“Nonsense, the gown is just fine,” Jonas said. “And now we’re here. Do you see anything?”
“In this crowd? No. We’re going to have to split up and start asking around. Someone must know when the king’s ship is scheduled to depart.”
“Then let’s not waste any time.” He drained the cider, its sweetness giving him a little more energy. Now he only wished his shoulder wasn’t on fire and that his fingers on that arm weren’t going numb.
Let’s worry about one thing at a time, he thought.
They made a plan to meet in an hour, then parted ways. Jonas watched Lys swish off in her rose-colored skirt. If it wasn’t for the large canvas sack slung over her shoulder to conceal her bow and arrows, she’d easily be able to pass for the daughter of a wealthy Auranian.
Many of the men on the docks were bundled up in wool cloaks and heavy overcoats. Jonas knew from looking at them how chilly the morning was, but his fever made him feel as though it were the hottest point of midday. He also felt dizzy, but still he refused to go somewhere and rest while Lysandra took over. This was too important. The king would be here, out in the open. In this crowd, surely he and Lysandra could create enough chaos to distract any bodyguards, corner the king, and question him about Cleo’s whereabouts before Jonas finally sliced his evil throat.
He forced his weakened body forward into the crowd, closer to the ships, stopping several men as he went and inquiring about departure times and passengers. He and Lysandra had prepared a story to tell these deckhands, that they were a couple who’d eloped and were looking for passage aboard a ship to take them overseas on a wedding journey. They thought this fib would be particularly successful in leading into a conversation about the king, since Princess Lucia was rumored to have just eloped herself.
After speaking to at least ten men, Jonas had been offered passage aboard five different ships, but no information of any use.
Feeling frustrated and faint, he took a break and stood on the creaky wooden dock, scanning the line of ships until his gaze settled on one in particular: a rickety-looking boat, half the size of all the others, painted along the sides with grapevines and the words WINE IS LIFE.
A Paelsian ship delivering wine to Auranos.
On any other day, the sight of this docking boat might have made Jonas feel nostalgic. But today, nothing but rage rose within him.
“Back to business, just like that,” he muttered.
Of course, no matter what kinds of travesties and violence Jonas’s homeland had just endured, Auranians wouldn’t dare deprive themselves of their fine Paelsian wine, which was valued for its perfect sweetness and its total lack of any ill effects after a night of overindulging.
Drink yourself rotten and feel just fine the next day. Of course that was a promise of the utmost importance to these Auranians—still hedonistic, even under the King of Blood’s rule.
Now that Jonas believed in the legends, and had witnessed firsthand the life-giving effects of Paelsian grape seeds infused with earth magic, which had brought him back from the brink of death, he was certain that Paelsian wine had elementia to thank for its success.
And Jonas still had Auranos to condemn for enslaving Paelsians, monopolizing their vineyards, and binding them into a contract to sell only to them.
It was a good reminder that Limerians weren’t the only evildoers in the world.
Jonas swayed on his feet as a wave of dizziness washed over him. It stank near the water—of fish, of waste thrown over the side of the docked ships, of the ripe body odor of the workers. And he could feel his fever getting worse.
Just before he was about to keel over, a hand gripped his arm, keeping him upright.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite rebel!” boomed a jolly voice. “Good morning, Jonas!”
Jonas turned toward the man, who regarded him with a wide, toothy grin. Ah, yes, it was Bruno, Galyn’s grandfather. Jonas was well acquainted with the old man, who had great enthusiasm for the rebel cause, as well as a tendency to speak his thoughts and opinions aloud at high volumes.
“Bruno, please, speak softly.” Jonas looked around nervously.
Bruno’s smile dropped away. “My poor boy, did you lose your eye?”
“I . . . uh, no.” He absently brushed his fingers over the eye patch. “It’s only a disguise. I’m rather recognizable around here, in case you didn’t know. So, hush.”
