Rebel Spring A Falling Kingdoms(93)

His expression fell. “I’m sorry. Of course.”

Lysandra grabbed her bow and headed deeper into the forest. Why should she feel annoyed toward the one boy in camp who’d been more welcoming than any of the others combined? The one who defended her to his own best friend when no one else did?

All she knew was that she didn’t feel anything other than friendship for Brion—and even that was frequently challenged.

She had no time for thoughts of friendship . . . or of romance. Not now. And definitely not here.

“Stupid,” she mumbled after wandering aimlessly through the forest not too far from camp. Leaves and fallen branches crunched beneath her feet with each step she took. She wasn’t sure who or what she referred to, but just saying the word aloud seemed to help.

After the tremor, most of her potential prey had found shelter in well-concealed hiding spots. It took until near dusk before she spotted a deer in the distance. She stilled herself, holding her breath. Slowly, she aimed her arrow toward the animal.

You’ll make a good meal tonight, my little friend. Hold still.

The sound of something heavy crashing through the forest startled the deer and it took off before Lysandra could release her arrow. She swore under her breath. Someone must have followed her from camp.

“It better not be you, Brion,” she muttered, and turned in the direction of the noise.

A familiar form burst from the thick foliage beyond the trees she stood behind. He stumbled and fell, before scrambling to regain his footing.

She frowned. “Jonas?”

Behind him was a Limerian guard on horseback, who leapt off his mount and grabbed Jonas by his hair. “Didn’t think I’d catch you, rebel?”

Jonas didn’t say anything, but his knees buckled again. His face was covered in blood and his eyes were glazed.

The guard drew his sword and held it to Jonas’s throat. “I know who you are—Jonas Agallon, Queen Althea’s murderer. If I took your head back to the king, I’d get myself a fine reward. Got anything to say about that?”

“He doesn’t,” Lysandra whispered, then raised her voice. “But I do.”

As the guard glanced over his shoulder at the sound of her voice, she let her arrow go, hitting her target perfectly in his left eye socket. He was dead before he hit the ground. Lysandra swiftly closed the distance between her and Jonas, nudging the guard’s body aside.

“What happened?” she demanded, grabbing hold of his shirt. “Are there more guards after you?”

His breath came quickly, but he didn’t reply. As she inspected him, she saw he’d been injured. There was a deep wound on his side and the back of his skull bore an alarmingly bloody wound.

Her heart sank. “I told you not to go today, you fool. When are you going to start listening to me?”

She staggered from his weight as he crumpled against her. Checking over her shoulder to see if there were any more guards in pursuit, she dragged Jonas further away from the dead soldier and laid him down on the ground near the roots of a large oak tree, being very gentle with his head. She quickly ripped the fabric of his shirt open to get a better look at the wound on his side.

She grimaced at the sight of the torn flesh. “What am I going to do with you?”

She tore a long strip of fabric off her own shirt, which was cleaner than his, in order to press it against his wound and try to stop the bleeding. He could cauterize it himself later.

If he lived.

No, you’ll live, Jonas, she thought. You’re much too stubborn to die today.

A hawk had taken perch above them in the oak tree, and it looked down at them as if curious about what they were doing.

“Unless you’re going to help,” Lysandra said to it, “mind your own business.” Lysandra had noted its markings from last time. Just another female who’d found herself infatuated with the handsome rebel leader. She reached for a rock and hurled it at the bird. It flapped its wings and flew away.

“Your infamous charm seems to bypass species, Agallon,” she mumbled.

Jonas groaned as she used another torn piece of her shirt to wipe at the blood on his face. Her hands froze at the sound. His lips moved. He was trying to say something, but she couldn’t make it out.

She leaned closer. “What?”

“So bad . . . I’m so sorry . . . failed you . . .”

His eyes opened to lock with hers. His were a shade of brown that reminded her of cinnamon, her favorite spice, and they had gold flecks just around the black irises—so black, just like his thick lashes. It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed this.

“You need to get up,” she said, her voice suddenly hoarse. “Come on. We need to move.”