Rebel Spring (31 page)

He grabbed her tightly and drew her to his chest. His hands slid down her sides as he began to pull at her skirts.

But then he staggered back from her, looking down to see the tip of a knife imbedded in his thigh. It was the dagger he had used to cut the peach—Eugeneia must have lifted it. Magnus was impressed. He hadn’t even seen her do it.

Aron glared down at her with pain and fury as he yanked it out, letting it clatter to the tabletop. He clutched the girl by her throat and slammed her down against the table.

Magnus’s gaze moved to the dagger for an instant before he closed the distance in four paces and curved his hand firmly around Aron’s upper arm.

“Not a good idea,” he said.

Aron cast a look back at him. “This ignorant bitch cut me.”

“Yes, she did. Let go of her.” The best way to deal with this drunken fool was not to be overtly stern or forceful. Instead, he gave Aron a smile. “She’s meaningless.”

His eyes blazed. “I wanted her. And I get what I want.”

“I can find you many girls, much more beautiful than this one. One, two, three at a time. Your choice. This one has proven she’s not worth any more of your energy.” Magnus eyed Eugeneia. “Isn’t that right?”

She trembled with fear, but there was something harder in her eyes. Hatred for both of them in equal measure. “Yes, your highness. I’m not good enough for Lord Aron.”

“Then I suggest that you leave.”

She pushed herself up off the table and ran from the tent. Aron watched her flee with a dark look.

“How much have you had to drink tonight?” Magnus asked. From Aron’s unfocused gaze and the stench of his breath, the boy was as drunk as Magnus had ever seen him.

“Enough.”

“Really? That’s too bad. I was going to join you in another round.” Magnus tore a strip from the silk table covering. “Here, let me help you with that wound. Doesn’t seem to be too bad.”

Aron let him pad his wound, his face pained. “You know, I
could
use another drink.”

“Thought you might agree.” When he finished with the bandage, Magnus grabbed a flacon of wine. He poured two glasses and handed one to Aron.

Aron downed it in one audible gulp. “I’m ashamed that you witnessed that, your highness.”

Magnus waved a hand as he took a sip of the wine. He’d not often indulged before; it was forbidden in Limeros. The wine was sweet, smooth, and not unpleasant. “Don’t be. It only goes to show that women are volatile.”

“Stupid, too.” Aron downed his second glass after Magnus poured it for him. “Much gratitude, your grace.”

“The more you drink, the less your wound will hurt.”

“I hope you’re right.” Aron grimaced, touching the bandage gingerly. “I would have thought you angry with me for attempting to bed the girl.”

Bed? Looked more like attempted rape to Magnus. “Not at all.” Magnus forced his smile to stay firm. “She was an attractive little thing. Just not for you.”

“Women are deceptive creatures of darkness whose beauty lures us close enough so they can carve their claws into our flesh.” A glint of humor lit Aron’s gaze as he took another deep gulp of the wine. “Which is why they must be declawed as soon as possible, as you’ve done with Cleo.”

“Sharp claws indeed.” The mention of the princess, who had been on his mind far more than he liked while on this journey, had Magnus tipping his glass back and draining it before he realized what he was doing. “I’m curious about something, Lord Aron.”

“What’s that?”

“I confess, I don’t know much about what you’ve done as kings-liege to prove yourself to my father. What you said earlier to Eugeneia—have you killed in the king’s name? Apart from the rebel the other day?”

Aron nodded grimly. “I have.”

Magnus leaned closer and offered the edge of a smile to set the boy’s mind at ease. “I think we’ve managed to put aside our many differences and become close friends during this journey.”

Aron’s brows rose. “You think so?”

“Yes, of course. I would like to be friends with you. Friends share secrets. They lean on each other for support in times of need.”

“It’s been a long time since I had a friend like that,” Aron said wistfully, swirling his wine.

“Me too.” Not since Lucia, when she could look at him without revulsion tainting her opinion of him. The reminder of her was a dull pain in the center of his chest.

Even still, the world had taken on a shimmering edge that brought with it a sliver of light-headedness. Paelsian wine was very strong—it could inebriate a man with only one glass.

Cleo liked wine. He’d watched her drink a great deal of it on the night of their wedding, and also during the tour. Perhaps it was all that had helped her tolerate the pain of being near someone she hated so completely.