“Well, thank the goddess for that! Two eyes are much more useful than only one.” The old man signaled toward a worker from the Paelsian ship who’d disembarked and drawn closer to them. “Good, that’s good! Twenty cases, yes?”
“Yes, sir!”
Jonas eyed the ship. “You’re picking up a shipment?”
Bruno nodded. “Been checking here every day for nearly a week because the ship was delayed. But I had to be diligent so someone else wouldn’t sweep in and steal my order. The wine’s so popular the Silver Toad would be shuttered for good without it.”
If he’d been here for a week, he could be of great help to Jonas.
“Bruno . . . do you know when the king will be here? Have you heard people here talking about his departure over the past week? Nerissa told us he’s taking a trip overseas.”
Bruno frowned. “King Corvin? But he’s dead!”
Jonas tried to keep his patience. “No, Bruno. King Gaius.”
Bruno’s entire face went sour. “Bah. He’s an evil snake, that one! Going to take us all down in flames if we give him half a chance!”
“Agreed. But have you heard anything about his departure from Auranos?”
He shook his head. “Not a thing. However, I did see him.”
Jonas blinked. “You saw him?”
Bruno gestured toward the flock of departing ships with his thumb. “Left earlier this morning on a big black Limerian ship with a red sail. Ugly snake crest painted on the side. How could anyone think he’s trustworthy, sailing in on an evil-looking ship like that?”
“He left this morning?”
Bruno nodded. “Passed right by me while I waited in this very spot. I tried to spit on him, you know, to show my support for the rebels, but it landed on a seabird instead.”
The king had already left. And it was Jonas’s fault that they’d missed him. He’d been stubborn in his insistence that he come along. Had Lys left early, while Jonas was still asleep, like she’d wanted to, the king might be dead right now, instead of fleeing off on his next evil mission.
“My boy.” Bruno patted his arm. “You’ve gone very pale. Are you all right?”
“No. I am definitely not all right.” This was just another painful failure to add to his lengthy list.
Bruno sniffed the air, then cocked his head and sniffed again. “What is that?”
“What?”
“I smell . . . ugh, merciful goddess, it’s like a cross between horse dung and rotting meat.” He continued to sniff, then drew closer to Jonas.
Jonas peered at him warily. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sniffing your shoulder, of course. What does it look like I’m doing?” The man’s face fell. “Oh, my. It’s you.”
“Me?”
Bruno nodded. “I’m afraid so. My grandson gave you some of the healing mud, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“Let me see.” Bruno poked his left shoulder, causing Jonas to yelp in pain. “Come on, let’s see it.”
Jonas tried to concentrate on something other than the stench of the docks and the sweaty bodies passing by all around him. Suddenly, he wished he’d never woken up after his injury, that he was still unconscious in his cot at the Silver Toad.
Grudgingly, he pulled his shirt to the side to give Bruno better access to the bandages.
Bruno gently unwound the bandages and peered underneath. His expression turned squeamish. “That looks even worse than it smells.”
“And it feels even worse than it looks.” Jonas glanced down at it. Most of the mud had been rubbed away, exposing a
raw red wound surrounded by angry purple marks like lightning bolts and green edges that oozed pus.
“You’re rotting like a three-week-old melon,” Bruno announced, putting the bandages back in place.
“So the healing mud isn’t working at all?”
“That concoction is quite old. It did work moderately when I first received it, but it never would have worked for a wound as serious as this. I’m sorry, my boy, but you’re going to die.”
Jonas gaped at him. “What?”
Bruno frowned. “I’d suggest cutting off the arm, but unfortunately the wound isn’t in the best place for that. You’d have to take the shoulder as well to clear away all the infection, and I’m afraid that just won’t work. Perhaps you could find some leeches and hope for the best?”
“I’m not going to go find any leeches. And I’m not going to die.” Still, as he said it, even he knew that he didn’t sound convinced. He’d seen men in his village fall terminally ill from rotting wounds. Some of the more superstitious Paelsians believed those deaths to be punishments for speaking ill of the chieftain, but even as a child Jonas knew that couldn’t be true.
