Falling Kingdoms

by Morgan Rhodes

Jonas let out a long shaky breath. “He was so arrogant. Lord Aron Lagaris. Told us his name as if we should sink to our knees before him, like the meaningless peasants we are, and kiss his ring.”

  “I’m not saying the bastard shouldn’t pay with blood. Just not with your blood.” A muscle in Brion’s cheek twitched at the mention of this.

  While he was being incredibly levelheaded, apart from the takedown a minute ago, Brion wasn’t typically the wisest of Jonas’s friends nor the one expected to give advice. He was usually the first to jump into a fight that left at least one bone broken—either his or his opponent’s. A scar bisected his right eyebrow as a mild reminder of one of these battles. Unlike most of his compatriots, Brion wasn’t one to lie down and accept a “destiny” of oppression and starvation.

  “Do you remember Tomas’s plan?” Jonas said after silence fell between them.

  “Which one? He had lots of plans.”

  That made Jonas smile for a moment. “He did. But one of them was to seek audience with Chief Basilius.”

  Brion’s eyebrows went up. “Are you serious? Nobody sees the chief. The chief sees you.”

  “I know.” Chief Basilius had been in seclusion for several years, unseen by any but his family and his innermost circle of advisors and bodyguards. Some said he spent his days on a spiritual journey to find the Kindred—four legendary objects containing endless magic that had been lost for a thousand years. It was said that possessing all four would result in ultimate power.

  Jonas, however, like Tomas, reserved his belief for more practical answers. Thinking of Tomas now, he came to a decision and shifted his plans.

  “I need to see him,” Jonas murmured. “I need to do what Tomas wanted to do. Things need to change.”

  Brion looked at him with surprise. “So in two minutes you’ve gone from single-minded vengeance to potentially seeking audience with the chief.”

  ”You could put it that way.” Killing the royals, Jonas was realizing soberly, would have been a glorious moment of vengeance—a blaze of glory. But it would do nothing to help his people chart a new course for a brighter future. That was what Tomas would have wanted above all else.

  Jonas didn’t believe that Basilius was a sorcerer, but he had no doubt the chief was powerful and influential enough to make a change, to help take the people of Paelsia in a new direction and away from the growing poverty and desperation that had crippled them in recent years. If he chose to do so.

  Since he lived apart from the community as a whole, maybe he was unaware of how dire Paelsian life had become. He had to be told the truth by someone who wouldn’t be afraid to speak it.

  “You suddenly look very determined,” Brion said uneasily. “Should that make me nervous?”

  Jonas grabbed his arm and flashed the first full grin he’d been able to summon since Tomas had died. “I am determined. Things are going to change, my friend.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. When better?”

  “So, no more storming the palace and sticking daggers into royals?”

  “Not today.” Jonas could practically see Tomas at the corner of his mind, laughing at his younger brother and his constantly changing priorities. But this felt right. This felt more right than anything else in his life ever had. “Will you come with me to meet with Chief Basilius?”

  “And miss witnessing his order for your head to be removed and placed on a spike for trying to incite a revolution in your brother’s name?” Brion laughed. “Not for all the gold in Auranos.”

  Tomas reached out to Cleo as if begging her to help him. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t—the blade was lodged too deeply in his throat. He would never speak another word. The blood that gushed unstoppably from his mouth grew deep around them and swiftly formed a bottomless crimson lake.

  Cleo was drowning in blood. It washed over her, coating her skin, choking her.

  “Please, help! Help!” She struggled to reach up into the freezing air above the thick, hot blood.

  A hand grasped hold of hers tightly to pull her above the surface.

  “Thank you!”

  “Don’t thank me, princess. Beg me not to kill you.”

  Her eyes widened as she looked up into the face of the murdered boy’s brother. Jonas Agallon’s features were deeply etched with grief and hatred. Dark brows drew together over mahogany-colored eyes.

  “Beg me,” he said again, digging his fingers painfully into her flesh, hard enough to bruise.

  “Please don’t kill me! I—I’m sorry—I didn’t want your brother to die. Please don’t hurt me!”

  “But I want to hurt you. I want you to suffer for what you’ve done.” He shoved her back down. She shrieked as the murdered boy himself took hold of her ankle and began pulling her deeper into this ocean of death.

  Cleo sat up in her bed screaming. She was twisted in her silk sheets, her body damp with sweat, her heart pounding loud in her ears. She looked frantically around the room from her canopied bed.

  She was alone. She had only been dreaming.

  The same nightmare had plagued her every night for a month. Ever since Tomas Agallon’s murder. So vivid. So real. But just a dream fueled by endless guilt. She let out a long, shaky sigh and fell back against her silk pillows.

  “This is madness,” she whispered. “It’s done. It’s over. There’s no going back to change it.”

  If there was a chance for that, she would have told Theon to step in and stop Aron’s bartering. His posturing. His arrogance. She would have put an end to it before it escalated in such a horrible, deadly way.

  She’d avoided Aron ever since they returned to Auranos. If he showed up at a social gathering, she would leave. If he moved closer to talk, she would shift her attention to a different group of friends. He hadn’t protested yet, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

  Aron liked to be included in her circle whenever possible. And if he threatened to expose her secret because of any perceived slight...