“My first assignment for the king weighs heaviest on me.” Aron looked up at Magnus.

“Tell me more.”

Aron turned away, his grip tightening on his glass. “The king swore me to secrecy.”

“May I guess what he asked you to do? If I’m correct, I promise to forgive you.”

That hopefulness again lit in Aron’s eyes. “Really?”

“Really. After all, I took the princess away from you. I suppose that means I owe you a favor.”

Aron considered this. “Very well. You can guess, but I doubt you’ll be correct.”

Magnus nodded, then he leaned over and snatched up the dagger Aron had dropped to the ground. He placed it between them on the wooden surface of the table. The jewels embedded in the hilt sparkled in the candlelight. The wavy blade was still coated in blood and sticky peach juice from before.

Aron stared at it as if seeing it for the first time.

“This is your dagger?” Magnus asked softly.

There was a noticeable hesitation before he spoke. “It is.”

“It is identical to the dagger used to kill the queen; the evidence my father the king felt pointed entirely to the rebel leader. I had believed it was one-of-a-kind, but it appears you have its twin still in your possession. Just how many of these daggers exist, Lord Aron?”

Aron’s brows were tightly drawn together. “There is a reason for this, I assure you.”

“That’s not an answer to my question. How many of these jeweled daggers exist? Two? One the rebel used to kill my mother and another in your personal collection? Or are there
three
daggers, Aron? If I found Jonas Agallon, would I see that he still had the dagger you left in his brother’s throat?”

A chill had spread through the tent, but perhaps it was only Magnus’s blood cooling with each word he spoke.

Lord Aron might have the appointment of kingsliege, but he was not a skilled knight. He was not a capable fighter. He had no great capacity to lie about something so important. He was only a boy who had aspirations of greatness and a taste for blood when it served him.

When the sweat that now beaded on Aron’s forehead told more than words ever could, Magnus continued. “Ever since you executed the rebel I’ve had my suspicions. But they were only whispers in the back of my mind. You didn’t want Brion Radenos to keep talking, to convince me that Jonas had nothing to do with my mother’s murder. Because he didn’t, did he? You were the one who killed her. You killed her at my father’s command.”

The accusation left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he felt the truth of it.

Such painful truth.

Aron eyed the dagger rather than meet Magnus’s gaze. “She was a deceptive woman, one working hard to hold the king back from achieving his full glory. Cold and incapable of love, he told me, even toward her own children. She could have destroyed him. Destroyed everything.”

“So you agreed to be her assassin.”

“Yes. One does not argue with the king.”

“No, not if one values his life.” Magnus blew out a long sigh and attempted to steady himself, to shake off the mild inebriation caused by the wine. He placed the dagger down upon the table. “Believe it or not, I do understand. My father makes people do things they might not agree with. He manipulates them for his own gain and he’s been very successful at it.”

Even his own son.

“You said you’d forgive me,” Aron said, his voice strained.

“I did say that, didn’t I? But how can I forgive anyone for something like this? You murdered my mother.” Magnus unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the boy.

Aron snatched the dagger off the table and held it out in front of him. “I will defend myself!”

“As you absolutely should.”

“The king will give me protection again you. Against anyone who means me harm. He has seen how valuable I am.”

“Is it something in the blood of
all
Auranians that they’re so quick to believe my father’s lies?”

Tears now spilled from Aron’s eyes, the sight of which sickened Magnus. “Pull yourself together, you pathetic fool. This is no way for a kingsliege to behave.”

“Forgive me, your highness. I am so, so sorry for what I did.”

The fire within Magnus at the knowledge that this vapid peacock had been the murderer of his mother, that he’d helped the king frame another and kept the truth of any of it from Magnus, receded slightly. Killing Aron in wine-fueled vengeance would give him as little satisfaction as squashing a cockroach.

“We will take this matter up with my father when we return to the palace.”

His father had much to answer for. He lowered his sword to his side and turned away toward the flap of the tent.

In the reflection of a silver goblet, he saw Aron lunge at his back, the dagger still clutched in his raised hand.

Magnus turned. He deflected the blade with his left forearm and with his right hand thrust his sword through Aron’s chest.

