Rebel Spring

by Morgan Rhodes

  “Honestly, Franco,” Aron said with a sneer. “Such unnecessary explanations. Do you think Prince Magnus is a village idiot who doesn’t understand road construction?”

  Franco blanched. “Of course not, my liege. I just wanted to explain it in a way that . . . that . . .”

  “That even a village idiot could understand.” Aron took out one of his cigarillos, lighting it off a nearby torch.

  “I meant no disrespect of course. I beg for your forgiveness.”

  Magnus ignored the two and glanced off toward the clearing. The area was peppered with guards on foot and on horseback. A group of Paelsian slaves moved past where they stood, laden with heavy stones, their faces dirty, their clothes ripped. Those who didn’t glance toward their superiors with fear instead cast bold glares of hatred.

  It was a very different sight than the road crew based in Auranos.

  Magnus watched until they disappeared behind the farthest tent. “When do the slaves rest?”

  “Rest?” Franco repeated. “When they drop.”

  A young boy trudged past them with a stone that had to weigh half of what he did, his face a mask of pain and misery.

  “How many have died?”

  “Too many,” Franco said with annoyance. “Paelsians are supposed to be hearty people, but quite honestly, I’m less than impressed by what I’ve seen here. They’re lazy, selfish, and more often than not, only the whip will keep them focused.”

  While unquestionably effective, Magnus had never been fond of the whip as a form of punishment. “I wonder how you’d fare with the same amount of work. Would you be hearty enough to handle the stresses of such a job without the threat of a whipping?”

  Franco’s bushy brows moved upward, his face reddening. “Your grace, if it weren’t for such discipline there would be little chance that the road would be finished in the timeline Xanthus demands from us, especially this section into the mountains.”

  “And is there any progress on the search?”

  “Search?” The man frowned. “Search for what?”

  “Never mind.”

  It would appear that the assistant engineer did not know the true purpose for this road, other than its being . . . a road. Such dangerous secrets would best remain hidden.

  Aron’s gaze slid past Franco’s sweaty, pudgy face as they made their way back to the engineer’s tent. A pretty girl was moving toward the tent, her arms heavily laden with firewood. She had light brown hair that fell down her back. Her figure, beneath the simple dress she wore, was thin but shapely. She was daring enough to look directly at Magnus with curiosity in her eyes as she passed without a word.

  “And who is that beautiful creature?” Aron asked.

  Franco glanced toward the girl. “That is my daughter, Eugeneia.”

  “Tell her to come here. I wish to be introduced to her.”

  Franco hesitated, glancing briefly at Magnus.

  Magnus nodded to give permission for more introductions and Franco called out to the girl. She put down her heavy load, brushed off her hands on the front of her dress, and came to join them as they entered Franco’s tent, shutting out some of the noise from outside.

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Eugeneia, I’d like you to meet our very important guests. This is Prince Magnus Damora and Lord Aron Lagaris.”

  Surprise lit her gaze and she immediately curtseyed deeply. “A true honor.”

  “Tell me, Eugeneia,” Aron said, his eyes lighting up at the sight of her beauty up close, “how do you like spending so much time at this camp with your father?”

  She flicked a glance toward Franco, then back at Aron. “May I be honest, Lord Aron?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I don’t care for it at all.”

  Franco clucked with disapproval and reached for the girl as if to pull her backward. Aron held up his hand to stop him.

  “What don’t you like?” he asked.

  She studied the ground for a moment before raising her gaze to meet his. “My father is a brilliant engineer in his own right. It bothers me that he can make no decisions without approval from Xanthus, even if his decisions would improve things. It doesn’t make sense to have one cruel, brutish man in charge of everything with absolutely no one able to disagree with him!”

  Franco drew her to his side, tightening his arm around her shoulders. “Hush, girl. Your opinions are not necessary or appreciated. Do you want to insult our guests?”

  A flush spread across her cheeks. “Please forgive me. I forgot my manners for a moment there.”

  “I appreciate your passion,” Aron said. “It’s so rare for someone to speak their mind so freely. It’s refreshing, I think.”

  She bowed her head. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Franco, I have a request,” Aron said, his gaze still fixed on the girl.

  “Yes?”

  “I wish for your daughter to join me for a late meal in my tent.”

