The word felt like a slap. “I’m the crown prince, Mother, in case you forgot. The heir to the throne of Limeros—now the throne of all of Mytica. Why would I not want that, and more?”
“Your father is a cruel man who searches for a treasure that doesn’t even exist. His obsession borders madness.”
“He’s driven and focused on what he desires most. And I would caution you not to call the king mad. He wouldn’t take well to such statements.”
Now that the king had left their presence, she didn’t look concerned. She looked more confident about her words with each one she spoke. “Will you tell him?”
His jaw tensed. “No. But when you insult the king, you insult me as well. Father and I—we’re very much the same. We’ll do whatever it takes to get what we want, and we’ll hurt whoever gets in our way, no matter who they are. Without conscience or remorse.”
This bold statement finally brought a glimmer of a smile to her face, which immediately helped ten years vanish from her age as if by magic.
Magnus watched her warily. “Did I say something to amuse you?”
Her gaze was soft, as soft as he’d seen from her in recent years. “In looks, yes, you’re just as handsome as Gaius, without any doubt. But that’s where the comparison ends. Oh, Magnus, my son, you’re nothing like him. And you never will be.”
He flinched as if she’d struck him. “You’re wrong.”
“You think I mean this as an insult? I don’t.”
“I’ve killed, Mother. Many men. I’ve watched them suffer and bleed and die before me on the battlefield in order to secure the Auranian palace. I’ve even slain one who didn’t deserve my blade, one who acted out of courage and bravery. I cut him down with the fear of a coward.” The words felt like broken glass in his throat. “I stood by while Father had an innocent young girl tortured and I didn’t say a word to save her. She’s dead now and it’s my fault.” He looked away, shielding his weakness. “My heart is carved from ice, just as you say the king’s is.”
The queen drew closer and raised her hand to the right side of his face, the side with the scar. She caressed it like she had when he was a little boy, and his chest began to ache. “You are not like Gaius. He is a monster with a cold heart and a black soul. You’ve made mistakes, yes. And I have no doubt, just as anyone who lives and breathes, that you will make many more in your life. But it doesn’t change who you are deep down inside. You have a kind heart, Magnus. And there’s nothing you can do to change that.”
His eyes burned as he pushed her hand away. “We must join Father outside. This conversation is over.”
CHAPTER 8
LYSANDRA
PAELSIA
Lysandra left the rebel camp at dusk, grabbing a torch from the pile of supplies in order to keep the shadows of the Wildlands from tightening around her like a noose. Over the weeks since her village was attacked, since the last time she saw her parents alive or spoke to Gregor, she’d tried to harden herself in both mind and spirit. And it had worked. Even in this thick forest that filled all but those with the darkest souls with dread, she was bold and fearless.
She startled when the howl of some nearby fanged beast cut through her. A shiver went down her spine and she tightened her grip on the torch.
Yes, so very bold and fearless.
Or so she tried to tell herself.
She walked past a small clearing where a crackling fire lit the area, which had grown darker with the dying of the day. A trio of boys dragged the carcass of a freshly killed deer into view.
The camp consisted of ramshackle shelters and hammocks built into the trees like birds would build nests. Many boys, and a few driven girls, now called this their home. A refuge away from King Gaius’s iron fist. By day, the rebels would head out in small groups—hunting, scouting, thieving—to benefit the rest of them, but by night they stuck together. There was safety in numbers when one chose such a dangerous and wild place as their home. And they trained here in hand to hand combat, as well as with sword, dagger, bow and arrow, so they could go out and cause havoc across Auranos, attempting to spread the word of the king’s lies and sway all who crossed their path to the rebel side.
Alas, there had been few victories.
And worse, Jonas refused to mount an attack with his rebels on the road camps, fearing defeat and loss. Lysandra had grown weary of asking. But not as weary as she was of missing her brother, so viciously that it hurt. Was Gregor still alive?
If no one would help her to do what was right, she had to take matters into her own hands.
However, it wasn’t long before she realized that two very specific rebels had followed her out of camp.
Brion was panting by the time he caught up to her. “You walk fast.”
“Not fast enough, apparently,” she mumbled.
“Where are you going?”
“Away.”
“Are you leaving us?”
“Yes.”
His expression fell. “Lys, don’t go. I need—uh, I mean, we need you here.”
She sighed. The boy was like a friendly dog, always eager for any kind word she might offer up. If he had a tail, she had no doubt it would wag if she even looked in his direction. She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help but like Brion Radenos.
But then there was the other one.
“Running away?” Jonas’s familiar deep voice made her grimace. “Without even a farewell?”
For a week she’d lived with the rebels, eaten with them by the campfire, hunted with them, trained with them. He’d barely spoken directly to her if he could help it, since she usually wanted to talk of her plans and ideas for what the rebels should be focusing their attention on.
“Farewell,” she said, giving the rebel leader a tight and insincere smile over her shoulder.
She returned her attention to the path ahead. It would be a long and treacherous hike through the Wildlands before she got to her destination. The moment she arrived at the first village in Paelsia, she decided, she would find a horse.
