Morgan Rhodes - Rebel Spring

“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 the 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.”

“So you agreed to be her assassin.”

“Yes. One does not argue with the king.”

“No, not if one values his life.” Magnus blew out a long sigh and attempted to steady himself, to shake off the mild inebriation caused by the wine. He placed the dagger down upon the table. “Believe it or not, I do understand. My father makes people do things they might not agree with. He manipulates them for his own gain and he’s been very successful at it.”

Even his own son.

“You said you’d forgive me,” Aron said, his voice strained.

“I did say that, didn’t I? But how can I forgive anyone for something like this? You murdered my mother.” Magnus unsheathed his sword and pointed it at the boy.

Aron snatched the dagger off the table and held it out in front of him. “I will defend myself!”

“As you absolutely should.”

“The king will give me protection again you. Against anyone who means me harm. He has seen how valuable I am.”

“Is it something in the blood of all Auranians that they’re so quick to believe my father’s lies?”

Tears now spilled from Aron’s eyes, the sight of which sickened Magnus. “Pull yourself together, you pathetic fool. This is no way for a kingsliege to behave.”

“Forgive me, your highness. I am so, so sorry for what I did.”

The fire within Magnus at the knowledge that this vapid peacock had been the murderer of his mother, that he’d helped the king frame another and kept the truth of any of it from Magnus, receded slightly. Killing Aron in wine-fueled vengeance would give him as little satisfaction as squashing a cockroach.

“We will take this matter up with my father when we return to the palace.”

His father had much to answer for. He lowered his sword to his side and turned away toward the flap of the tent.

In the reflection of a silver goblet, he saw Aron lunge at his back, the dagger still clutched in his raised hand.

Magnus turned. He deflected the blade with his left forearm and with his right hand thrust his sword through Aron’s chest.

The boy hung there, impaled, his eyes wide, and he stared at Magnus as if surprised. Such an expression on one who had fully meant to kill him only angered Magnus further. He twisted the blade and Aron let out a tormented cry, the sound of a dying animal, before the life finally left his eyes. With a sharp yank, Magnus pulled out the blade and the lord dropped bonelessly to the ground.

Magnus stood there for a few silent moments, staring down at his mother’s killer while Aron’s blood began to pool by his left boot. His glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling of the tent.

Just as Magnus had expected, there was no true victory in this death. Only emptiness.

But he now knew the truth. He’d never felt such hate before in his entire life. Hate for a man he’d always looked up to, even if he didn’t agree with every one of his decisions; a man who wasn’t weak, who did what he needed to do, who achieved power and glory with violence, intimidation, intelligence, and brute strength.

Once Magnus had aspired to be exactly like his father.

No more.

JONAS

PAELSIA

The rebels made camp a mile from the line of tents by the Blood Road, not daring to light a fire. They watched and waited, staying huddled as a group for warmth, until the sun began to breach the gigantic mountains. Even the golden hawk that seemed to follow Jonas everywhere perched in the forest of brittle, leafless trees, waiting along with them.