“There’s that fighting spirit!” Bruno now patted Jonas’s head. “I think that’s what I’ll miss the most about you when you’re dead.”
“I have far too much to do before I die,” Jonas growled. “I just need . . . a healer.”
“Far too late for a healer.”
“Then I need a witch! I need a witch who can heal through touch. Or . . . or grape seeds.”
Bruno eyed him as if he’d gone mad. “Grape seeds, eh? Perhaps there are some witches who can heal a simple scrape, with magical mud or, perhaps, enchanted seeds of some kind. But to heal a wound as deep and putrid as this? Not a chance.”
“But I know one who . . .” He trailed off, remembering that, of course, Phaedra wasn’t a common witch; she was a Watcher. And she was dead, after sacrificing her immortality to save Jonas’s life.
“You might be able to find a witch with earth magic strong enough to take away your fever and give you some strength back,” Bruno said. “It’s unlikely, but I’d say that’s your best hope.”
“And where am I supposed to find someone like that?” he muttered, and then a thought occurred to him. “Do you think Nerissa might know?”
“Nerissa might, yes,” Bruno said, nodding. “But she’s gone, too.” He gestured toward the sea. “Apparently, Prince Magnus officially requested her presence in the north. See that Auranian ship in the distance there, with the golden sails? That’s her, headed off to Limeros.”
“Wait. Did you just say that Magnus is in Limeros?” Jonas said, ignoring another wave of dizziness.
“Yes. On the throne, apparently, with his beautiful wife at his side. You’ve met the princess, haven’t you? She is such a lovely young girl. Of course, I don’t support the Damoras by any means, but on a purely physical level, don’t you think she and the prince make a rather striking couple? And the chemistry between the two when I saw them on their wedding tour—it practically sizzled!”
Jonas now felt even more ill than before.
“I need to go, immediately. Tell Galyn . . . tell him I’ll send a message as soon as I can.” Before Bruno could reply, Jonas was off, his head swirling with new information, far too much to process all at once.
The king had departed, to who-knows-where.
Nerissa was gone.
Prince Magnus was on the throne in Limeros.
And Princess Cleo was with him.
The hour was up, but Lysandra wasn’t at the meeting place. Suddenly, he heard a loud shriek coming from somewhere close by.
Lys.
Jonas’s legs were weak but still he ran toward the sound, drawing his sword with his right hand.
“Lys!” he yelled as he reached the edge of the village, ready to protect Lysandra from attackers, to fight as hard as he had to to keep her alive.
When he turned a corner he saw her standing there, her chest heaving, her skirts dirty. Two young men lay on the ground in front of her, groaning with pain.
Lys turned to Jonas, her cheeks bright with color, her eyes wild. “This is why I don’t wear gowns! It brings about the wrong sort of attention—attention I don’t want!”
“I . . . uh . . .” Jonas shocked at the sight, stumbled over his words.
“This pile of dung”—she kicked the buttocks of one of the groaning men—“tried to grab my chest! And this one”—a sharp kick to the other—“laughed and cheered him on! I’m never wearing a dress again. I don’t care if King Gaius himself recognizes me.”
Jonas felt half-appalled, half-delighted as one of the young men looked up at him in agony. “Get her away from us,” he moaned to Jonas.
“Gladly.” Jonas took Lysandra’s arm and pulled her back around the corner and onto a main street.
“You never fail to amaze me, you know that?” Jonas said to Lysandra as they walked. “I thought you were in serious danger.”
“Insulted and annoyed, perhaps, but not—”
Jonas pulled her closer and gave her a quick, hard kiss on her lips, smiling. “You’re amazing. Never forget it.”
The bright color had returned to her cheeks as she touched her mouth. “You’re lucky I’m all right with you, or you’d be on the ground, too, for taking me by surprise like that.”
“Very lucky,” he agreed, still grinning.