The boy hung there, impaled, his eyes wide, and he stared at Magnus as if surprised. Such an expression on one who had fully meant to kill him only angered Magnus further. He twisted the blade and Aron let out a tormented cry, the sound of a dying animal, before the life finally left his eyes. With a sharp yank, Magnus pulled out the blade and the lord dropped bonelessly to the ground.

Magnus stood there for a few silent moments, staring down at his mother’s killer while Aron’s blood began to pool by his left boot. His glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling of the tent.

Just as Magnus had expected, there was no true victory in this death. Only emptiness.

But he now knew the truth. He’d never felt such hate before in his entire life. Hate for a man he’d always looked up to, even if he didn’t agree with every one of his decisions; a man who wasn’t weak, who did what he needed to do, who achieved power and glory with violence, intimidation, intelligence, and brute strength.

Once Magnus had aspired to be exactly like his father.

No more.

T
he rebels made camp a mile from the line of tents by the Blood Road, not daring to light a fire. They watched and waited, staying huddled as a group for warmth, until the sun began to breach the gigantic mountains. Even the golden hawk that seemed to follow Jonas everywhere perched in the forest of brittle, leafless trees, waiting along with them.

“What is she?” he whispered to himself, looking up at her. “What does she want with us? With me?”

The hawk gave no answers. Instead, she flew away moments before they were ready to put their plan into action.

Jonas gave the order to move, and as silently as shadows, the forty-seven rebels spread out and entered the camp in their search for Magnus and Xanthus. Since there was no way for so many to stick together during the attack, the plan was to meet at a designated spot three hours’ journey from here at nightfall.

They had their targets. They knew their task. Nothing would distract them. And anyone who got in their way would die.

If all went perfectly, no one would even know they’d been there.

Then again, Jonas never expected this to go perfectly. He was prepared for obstacles. And so were his rebels.

Only minutes after their entry into the camp, a warning sounded out.

And then it was madness.

Guards began to spill from their tents and stations, swords in hand. Lysandra nocked arrow after arrow into her bow, letting them go like a predator lying in the shadows, silent death catching her marks precisely in the throat or chest.

“Go now while you can,” she commanded Jonas as he fought off a guard, “and if you find Lord Aron before I do, kill him—and make it hurt.”

The promise of blood—of the vengeance he’d craved for so long—fueled him like nothing else. He slammed the guard in the throat with his forearm and the guard dropped to the ground, unconscious. “Good luck, Lys. If this goes badly, I’ll see you and Brion in the everafter.”

“You really think that’s where any of us are headed?” She actually gave him a grin, baring straight white teeth, her face lit by the golden glow of the dawn. It jarred him to realize that Brion had been right—this girl was absolutely gorgeous. “I’ll see you in the darklands, Agallon. Save a demon or two for me.”

She held his gaze for only a moment longer before slipping away from him without another word.

And Jonas went hunting for his prey amidst the confusion and turmoil. His main targets were Magnus and the road engineer, but he hoped to find Aron as well. Now Aron had Brion’s as well as Tomas’s death to answer for in blood.

He glanced into each tent he passed, roughly fighting off anyone he came across. And almost
too
easily the guards went down. They were so used to lording over weaponless and weakened slaves in this private, secluded location that they hadn’t been prepared for an attack of this magnitude at the crack of dawn—nearly fifty rebels ready to do whatever it took to gain an advantage against the king who would enslave their brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers.

Jonas wiped a spray of blood from his face and continued on. He pushed open the next tent flap, and his gaze fell on someone he recognized immediately.

Aron Lagaris lay sleeping on the ground. Rage lit within him at the memory of this bastard killing his friend. Killing his brother.

“That drunk last night, were you?” Jonas snarled. “Wake up. I want you to know that I’m the one who ends your life.”

He took another step, entering fully into the tent, now frowning. Aron’s eyes were open and staring. The front of his shirt was stained with blood—blood that soaked into the dirt floor.

The realization hit him hard. Aron was already dead.

Someone grabbed him from behind, a strong arm crushing his throat.

“You think Paelsian scum like you can attack us so easily, that we won’t be able to kill every last one of you?” It was a guard, a large one with bad breath. “Think again, rebel.”

Jonas arched his blade upward, but the guard caught his wrist, wrenching it to the side to break the bone with a sharp crack. Jonas roared in pain and lost his concentration for a split second.

That was all it took.