“You’re going to scout the road camp by yourself?”
She kept walking. “Yes, Jonas, that’s exactly where I’m going since you refuse to do anything to help our people.”
He might refuse to mount an attack at this time, but he had at least succeeded in gaining more information about the precise locations of the road camps currently under construction in Paelsia. Many who might not wish to join the rebels completely were sometimes willing to whisper secrets if there was no chance of being caught.
Lysandra planned to investigate the camp located by Chief Basilius’s deserted compound, for it was the closest location to her destroyed village. It was here she expected to find people she knew—those who had survived. If she could free any of them, help any of them, she needed to try. And perhaps Gregor would be there. But the painful hope squeezed her chest too tightly, so she put the thought out of her mind.
“Don’t go, Lysandra,” Jonas said. “We need you back at camp.”
This made her stop walking and look at him suspiciously, pushing aside the branch of a tree to see him properly through the gathering darkness. “You need me, Jonas?”
“You’ve proven your worth as a rebel—and your skill with a bow and arrow. We can’t lose you.”
His words surprised her, since she had the impression he couldn’t care less about her. “I will return.” She hadn’t been certain she would, but his unexpected praise coaxed the words from her lips. “But I need to see for myself what’s become of the people from my village. It can’t wait another day.”
“I won’t be able to protect you if you run off and do your own thing.”
“I don’t need your protection.” She tried to keep her tone even and controlled, but the suggestion that she was a weak girl who needed a strong boy to protect her was infuriating. “Don’t worry about me, A
gallon. Spend your precious time worrying about Princess Cleo. Perhaps she’ll jump aboard the next scheme you come up with that doesn’t dare put anyone at risk of spilling even one drop of blood.”
She twisted the words as if they were a weapon and succeeded in making Jonas wince. His decisions were ludicrous to her. After all, each and every rebel had known the potential for danger when they’d signed up for the job!
Jonas shot Brion a withering look. Lysandra had learned quickly that a few kind words, a mere touch of his arm, or a smile would have Brion eating out of her hand and telling her secrets. Such as Jonas’s clandestine visit to the princess, which resulted only in failure.
“We should go with her,” Brion said firmly, ignoring Jonas’s glare. “We need to see for ourselves the proof of how the king is treating our people.”
Lysandra’s heart swelled. “Thank you, Brion.”
His eyes locked with hers and he offered her the edge of a smile. “Anything for you, Lys.”
Jonas was quiet, his expression hard, as he looked at both of them in turn.
“Fine,” he finally said. “You and Brion wait here for me while I go back to camp and put Ivan in charge while we’re away. We’ll go together and we’ll return together.”
Lysandra wasn’t sure why the stubborn rebel leader’s decision felt like a major victory for her. But it did.
• • •
During their two days’ journey, the trio encountered an enormous black bear who’d appeared to them like a demon, barricading their path. Brion had barely managed to escape the swipe of its razor-sharp claws, and Lysandra had felt the heat of its breath on her neck as she snatched him out of its way just in time. Later,
they also found a small camp of outlaws who, when offered the chance to join the rebel ranks, unsheathed their daggers and threatened to cut the three into tiny, bloody pieces and eat them for dinner.
They took that as a firm no.
Finally they emerged from the forest and moved east into Paelsia—the tips of the jagged Forbidden Mountains visible at the horizon, stretching tall and ominous into the gray clouds above.
Chief Basilius’s compound was a walled area with clay and stone huts and cottages. Everyone who’d made it their home had scattered after the chief’s murder, leaving it deserted. It had been transformed into a temporary city of tents for the guards and soldiers who surveyed the area.
Here, the ground still held some vegetation, the trees some leaves. To the south, the edge of the Wildlands was a half day’s journey. To the west and toward the Silver Sea lay small villages, including the remains of Lysandra’s.
Swarming with Paelsian workers, the king’s road cut into the ground like a fresh wound. It was incredible to Lysandra how quickly it was being constructed, as if the king had slid his finger across the dusty Paelsian landscape and the road’s path had magically appeared wherever he touched.
But there was no magic here. Only sweat. Only pain and blood.
The three looked on grimly at the sight before them from where they crouched unseen in a forest thick with evergreens near the compound and camp.
A meager river wound through the dusty land parallel to the road, the only fresh water this area had to offer. Beyond it, literally thousands of Paelsians lined up along a two-mile section to toil. All ages—from young to old. Two Paelsian boys worked feverishly thirty paces away from the hidden rebels, sawing a thick tree trunk. Others carried heavy stones that had been painstakingly chiseled flat to the front of the road, which was out of sight from where Lysandra pressed up against a tree, the bark’s sap leaving its sticky trace on her skin. Whenever anyone slowed their pace, the crack of the guards’ whips sounded out, slicing brutally across bare backs.
“You see?” Lysandra whispered. “I wasn’t lying. This is what it’s like here. This is how our people are being treated.”
“Why are they being abused like this?” Brion’s voice was hoarse. “No one could work at this pace without rest.”