She bit her bottom lip. “Now, um, what’s going on? I couldn’t get a helpful word from anyone around here. What about you? Anything?”
“Yes, I learned plenty.” He told her about Bruno, about the king’s departure, and that Magnus and Cleo were in Limeros, soon to be joined by Nerissa.
Lysandra swore under her breath. “So, what now? Should we get on a ship and try to go after the king?”
He shook his head. “Too late for that. But luckily we’ve got something just as important to do instead.”
Her gaze dropped to his shoulder. “Find someone who can heal your wound?”
Jonas knew he couldn’t hide his feverish face and weakness from her, so he didn’t bother trying anymore. Whether they could find someone skilled enough to help him in time, though—that was the question.
“If we can find a proper healer, then yes.” He set his chin and looked into her light brown eyes with determination. “And then we’re going to Limeros to rescue a princess and kill a prince.”
CHAPTER 8
MAGNUS
LIMEROS
His father used to insist that Magnus sat in on royal council meetings when he was younger, although he hadn’t paid much attention to them. He regretted that now as he tried very hard not to drown in a sea of complicated political dilemmas and decisions.
His first meeting had gone poorly, and the councilmen did not hesitate to show their dismay that Kurtis was no longer in command. Of course they didn’t dare be rude to his face, but from Magnus’s seat at the head of the long table he could sense their simmering disapproval in their rigid body language and harsh glares. Many of the current councilmen, including the wealthy and influential Lord Francus and Lord Loggis, and the High Priest Danus, had been in the king’s inner circle since Magnus was a sullen boy with a habit of keeping to the shadows of the palace. Surely they hadn’t seen him then as a strong and capable heir to the throne. And Magnus could tell that they still judged him that way, not knowing that he was different, much more like his father now, in many ways.
The council had unanimously requested that Lord Kurtis take a seat on the council, claiming that it was rightfully his, given all he’d been responsible for in his father’s absence. Since Kurtis had committed no actual crime against the throne, and to appease the council as much as he was able, Magnus decided to grant this request.
Magnus scanned the document that had been presented to him at the beginning of today’s meeting.
“It’s quite a problem, isn’t it, your highness?” Kurtis asked in his reedy voice.
The wa
r against Auranos—short as it may have been—had cost Limeros a hefty fortune. This deficit was further compounded by the high cost of constructing the Imperial Road. To compensate, even the poorest citizens were now being taxed to the point of utter destitution. The kingdom hadn’t yet been completely bankrupt, but it was clear that something needed to change.
“This situation is deeply troubling,” Magnus said slowly. “But what troubles me more, Lord Kurtis, is that in your father’s months as grand kingsliege, he was not able to come to a reasonable solution.”
“My sincerest apologies, your highness, but my father wasn’t granted the authority to make such sweeping changes without the permission of the king. And the king has been in Auranos, occupied with southern affairs, for so long that I daresay many of his citizens have nearly forgotten what he looks like.”
A comment as insolent as that should have received dark looks from the other council members, but instead Magnus saw them nodding their heads.
A guard pushed open the doors and entered the room.
“Your highness,” said the guard, bowing his head, “my apologies for interrupting, but Princess Cleiona is here.”
This was the last thing he expected to hear from a guard interrupting a council meeting. “And?”
The guard frowned, then glanced at Kurtis, who stood up.
“Your highness, this is my doing. Your lovely wife expressed an interest to sit in on this council meeting during our archery lesson this morning, and I didn’t dissuade her.”
“I see,” Magnus replied tightly.
“She’s eager to learn about everything, your highness, but of course I understand if you feel that a woman has no place in such meetings.”
Murmurs hummed along the council table of the old men who agreed with this statement.
Magnus thought he knew what Kurtis was trying to do. He wanted to make Magnus look like a fool before the council. Either by allowing a woman to sit in on the meeting—women were sternly forbidden from participation in any official palace affairs—or by tempting Magnus to protest his suggestion, thus risking offending the princess, which might allow Kurtis to gain more of her trust.
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