Rebel Spring (32 page)

The part of her mark visible above the edge of the tapestry swirled and brightened.

The sword’s hilt began to glow orange. Magnus released it with a gasp of pain.

“Wrong answer,” Phaedra said. “Perhaps you’re not ready for my help yet. Pity. Mark my words, one day you’ll wish you’d been more amenable to my advice. Jonas, we must go.”

She turned to the flap of the tent, but escape was blocked by someone new standing in their way.

He was tall, with bronze hair that swept his shoulders. His eyes were the color of copper. He was easily twice Jonas’s age.

Phaedra eyes widened at the sight of him. “Xanthus.”

He smiled at her. “It has been a very long time, Phaedra.”

“Too long.”

“You knew I was here, didn’t you?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“But you told no one else.”

“The others think you’re dead. And you’ve done a very good job of keeping yourself hidden all these years.”

“But not from you.”

“No, not from me.”

“I have missed you, sister. So much.”

“And I’ve missed you. Even though I hated you for leaving. For doing what
she
told you to do.”

Pain entered his copper-colored eyes. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know.” She jumped into his arms, hugging him tight. “You can make it up to me. Leave this place. You can help me . . . help us. We need safe passage out of this camp.”

Jonas tried to follow along, but he was lost. This man—Xanthus. He was the road engineer the rebels had targeted. But he was a Watcher too? Phaedra’s brother? How was any of this possible?

“I was told you would come here,” Xanthus said, still in Phaedra’s embrace.

“Who told you?” She pulled back and looked up into his face, touching his cheek. But then her face paled. “She’s evil, Xanthus. Why can’t anyone see that as clearly as I do?”

“Melenia does what she must to save us all,” Xanthus said. “And it’s now, Phaedra. We’re so close.” He clasped her face between his hands. “And I’m so sorry. I wish you could be here when it happens. What we’ve waited so long for.”

“Where else will I be? I’ve sacrificed my immortality, just as you did. We can be together again. The past is the past. Let’s leave it there.”

Xanthus’s eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid not, my sister. You know far too much. I’ve been given very specific instructions from Melenia. And I am at her command—I always have been. I always will be.”

His hands began to glow with golden light and Phaedra drew in another gasp that sounded pained this time.

“What are you doing to her?” Jonas demanded. “Unhand her!”

Magnus watched all this silently, with his arms crossed over his chest, a deep frown creasing his brow.

“Nothing can stop this,” Xanthus said. “It is for the best. Try to remember that, my sweet sister. I did this because it’s the right thing to do.”

The glow covered Phaedra’s entire form as Jonas and Magnus looked on, stunned by the display of magic.

But what kind of magic was this?

Jonas surged forward, grabbing hold of Xanthus’s arm to pry it away from Phaedra. Xanthus grabbed Jonas by his bloody shirt and launched him backward. He flew across the room and hit the wooden table hard, breaking it.

Phaedra fell to her knees on the floor of the tent, her eyes glazed as they met Jonas’s from where he now crouched ten paces away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I failed. I wish I could have . . .”

She breathed out one last breath and the life left her eyes. A moment later the swirling of her mark spread to cover her entire body, and she disappeared in a flash of shimmering light.

Xanthus has vanished from the tent as well.

Jonas stared in shock at the place the Watcher had been only moments before. Then he flinched as the cold, sharp tip of Magnus’s sword touched his throat.

“On your feet, Agallon.”

Jonas forced himself up, and he eyed the prince with unbridled fury—the sour taste of it rising in his throat. “You act as if you have not just witnessed a miracle . . . and a tragedy.”

“I’ll admit, it was an unexpected sight before the sun has fully risen.” Behind the prince’s droll tone, Jonas heard a quaking. The sight of the Watcher’s death—is that what it had been? Was Phaedra dead?—had shaken Magnus too. “But I’m recovering quickly. Time for a little trip to my father’s dungeon along with your rebel friends. He’ll be very pleased I’ve finally captured you.”

How could he stand there and pretend that none of this mattered? That the world would never be the same? Watchers were not simply legend. Magic was real. Jonas was reeling. “I didn’t murder your mother.”