“These are not people to these guards. They’re animals who serve one purpose.” Lysandra scanned the area until her eyes were strained, searching for familiar faces—searching for Gregor. Her gaze finally moved to Jonas’s tense expression. He stared at the sight before them with disgust. His hand had dropped to the jeweled dagger at his waist as if he itched to use it.
“We need information,” Jonas finally said. “But how do we get close enough to talk to anyone without the guards seeing us?”
“They keep the slaves in line by intimidation and threat.” Brion’s brow furrowed. “But there are no chains, no walls.”
Lysandra had stopped listening. She’d spotted someone she recognized from her village and her heart began pumping hard and fast. She waited until a guard on horseback had turned his back so he wouldn’t see her approach, and then she slipped away from the shield of trees and into the midst of the Paelsian laborers.
“Vara!” Lysandra thundered up to the girl, who looked at her with wild, scared eyes. “You’re alive!”
“What are you doing here?” Vara whispered.
The area was as crowded as a small city and buzzing with activity. Everywhere Lysandra looked there were piles of wood and rock as tall as cottages. Dotted along the edges of the road were large tents where the Limerian guards could take breaks and step out of the harsh sunlight.
Lysandra pulled Vara behind one of these tents to shield them from a nearby guard. “Where’s Gregor?” When the girl didn’t reply, she shook her. “Where is he?”
“I—I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”
Lysandra’s heart twisted. “When did you see him last?”
“In the village—when they descended upon us.” Her voice broke and her eyes welled with tears. “Lysandra, so many are dead!”
It was only confirmation of what she already knew was true. “How many still live?”
“I don’t know. You shouldn’t be here! They might capture you too!” She bit her bottom lip, frowning. “But . . . but you’re a good fighter—I know this. You can help us.”
“Help you? With what?”
“Our escape.” Vara nodded firmly, but Lysandra noticed there was a strange, unhinged look in her eyes. “It was already supposed to happen. I’m only waiting for the sign. You’re the sign. You must be. It’s time for us to free ourselves.”
“What are you talking about? Is there really a plan for escape?” It lightened Lysandra’s heart to think that her people would be planning a revolt here, even against so much armed opposition. Jonas had been right about one thing—attacking a place with so many guards would lead to many, many deaths of rebels and slaves alike. And certainly no guarantee of victory.
Most Paelsians accepted life as it was handed to them, believing that fate and destiny were unchangeable. Jonas was one of the few she’d met who had something inside him—something that defied this belief. This certainty shone through his very skin, and she knew it was what had singled him out as a leader. Jonas was a leader. He believed that destiny wasn’t to be accepted with head bowed; it was to be challenged at every turn.
That Vara, too, wanted to break free was a sign that there was a chance for others to do the same.
“I dreamed it would be me,” Vara whispered. “That I would kill them all.”
She turned and Lysandra winced to see the red lash wounds on the girl’s back. What remained of her dress was in tatters.
Still, there was something very wrong about the way Vara spoke. “Of course you will. They will die for what they’ve done, I promise you that.”
Vara glanced over her shoulder and gave Lysandra a big grin that sent a shiver down her spine. “Watch me.”
“Watch—watch what? Vara, what are you talking about?”
Picking up a mid-weight, jagged rock from the ground, Vara began walking directly toward a guard. Lysandra’s heart began po
unding wildly. What was she doing?
“Sir . . .” Vara said.
“What is it?” The guard looked at her.
Without hesitation, she smashed the rock into the guard’s face. He let out a pained roar as his nose and teeth were crushed by the force of it. She crouched over him when he fell to the ground and continued to beat him with the stone, over and over until there was little left of his face but red pulp.
Lysandra looked on from the edge of the tent, horrified, as other guards shouted out an alarm. They rushed toward the assault, pushing past other workers, swords drawn.
There was no hesitation as one guard thrust his sword through Vara’s side, straight through to the other side, and she let out a piercing scream, losing her grip on the bloody rock as she fell to her side on the ground. Dead within moments.
Lysandra clamped her hand down over her mouth to keep from making a sound, but a strangled cry escaped her throat. Other slaves were not so quiet. Many began to wail and scream at the sight of the blood, the dead guard, the dead girl.
An older man with thick muscles and a heavy beard roared out in fury. Lysandra took only an instant to recognize him as Vara’s father. He ran toward the guards and took hold of a guard’s sword, wrenching it from his grip. He struck quickly and brutally, severing the guard’s head where he stood.
In mere moments, three dozen Paelsians joined the fight in an attempt to kill as many guards as they could—with rocks, with chisels, with their bare hands and teeth. Other slaves stood back, looking on with fear and shock etched into their faces.
A swarm of new guards approached at a run. One raised his arm to bring his whip down upon a young boy, but then the guard staggered backward. With wide eyes, the guard looked down at the arrow that had sunk into his chest, just below his shoulder. His gaze shot to Lysandra.
When he opened his mouth to yell, to point her out to the other guards as a target, another arrow impaled his right eye socket. He fell to the ground without uttering a sound.
The first arrow had been from Lysandra’s bow. Her already callused fingers felt raw from the speed with which she’d nocked an arrow and let it fly.