The words were edged in poison. “This is not the first time you didn’t tell me anything of your plans, Father.”