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to panic at the thought.

  After a full month of avoidance, Cleo knew she had to talk to Aron. She found she needed to know if he too had nightmares about what happened. If he felt the same guilt. If she was to become engaged to this boy at her father’s insistence, she needed to know that he wasn’t a monster who’d cold-bloodedly kill someone and not give a single care for the pain he’d caused.

  If Aron was wracked with guilt, it might change things for her. Perhaps he, like she, was deeply pained over his actions and attempting to hide his true feelings from the world. They would have this in common. If nothing else, it would be a start. She resolved to speak with him in private as soon as possible.

  Yet she still spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning.

  In the morning, Cleo rose, dressed, and breakfasted on fruit, soft cheese, and bread delivered to her chambers by a palace maid. Then she took a deep breath and opened her door.

  “Good morning, princess,” Theon said. He typically waited down the hall from her room in the mornings, ready to do his bodyguard duties—which included lurking about all day long in her peripheral vision.

  “Morning,” she replied as casually as possible.

  She’d need to give her shadow the slip if she wanted to talk to Aron privately. Luckily, she knew this wasn’t impossible. In the weeks since Theon’s new placement she’d tested him a few times to see if she could successfully hide from him. It became a bit of a game that she often won. Theon, however, didn’t think it was very amusing.

  “I need to see my sister,” she said firmly.

  Theon nodded. “By all means. Don’t let me stop you.”

  She moved through the hall, surprised when she turned the next corner to see Mira heading her way. Her friend looked upset and distracted. There w
as no immediate smile on Mira’s round, pretty face at the sight of the princess like there normally was.

  “What’s wrong?” Cleo asked, clasping the girl’s arm.

  “Nothing, I’m sure. But I’m off to get a healer to attend Emilia.”

  Cleo frowned. “Is she still sick?”

  “Her headaches and dizziness seem to worsen every day. She insists all she needs is more sleep, but I think it’s for the best that someone looks at her.”

  Concern swelled in Cleo’s chest. “Of course. Thank you, Mira.”

  Mira nodded, and with a glance at Theon standing nearby she continued down the hall.

  “My sister,” Cleo said under her breath. “Never one to accept help unless it’s forced upon her. Duty above all. Just like a proper princess should be. My father would be so proud.”

  “She sounds very brave,” Theon responded.

  “Perhaps. But they call me the stubborn one. If I was feeling dizzy all the time, I’d want a dozen healers called to my bedside to make it stop.” She paused at the door to Emilia’s chambers. “Please let me speak privately to my sister.”

  “Of course. I’ll wait right here.”

  She entered Emilia’s bedchamber and closed the door behind her. Her sister stood on her open balcony, looking down at the gardens below. The morning sun brushed against her high cheekbones and picked up glints of gold in her hair, which was a few shades darker than Cleo’s since Emilia wasn’t so given to spending time outdoors. She glanced over her shoulder.

  “Good morning, Cleo.”

  “I hear you’re unwell.”

  Emilia sighed, but a smile touched her lips. “I assure you I’m fine.”

  “Mira is worried.”

  “Mira is always worried.”

  “You might have a point.” Mira did tend to exaggerate things, Cleo remembered, like the time she’d hysterically insisted there was a viper in her bedroom and it turned out to be a harmless garden snake. Cleo relaxed slightly. Besides, Emilia looked perfectly healthy.

  Emilia studied her sister’s face as she glanced toward the door. “You look rather conspiratorial this morning. Are you up to some sort of mischief?”

  Cleo couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe a little.”

  “Of what sort?”

  “Escape.” She glanced out the window. “Using your trellis like we used to.”

  “Really. May I ask why?” Emilia didn’t seem surprised by this admission at all. She’d been the one who’d taught Cleo how to climb down to the gardens when they’d been much younger—back before Emilia had started shifting into a much more poised and perfect princess. Back when she didn’t mind getting dirty or her knees skinned with her younger sister. Now Cleo was the only one who would consider such a feat. A proper future queen like Emilia would never do such a dangerous thing and risk hurting herself.

  “I need to see Aron. Alone.”

  Emilia raised an eyebrow, disapproving. “Our father hasn’t even announced your engagement yet. And you’re sneaking off for some illicit romance before it’s all official?”

  Cleo’s stomach lurched. “That’s not why I want to see him.”

  “He’ll make you a fine husband, you know.”

  “Sure, he will,” Cleo said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Just like Darius made you a fine husband.”

  Emilia’s gaze grew harsh. “Sharp tongue, Cleo. You should watch where you point it or you might hurt someone.”

  Cleo blushed, abashed. She’d just trod on some extremely unpleasant territory. Lord Darius Larides was the man to whom Emilia had been engaged a year ago at eighteen. However, the closer they got to the wedding day, the deeper Emilia sank into a depression at the thought of marrying him—even though all agreed he was a fine pick: tall, handsome, charismatic. No one knew why, but Cleo guessed her sister had fallen in love with someone else. If it was true, though, she never found out who. Emilia had never so much as cast a flirtatious glance at any of the men in the palace, and for that matter she’d seemed rather sad over the past few weeks. Embarrassed, Cleo changed the subject.