“I know. Aron Lagaris did.”

Jonas shot a look toward Aron’s body, and his gaze snapped back to Magnus’s. “He killed my brother and my best friend.”

“And now he’s dead. He received the same end I originally planned for you. Although, I must admit, I planned on making you suffer quite a bit longer.”

“It was supposed to be my blade that took his life!”

Magnus offered him a thin, humorless smile. “Get over it.”

Suddenly, there was a scream from outside the tent. Many screams and terrified cries that no longer sounded like the familiar sounds of battle. It only took a moment to discover the reason why.

“Fire!” someone yelled.

A line of flames began to snake around the circumference of the tent, as if the earth itself had been set ablaze.

Magnus pulled his sword away from Jonas’s throat and moved swiftly to the flap of the tent, pushing it aside.

The camp had ignited. Orange and yellow flames lit up the area, drowning out the glow of dawn over the mountains, torching the dry, fallen trees, the piles of wood, the tents. Guards and slaves alike ran screaming. Some were on fire—flames that turned gold and silver and a bright and unnatural blue. They screamed in agony as the fire scorched their flesh before the violent and overwhelming fire transformed their bodies to crystal that exploded into a million shards of broken glass.

Jonas stared at the sight of the deaths with disbelief.

This was no normal fire ignited during a battle.

This—this was a horrible, destructive, deadly magic. Fire magic.

“What is this?” Magnus said, his voice rising in fear.

Blood spilled on the Blood Road. Three times. Three disasters.

A tornado, an earthquake, a wildfire.

Jonas’s newly healed heart pounded faster. He came up next to the prince. “Do you believe in fate, Prince Magnus? I never did before, but . . . do you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” Jonas slammed his forehead against the prince’s face. He’d been so still, so weakened since his resurrection. It had taken time to get his full strength back.

But it was finally back.

He grasped Magnus’s sword, then brought his elbow up into the prince’s face and hit his nose hard. Blood gushed and Magnus roared in pain. Jonas snatched the sword completely away from Magnus and swung it around to slice the other boy’s throat. But Magnus was also fast, and he blocked the strike with his forearm.

By now, the tent was engulfed in flames. The fire licked at them both, so hot it burned.

Jonas spun the sword around and drove the hilt into Magnus’s gut, earning a satisfying grunt of pain. But before he could manage another blow, Magnus grabbed for a handful of Jonas’s hair, tearing it out by its roots and kneeing him in the chest. He then managed to yank the sword completely from Jonas’s grip.

“We need get out of here or we’ll die,” Magnus growled.

“I came here prepared to die today. In fact, I already did.”

Jonas tackled Magnus and lurched both of them backward. As they fell, Jonas angled himself so that it was Magnus’s head that slammed against the side of the burning table. It was hard enough to stun the prince, and he knelt on the ground, gasping for breath, sword in hand.

Still, Magnus grasped hold of Jonas before he was able to slip away.

“I have a dungeon just for you, rebel,” he promised.

Five guards approached the burning tent, shouting Magnus’s name.

“Here!” he called out to them. “I have a prisoner!”

“Wrong,” Jonas snarled, using every last piece of his strength to wrench away from Magnus’s grip, yanking the sword away from the prince again. He brought the blade down, but Magnus rolled out of the way just in time.

Jonas swore, eyeing the approaching guards who loomed at the tent’s burning entry.

“Seize him!” Magnus yelled.

“Perhaps another time, your highness.” He’d come here to take Magnus as a prisoner, but if he tarried another moment, it would be the other way around.

Without wasting another moment, he cut through the side of the tent and burst out into the chaos outside, ducking and hiding to avoid being seen by any guards through the magical wildfire that raged all around them.

To his right, he saw an older, bald man and a young girl huddled close, away from the carnage, looking around with fear and confusion. The tents were all on fire now. The road camp was an inferno.

Strewn everywhere on the ground were burning bodies—guard or rebel, their blood spilled across the road as if it was a violent and fiery canvas. Some had turned to the strange crystal form after being touched by the fire—broken and scattered across the dusty ground.

Where is Lysandra?

It was his first coherent thought.