  Magnus rolled his eyes and turned away.

  “Tonight?”

  “When else?”

  Franco cleared his throat, looking flustered by the request. “I suppose that is all right then.”

  “Father . . .” Eugeneia began, her tone doubtful.

  “You will go with him.” Franco’s double chins lifted as he nodded. “Lord Aron is kind enough to take notice of you. The least you can do is share a meal with him in gratitude for such an honor.”

  The girl lowered her head. “Yes, of course.”

  • • •

  The night stretched long and endless ahead of Magnus once he retired to his private tent. Thoughts of magic, of unsuccessful quests, of a dead mother, a slain rebel, a disrespectful exiled Watcher, and of a golden-haired, defiant princess filled his mind. He tossed and turned on his pallet. After a while, he decided that fresh air might help clear his head and rose.

  He began to walk through the camp, past the long lines of tents of all sizes. He wondered which one belonged to the mysterious “cruel and brutish” Xanthus. Bonfires dotted the large clearing, sending sparks up into the darkening sky. Night-watch guards were set up to patrol while others slept, and they lined the area, their red uniforms easy to make out in the torch-lit surroundings.

  Something hadn’t sat right with him about Aron’s request to dine with Eugeneia. He didn’t trust the boy, not with a pretty girl like that. Not unchaperoned.

  “It’s none of your concern,” he told himself.

  This fact seemed to make little difference. He found himself at what he realized had been his destination all along.

  Aron’s tent was almost as big as Magnus’s. Both were easily the size of a Paelsian cottage, with a seating area, a comfortable bed, a table to take meals at. Nothing like being at the Auranian palace, of course, but Magnus was accustomed to these sorts of austere accommodations.

  He drew closer to the flap, glancing inside past the modest opening to see that Eugeneia had arrived and was seated at the table. Empty plates and platters lay discarded across the table. Their meal was over. Her hair was swept up off her shoulders into a braided coil and she’d changed her dress to one a bit finer than before.

  “You must feel so honored right now,” Aron was saying. “To be here with me.”

  He perched on the table next to where she sat. He ate a peach, slicing it with a fancy silver blade. The juice trickled down his chin before he wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt.

  She sat in a chair an arm’s reach away from him. “Very honored,” she said after a pause.

  “The moment King Gaius met me, he knew I was destined for greatness. It’s unheard of to be appointed to kingsliege at my age—especially not by a conquering king.” He looked at her expectantly, waiting for her reaction.

  “You must be very special, my lord.”

  “Do you
want anything else to eat, my pet?”

  “No—no, my lord. Much gratitude to you, but I really should go back. It’s late.” She glanced toward the flap and Magnus eased back into the shadows to keep from being seen.

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  “It’ll be an early day tomorrow, and—”

  Aron was on her in an instant, pulling her up out of the chair and pressing his mouth to hers.

  She gasped against his lips as she wrenched away from him. “Lord Aron . . . I barely know you!”

  “You know me well enough. You’ll stay the night with me.”

  Her cheeks turned bright red and she wrapped her arms around her chest. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. My father—”

  “Your father would give permission if I asked him. You think he wouldn’t?” Aron gave her a wide, toothy smile. “He knows how important I am to the king. I do very special assignments for King Gaius—things not everyone would do. I take care of his problems under the cloak of night.”

  “Problems?”

  “Stupid, ignorant people that stand in the way of what he wants. I’ve proven myself so fully to King Gaius that he would allow me anything I desire.” His gaze swept the length of her with appreciation. “And right now I desire you.”

  “I must go.” Eugeneia turned toward the flap.

  Aron caught her arm. “I like a girl who plays hard to get, but my patience wears thin.”

  “I’m not the kind of girl who stays with a man she only just met, even if he is an important lord.”

  “Actually,” his grip increased, “you are exactly the kind of girl I tell you to be.”

  “No, Lord Aron. I’m—”

  Aron let go of her only to strike her hard across her right cheek.

  Magnus tensed but stayed silent, watching. Waiting for the right moment.

  Eugeneia pressed her palm against her face, now backing away from Aron toward the table. Her wide eyes glistened with tears. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  Aron loomed over her. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself entirely clear. I chose you above any of the Paelsian whores out there who’d jump at the chance to warm my bed tonight. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

  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 th
e 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.”