“That explosion hit closer to you than I wanted,” he growled. “Idiot doesn’t know how to follow orders. He killed too many people today. And he came damn close to killing you, too.”
Jonas wasn’t remotely gentle as he began yanking her along with him, following Tarus and the other guard through the melee. Thousands of spectators fled the explosions, and the detonations kept coming. One after another after another.
Two guards raced past them without giving them a second glance. A third slowed his steps and cast Lysandra a sour look.
“Where are you going with the prisoners?” he demanded of Jonas and the other guard—another disguised rebel, Lysandra had figured out—who had Tarus by his shirt.
“I was told to take them back to the dungeon until this area is secure,” Jonas said. “Unless you want to take them?”
“No. Carry on. And make haste.” The guard continued on his way.
“Oh, I’ll make haste,” Jonas spat past his gritted teeth.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Lysandra growled. “Because you’re doing a great job so far.”
“Good to see you, too. Oh, and you’re welcome for saving your arse. Now shut up.”
Jonas moved so swiftly that Lysandra nearly tripped over her own feet. She was weak from dehydration and hunger, from grief and fear. What did he think he was doing? He and this other boy had just risked their own necks to rescue her and Tarus. Idiots!
“You don’t think anyone will recognize you dressed like that?” she hissed. “It’s not like that uniform covers your face.”
“What part of shut up don’t you understand?”
“Who’s that with Tarus?” She eyed the boy now ten paces ahead of them.
“A friend. Now do me a big favor and please act like a prisoner so we don’t draw more attention.”
Lysandra shut up.
The four of them reached the guarded opening in the eastern wall that allowed the river to flow through the heart of the city, providing it with its main water supply. The frightened crowd was trying to squeeze through the exit as fast as they could.
A guard stepped in front of them. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“We’re leaving,” Jonas replied.
“You’re leaving the city with the prisoners?”
“Yes, that was the plan.”
The guard looked closely at Jonas’s face, and Lysandra’s heart sank. “You—I know you. You’re Jon—”
The hilt of a sword struck the guard suddenly in the head. He fell to reveal another guard standing behind him, one whose carrot-colored hair stuck out at all angles and clashed with the crimson shade of his uniform.
Jonas flashed him a smile. “Good to see you, Nic.”
The redheaded guard grinned back at him. “It’s good to be seen.”
“When your friends wake up, please thank them for lending us their uniforms. They were very useful.”
“If they wake up they’ll be blamed for letting a couple rebels get the better of them. Nice display back there. I’m almost impressed.” Nic slapped Jonas on his back. “Now get out of here and don’t look back.”
Without another moment’s delay, the four of them fled the city. Jonas and his friend discarded their stolen uniforms in a nearby forest where they’d hidden their regular clothes, as well as some food and water for Lysandra and Tarus. They made them drink and eat as they walked, putting as much distance between them and the city as possible.
Finally, once they were several miles away, Jonas stopped when Lysandra stumbled. Her legs were weak.
He regarded her with alarm. “I’m going too fast for you.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m just clumsy.” And exhausted, she thought. And in shock.
“You didn’t look injured back in the city. . . .” He checked her skin, pulling her hair away from her shoulders.
She pushed his hand away. “I’m not.”
He didn’t look convinced, he looked worried. “Did those bastards hurt you?”
She was still in a daze, uncertain if this was real or a dream. “They were about to chop off my head.”
“They kept us in a dark cell and barely fed us,” Tarus said, his voice quavering. “But they didn’t beat us. They beat up Gregor, badly, when he wouldn’t talk.”
“Gregor,” Jonas repeated, his eyes flicking to Lys’s. “Your brother’s in the dungeon too?”
All she could do was nod until she found her voice. “He was. The king killed him. He made me watch.”
Jonas clenched his jaw and he swore under his breath. “Lys . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Me too.” She let out a shuddery breath, weary from her grief. She wished so much that Gregor were here, too. Then she remembered their new companion. The older, dark-haired boy peered at her with silent curiosity, his arms crossed over his chest. “Who’re you?” she said.
“Sorry, I should have already made the introductions,” Jonas said. “Lysandra, Tarus, this is Felix Gaebras. Not only do you owe him your lives, but so do I. Without him, none of this could have happened.”
“Pleasure,” Felix said.
Lys’s first instinct was to demand more answers, but words vanished before she could speak.
Jonas was right. If it weren’t for Felix, and for Jonas, she’d be dead. She decided to reserve judgment on this boy until she got to know him better.