The guard brought his own blade down, sinking it straight into Jonas’s heart.

Then he yanked out the blade and shoved Jonas forward. Jonas stumbled to the ground hard, only a few feet from Aron. He looked up, gasping, his vision swirling. The guard was a hulking black silhouette surrounded by morning light.

He wiped the blood off his hands. “You honestly thought you could stop us with your little group of savages? Gonna go kill me a few more before breakfast.” He was laughing as he left the tent.

Jonas’s chest bloomed with agonizing, searing pain. His life bled out onto the tent floor, oozing bright red, sliding across the ground to mingle with that of Aron’s.

“Brion . . .” Jonas’s throat was thick, his eyes burning. A memory—his and Brion’s childhood, running through the vineyard, stealing sweet, plump grapes, and being chased by Jonas’s angry father, who’d—so unlike his son—accepted his destiny without a fight, who’d always followed the rules set forth by Chief Basilius, even when these same rules left his family’s bellies empty.

Catching up to the always rebellious Tomas, who laughed at their antics—Tomas, who never followed a single rule in his life unless he made it himself. And Felicia, his bossy sister, who just stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head and warning Jonas that he’d get in trouble one day for not toeing the line. Felicia was strong—strong enough to survive without him. Strong like their mother had been before the wasting disease had taken her. Jonas had heard rumors that Cleo’s sister had died of a similar ailment.

I never told her that.
I should have told her.

Images of the princess with golden hair slid through his mind. He was in the cave again, kissing her as if he had no choice, confused by such overwhelming feelings toward a girl he’d previously despised and wanted dead. But even the coldest hate can shift into something warmer if given enough time, just as an ugly caterpillar can turn into a beautiful butterfly.

Images of Lysandra, smiling, her unexpected beauty this morning like a blow to his gut. The flashing of her brown eyes when she was angry, arguing, always giving him a hard time. But he was glad he’d accepted her as one of his rebels because she was so skilled, so determined, so damn passionate she lit a fire inside of him with only a few words.

And now he would die staring into the glazed eyes of Aron Lagaris. For months, Jonas had wanted vengeance toward him so much, more than anything else. And now the boy he’d hated more than anyone else in the world was nothing more than a shell—an empty shell.

Death solved nothing. It was only an end.

And now his own end had come.

A small surge of light caught the corner of his fading vision. Someone had entered the tent. His last gasps of breath were so slight he would already look dead to anyone but the most skilled healer.

A figure sank to her knees next to him. A warm hand pressed to his forehead, another to his mouth to open it. He couldn’t resist, couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even blink.

Something was pushed into his mouth. Small pebbles.

The pebbles heated on his tongue until they felt like burning coals. They melted like lava, burning him, spreading out over his entire tongue, his mouth, and down his throat.

He arched up off the ground as the fire slid to his belly and expanded from there—torture. In his last moments of life, someone was torturing him.

A firm hand pressed against his chest to keep him from lurching upward as his body convulsed.

Like a sun setting behind the horizon, slowly, slowly the pain receded until it was only a glow in the center of his body. His breath came quicker now. His heart pounded.

His heart? But how was this possible?

It had been sliced through, but now it sounded strong. He felt its beat—fast and hard, but steady. His vision cleared just as slowly, brightening and coming into focus until he could see who it was who’d been tormenting him.

The girl’s hair shimmered like platinum—paler even than Cleo’s. Her skin shone with sunlit gold and her eyes were light, a silvery color a few shades darker than her hair. She was wrapped in a tapestry, one pulled from the wall of this very tent. Otherwise, she was naked.

“I’m very angry at you,” she said. “You went and got yourself killed.”

His mouth was so dry. “I’m dead. This is my entry to the darklands.”

She let out a sigh, one that sounded annoyed. “Not the darklands, although I’m sure you’re headed there one day soon. Another few moments and these grape seeds wouldn’t have been able to do anything for you.”

Jonas studied her face, the long line of her pale throat.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

She regarded him steadily. “My name is Phaedra.”

“Phaedra,” he repeated, licking his parched lips. “Did you say grape seeds? What are you talking about?”

“Earth magic has pulled you back from the precipice of death. Earth magic can either heal or kill, depending on who wields it. You’re lucky I like you.”