  “I need to go while I have the chance,” Cleo whispered, eyeing the balcony. The trellis outside was as good and strong as any ladder.

  “You’re that intent on escaping from your new bodyguard? And leave him—I would assume—lurking outside my chambers?”

  Cleo smiled pleadingly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. He’ll never even know I was gone.”

  “And what do you suggest I tell him if he decides to check in on us?”

  “That I suddenly discovered I had air magic or something and made myself disappear.” She squeezed her sister’s hands as she brushed past her at the window, intent on her plan. She would be gone no more than a quarter of an hour, then she’d be back.

  “You’ve always had a taste for adventure,” Emilia said, relenting. “Well, romance or not...good luck.”

  “Thank you. I might need it.”

  Cleo swung her legs over the side of the balcony and climbed easily down the trellis, landing softly on the grass below. Without looking back up at the window, she quickly made her way across the palace grounds, beyond the main castle, to the neighborhood of luxury villas, still within the castle walls. Only the most important of nobles got to live here, protected from any outside threat.

  The palace grounds were a city unto itself, with open-air cafés and taverns, businesses, shops, crisscrossing cobblestone streets, and beautifully kept flower gardens, including one with an expansive labyrinth of tall hedges where Cleo and Emilia had hosted a party a few months ago. More than two thousand people lived here happily and prosperously. Some rarely bothered to leave the compound at all.

  The Lagaris’s city villa was one of the more impressive homes, only a five-minute stroll away from the castle, and built from the same golden mix of materials as the castle itself. Aron sat outside, smoking a cigarillo, and he watched Cleo’s approach with a lazy smile on his good-looking face.

  “Princess Cleiona,” he drawled, exhaling a long line of smoke. “What a delightful surprise.”

  She eyed the cigarillo with distaste. She’d never understood the interest some people had in sucking in fiery smoke from crushed peach tree leaves and other herbs and exhaling it. Unlike wine, cigarillos were nasty, their smell not sweet and fragrant like peaches at all.

  “I want to talk to you,” she said.

  “I was just sitting here watching the morning go by, thinking that I was so incredibly bored I might have to do something about it.” There was a familiar slur to his words, but not too pronounced. Many would think nothing of it, but Cleo knew very well it was a sign that Aron had already started drinking. It wasn’t even midday.

  “And what were you going to do about it?” she asked.

  “Hadn’t decided yet.” His grin widened. “But now I don’t have to. You’re here.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Of course. It’s always a pleasure to see you.” He looked at her pale blue silk skirt, which was wrinkled and dirty from her descent from Emilia’s room. “Somersaulting through flower beds on the way over here?”

  She absently wiped at the stain. “Something like that.”

  “I’m honored you’d make the effort. You could have simply sent word to me to come to you.”

  “I wanted to talk to you in private.”

  He looked at her curiously. “You want to talk about what happened in Paelsia, don’t you?”

  She felt herself pale. “Let’s go inside, Aron. I don’t want anyone else to hear us.”

  “As you wish.”

  He pushed open the heavy door and let her in ahead of him. She entered the opulent foyer with its high domed ceiling and marble floors, tiled in the pattern of a colorful sunburst. On the wall was a large portrait of Aron
as a young, pale-skinned boy and his stern-looking, but attractive parents. He stayed by the door, keeping it open a crack so the smoke wouldn’t leave a lingering odor behind. His parents didn’t approve of smoking inside the house. Aron might be arrogant and confident, but he was still seventeen and had to abide by his parents’ rules until his next birthday—unless he wanted to move out ahead of schedule. And Cleo knew without a doubt that he didn’t want that sort of responsibility, financial or otherwise.

  “Well, Cleo?” he prompted when she didn’t say anything for a full minute.

  She summoned her courage and turned to face him. She desperately hoped that speaking with him would quell her guilt over the murder and help bring an end to her nightmares. She wanted him to justify his actions—to have them make more sense to her than they did right now.

  “I can’t stop thinking about what happened with the wine seller’s son.” She blinked, shocked to find that her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. “Can you?”

  His gaze hardened. “Of course I can’t.”

  “How do you…feel?” She held her breath.

  His cheeks tensed. He threw the half-smoked cigarillo out through the front door, waving his hand at the smoke left behind.

  “I feel conflicted.”

  Already, she felt a large measure of relief. If she was to be engaged to Aron, she needed to know that they felt the same way about most things. “I’ve had nightmares. Every night.”

  “About the brother’s threat?” he asked.

  She nodded. It felt as if Jonas Agallon’s eyes still bore into her. Nobody had ever looked at her with that much unbridled hate. “You shouldn’t have killed that boy.”

  “He was coming at me. You saw it yourself.”

  “He didn’t have a weapon!”

  “He had fists. He had rage. He could have strangled me right where I stood.”

  “Theon wouldn’t have let that happen.”

  “Theon?” He frowned. “Oh, the guard? Listen, Cleo. I know that it upset you—but it happened and there’s no going back. Put it out of your mind.”

  “I wish I could, but I can’t.” She exhaled shakily. “I don’t like death.”