Rebel Spring

“There’s no doubt that the boy will pay dearly for this crime.” The king hissed out a breath. “I’ve underestimated the rebels. To be so bold as to assassinate the queen . . . it’s a crime that Jonas Agallon will pay for very dearly. He will beg for his death long before I’ll give it to him.”

This woman who’d given birth to Magnus eighteen years ago, the one who read him stories and danced with him as a child. The one who dried his tears . . . The one who’d shown her long-buried affection to him that day in the temple . . .

She was gone forever.

“Strange, though,” the king said into the heavy silence. “Another body was found close-by, also stabbed. It was an accused witch we’d had in the dungeons in Limeros, one I had long since forgotten about.”

With an aching heart, Magnus studied the strands of his mother’s gray hair, which contrasted so greatly with the ebony darkness of the rest of it. She hadn’t liked that. She hadn’t liked looking older, especially when compared to the king’s mistress, who’d magically retained her beauty. “I don’t understand. Did the witch have something to do with the rebels?”

“It’s a mystery, I’m afraid.”

“I must start looking for Agallon.” Magnus forced the words out. Speaking was the last thing he felt like doing right now. “Immediately.”

“You can join the hunt upon your return from the wedding tour.”

He turned on his father, his eyes blazing. “My mother has been murdered by a rebel and you want me to make a tour across the kingdom with a girl who hates me.”

“Yes, actually. That’s exactly what I want. And you will do it.” The king regarded Magnus with patience in his dark eyes. “I know you loved your mother. Her loss will be felt for a very long time— all of Mytica shall grieve her. But this wedding is important to me. It will seal my control over the people in this kingdom with no more opposition than necessary as I move ever closer to having the Kindred in my grasp. Do you understand?”

Magnus let out a shaky breath. “I understand.”

“Then go. And keep the information about the witch to yourself. We don’t want any rumors started that the queen associated with such lowly women.”

Magnus frowned at the ludicrous notion. He’d assumed the rebels were acquainted with the witch, not his mother. “Do you think she did?”

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think right now or what would possess Althea to leave the palace in the wee hours of the morning.” The king glanced down at the face of the wife he’d had for twenty years. “All I know is my queen is dead.”

Magnus left the throne room where his mother lay, his steps faltering when he got around the next corner and into an empty alcove—no guards, no servants. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He staggered over to the wall and braced his hand against it. A sob rose in his throat but he fought with all of his strength to swallow it back down.

Moments later, a cool, familiar voice intruded into his grief. “Prince Magnus, I suppose you’ll be very glad to know of my safe return. I hope you didn’t miss me too much.”

He didn’t reply. All he wanted was some privacy.

Princess Cleo regarded him, her arms crossed over her chest. Her pale hair was loose, wavy past her shoulders to her waist.

“I’m kidnapped by rebels, held as their prisoner for an entire week, escaped with only my wits to aid me, and you don’t even have a greeting for me upon my return?”

“I will warn you, princess, that I’m not in the mood for foolishness right now.”

“Neither am I, so I suppose we have something in common. And I thought there was nothing we shared.” Her gaze held not an edge of friendliness, but a tight smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

“Smiling?” he managed. “Whatever have I done to deserve this? Or perhaps you’ve already heard the news to help brighten your day.”

“News?”

He felt impossibly weary. “The news of the queen’s death.” A frown creased her brow. “What?”

“She was murdered by rebels.” He took in her unconcealed look of shock. “So there you go. Something for you to celebrate.”

Magnus turned away from her, ready to find solace in his chambers, but the princess grabbed his arm to stop him. He sent a dark look at her over his shoulder.

“I would never celebrate death, no matter whose it is,” she said, her gaze filled with anger and something else. Something that looked vaguely like sympathy.

“Come now, I’m sure you wouldn’t mourn any Damora.”

“I know very well what it’s like to lose a parent in a tragic way.”

“Oh, yes, we have so much in common. Maybe we should get married.”

She released him, her expression souring. “I was trying to be kind.”

“Don’t try, princess. It doesn’t suit you. Besides, I don’t need or want your kindness or your sympathy. Both feel alarmingly false coming from you.”

Something hot and wet slipped down his cheek. He swiped at the unbidden tear and turned his face away, appalled that she’d seen it.

“I never would have believed you’d care so deeply for anyone,” she said softly.

“Leave me alone.”

“Gladly.” But now she sounded uncertain, as if the sight of him crying over his dead mother had deeply confused her. “But, wait, before you go . . . I’m sorry to disturb you, I just don’t know who else to ask. I need to talk to my friend. To Mira. I can’t find her anywhere. I’m told she’s no longer Princess Lucia’s attendant. Do you know where she’s been reassigned?”