He strained his eyes to find her, to find any rebels, but he saw no one apart from those that lay dead on the ground. He couldn’t count. He wasn’t sure how many had fallen.

The body of a dead girl with long, dark hair lay across his path, an arrow pierced through her heart. He stopped breathing completely at the sight of her.

“No. Please, no.” He crouched down, pushing her hair off her face.

But it was not Lysandra. It was Onoria.

A loss . . . a horrible loss to them all. Onoria was an incredibly brave and clever rebel.

After closing her eyes, he got up quickly and ducked behind a tent. He couldn’t stay here. If he did, he would be killed, either by the fire that continued to rage or by a guard.

“Lys,” he whispered. “Where are you? Damn it. Where?”

She had to be alive. Lysandra Barbas was not meant to die tonight.

No, he decided firmly. She
was
alive.

And if she was, he
would
find her.

L
ysandra stumbled as a guard shoved her into a dark and crowded cell, and she fell hard to the dirt floor. The stone walls were damp and smelled of mildew and death. At the top of the tall wall, there was a small window no bigger than her hand, just large enough to let in a ray of sunshine, taunting her with the freedom that had finally been stolen from her.

Only five of them had made it to their destination alive. Phineas had spoken up during the trip to the Auranian dungeon, mouthed off to a guard, and had his throat cut immediately, his body tossed off the side of a bridge.

The rest remained silent after this. Lysandra held tightly on to Tarus’s sweaty hand most of the way. The young boy was terrified, but he tried to be brave. For her. She didn’t know what had become of Jonas, but she refused to believe he was dead.

Why? So many of them had fallen.

But maybe Jonas was one of those who’d gotten away. Maybe he was, even now, mounting a rescue attempt.

No. She wouldn’t let herself think of such things that could only lead to disappointment.

If she was going to get out of here, she’d have to do it herself.

Somehow.

She looked up at the tiny window bleakly. It was hopeless and she knew it. A tear slid down her cheek.

“Little Lys, don’t cry.” The familiar voice reached out from the darkness.

Her head snapped to the boy sitting in the corner.

“Gregor?” She couldn’t believe her own eyes. She ran to her brother’s side, dropping down next to him. She grabbed his dirty hands in hers to prove this was real. “You’re here. You’re alive!”

“Barely.” He tried to smile. “It’s so good to see you, sister.”

“I thought you were dead! I searched for you in the road camps, but I couldn’t find you anywhere!”

“I escaped and made my way to Limeros but was captured a couple weeks ago. They carted me all the way here on orders from the prince himself. Been in here ever since. Not much longer, though. I think they’re finally finished asking me questions. They never seem satisfied with my answers. Only my death will please them now.”

“Don’t talk like that. This is what I needed, Gregor.” Her heart grew lighter than it had in days. In weeks! “This is the sign I needed that everything’s going to be all right. We’re alive, we’re together again, and we’re going to get out of this.”

His gaze grew distant. “That’s what she told me, too. She always told me to have hope. I wish I could see her again, but she hasn’t visited me for weeks.”

Lysandra glanced around the small, stinking cell, her gaze moving over the other prisoners, some of whom were sleeping. “See who?”

“The girl made of gold and silver.”

“What?”

“She told me her name is Phaedra. She’s visited me in my dreams, told me to be patient. That I will find new hope. I figure she must have been talking about you. They put you in my cell, Lys.
Mine
. In a place as big as this—that has to mean something, right?”

“Who is she? What do you mean she visited you in your dreams?”

He looked past her, his expression wistful. “She’s a Watcher, little Lys. She told me not to despair. That I could still make a difference . . . and that there were others like me who could help. I thought she was mad.”

“A Watcher visited you in your dreams,” Lysandra said with disbelief. “Perhaps she’s not the one who’s mad.”

He laughed, the sound dry and brittle. “You could be right.”

“What else did this Watcher tell you?”

Gregor’s brows drew together and he squeezed Lysandra’s hands. “She said when the sorceress’s blood is spilled and the sacrifice is made, they will finally be free.” Her brother’s haunted eyes met hers. “And the world will burn. That’s what she said, little Lys.
The world will burn
.”