He looked down at himself, pulling his ruined shirt to the side and wiping at the blood. So much blood, but there was no longer a wound beneath. His skin had healed. His body was whole again, including the wrist the guard had broken.

Had she said
earth magic
?

But magic . . . it didn’t exist. He’d never believed.

This was impossible. And yet . . .

His gaze snapped to hers. “You saved my life.”

“I did. I tried to resist, to continue to watch from afar. I still don’t know if you’ll be any good to me—to
us.
Getting captured is one thing. At least there’s still hope for escape. But dying . . .” She groaned and placed her hands on her hips. “I couldn’t help myself. I had to shift from my hawk form, and now—well, now I’m stuck here. You’re lucky I always keep a few healing seeds hidden in my feathers for emergencies!”

This girl was mad. Completely mad. “Hawk form?”

“Yes, that is what Watchers can do.”

His eyes bugged.
Watchers?

“Here,” she said. “Since I can no longer shift form, I’ll show you proof of what I am another way. Or . . . what I was until now.”

She pulled at the tapestry she’d used to cover herself. The cloth slipped from her chest and he gawked at it. Not for the reasons he would ever have gawked at a girl’s breasts—although Phaedra’s were the loveliest he’d ever seen in his life.

There was a mark over her heart—a swirl the size of his palm—like molten gold dancing on her flesh.

“It’ll turn darker in the years to come,” she said wistfully. “As my magic begins to fade.”

He couldn’t find his voice to speak, could barely find the air to breathe. Could this be true?

The hawk—the one who perched near camp every day. The one who’d followed him here into Paelsia. The one he’d tried to ignore. Had it been Phaedra?

Magic was real? Watchers were real?

It flew in the face of everything he’d believed. But seeing it, seeing
her
, with his own eyes—

Jonas jumped as he felt the sharp tip of a sword press against his throat. He condemned himself for losing focus, for being utterly distracted by Phaedra’s strange swirling mark and the proof of magic that caused his thoughts to become a jumbled, confused tangle.

His newly healed heart sank as he flicked his gaze toward Prince Magnus, who had silently and stealthily entered the tent.

“Apologies,” the prince said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to interrupt
this
.”

Jonas winced. “What a coincidence. I’ve been looking for you.”

“The feeling’s entirely mutual, rebel.”

Rebel.
How were his rebels faring outside this tent? Concern tore through him. Lysandra would have to lead them on her own for now. He hoped she was having great success in finding Xanthus.

“I just saved his life and now you threaten it?” Phaedra pulled her tapestry back up to cover herself. “That’s very rude.”

The prince’s face was shadowed. “You have no idea just how rude I can be. Shall I show you?”

“Take that sword away from his throat right now!”

The sword pressed harder against Jonas’s windpipe. The barest of movements would sever it. Jonas was still so weak from blood loss, and the violent, magical healing had sapped his strength even more. He could barely move enough to protect himself, let alone Phaedra.

Magnus’s gaze dropped to the edge of Phaedra’s tapestry. “Is what you said to the rebel true? Are you a Watcher?”

“I am. And you’re the son of the King of Blood, who searches for the Kindred. Does he even know what he’ll find if he’s successful in locating it? Do
you
?”

Jonas let out an unwilling gasp as Magnus’s sword nicked his skin and a warm ooze of blood trickled down his throat.

“Much gratitude for the confirmation the treasure exists.” Magnus’s gaze narrowed. “I must admit, I’ve had my doubts. How exactly do I find it?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Your sister’s magic is just like Eva’s was, isn’t it? She’s the key to all of this.”

Magnus’s expression darkened. “How can she locate it? And when? Must the road be finished first?”

“Questions—so many questions.” She cocked her head, studying him. “All I can tell you is she’s in danger. Her magic puts her at great risk. If it overwhelms her, all will be lost before anything can be found—and I know you don’t want that. I believe Lucia means more to you than any treasure. And I know how to help her. Shall I tell you?”

His eyes narrowed. “Speak.”

“There is a ring that was forged in the Sanctuary from the purest magic to help the original sorceress control the Kindred and her own
elementia
. This ring is closer than you might expect.”

“Tell me more.” His words were sharp and eager now. “Where can I find it?”

“If I tell you, you will release Jonas and you will have your father cease construction of this road.”

“And if you don’t tell me, I’ll slit his throat right now.”