Rebel Spring

  These people didn’t want to be here any more than she did.

  “I welcome this beautiful princess into my family. And I so look forward to introducing her to Princess Lucia when my daughter is finally well enough to leave her chambers. Despite its difficulties, today has been an incredible day of miracles and blessings.”

  Miracles and blessings. It was all she could do not to leap from her seat and run screaming from this hall.

  “Let us toast to the happy couple.” The king raised his glass, as did everyone seated at the long wooden tables, mountains of food and drink heaped before them. “To Magnus and Cleo. May their days together be as happy as mine were with my beloved, departed Althea.”

  “To Magnus and Cleo,” the guests echoed immediately.

  Cleo’s knuckles were white on her goblet and she raised it to her lips, only to find her hand was shaking. The taste of the sweet wine offered small comfort. Such a familiar taste now—this Paelsian wine. It teased her with the chance for escape. Perhaps she would drink enough wine tonight to drown herself in.

  Nic caught her eye from the back of the hall, where he was standing guard at the far entrance. No guests were allowed to leave until the king decided the banquet was finished.

  A sob rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down with another gulp of wine. A servant was at the ready to fill her glass when it was empty and she had another. Then another. Instead of the world brightening, though, it only seemed to grow darker, with shadows slithering across the floor, clutching at her ankles and legs.

  As the banquet wore on, Cleo couldn’t stop thinking of Jonas. What must he think of her now? At her suggestion, so many rebels had been killed.

  Magnus was a constant presence, so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his body. He smelled of the leather from his overcoat and a deep, warm sandalwood. He hadn’t spoken a single word to her since they’d left the temple. They’d ridden in the same carriage, but he kept his gaze on the view outside, on the landscape passing by on the return journey. He was sullen, cold. As he always was.

  “Ridiculous,” she mumbled. “All of it.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Magnus replied.

  Her cheeks heated. She hadn’t meant to say this out loud. She’d had too much wine, downing glass after glass as it had been presented to her. Magnus had been drinking nothing but spiced cider. She realized she now did an excellent impression of Aron—who sat in the front table and cast occasional drunken, miserable glances in her general direction.

  “I need air,” Cleo whispered after a time. “May I have a moment?”

  Would Magnus expect his wife to always ask permission for her every move? Would he be cruel to her and controlling on this, their first night of marriage?

  First night.

  Her heart began to race at the thought. She wanted to remain in public for as long as possible. What came later she couldn’t deal with. Not with him. Never with him.

  “By all means,” he said, not bothering to look directly at her. “Go get your air.”

  She left the dais without delay. Her walk was more of a stagger as the amount of wine she’d consumed during the banquet became more apparent. Too much. And yet, not nearly enough. She moved as calmly as possible toward the archway leading to the hall . . . to escape.

  Or as much of an escape as she could manage with a limitless number of guards keeping watch over her every move.

  Cleo pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself. Once she found an exit to a balcony, she grasped hold of the railing and tried to calm herself.

  “Quite the ceremony,” a voice greeted her from the shadows, and she jarringly realized she wasn’t alone. Prince Ashur was already taking air on the balcony.

  She attempted to compose herself. “It certainly was.”

  The prince wore a dark blue overcoat, trimmed in gold. It fit his impressive form perfectly. His shoulder-length black hair was tied back from his face, but one long lock fell over his left eye. “I can’t honestly say I’ve ever been to a wedding like that before. If I were a superstitious man, I might be more wary of returning to the palace tonight. It was very brave of you to want to continue on despite such unpleasantness.”

  Cleo let out a half laugh that sounded more like a hysterical hiccup. “Yes, so brave of me.”

  “You must be very much in love with Prince Magnus.”

  She pressed her lips together to keep herself from blurting out the truth. She did not know this man, only that his father had gained his expansive empire by conquering other lands, crushing each one easily. Cleo’s father had once told her about the Emperor Cortas and how his empire compared to that of Mytica . . . like a watermelon next to a grape. At the time, she’d found such a comparison amusing.

  Why would a watermelon care about a wedding taking place on a grape? To her, it seemed a waste of the prince’s time.

  “Why are you here, Prince Ashur?” she asked, then cursed herself for being so blunt. The wine had succeeded both in clouding her judgment and loosening her tongue.

  Luckily, he did not seem offended by her question. Instead, he smiled—a devastatingly charming smile that proved why most every woman who crossed this exotic prince’s path swooned at the sight of him.

  “I have something for you, princess,” he said. “A wedding gift, just for you. Of course, I have also given a larger gift from my kingdom to both you and Prince Magnus in the form of a villa in Kraeshia’s capital, but this . . . this is a small token of friendship. It is something given in my land to a bride on her wedding night.”

  He pulled a small, bound package from beneath his coat and handed it to her.

  “Tuck it away. Open it when you’re alone. Not now.”

  She looked into his eyes, confused. But she nodded and slid the small object into the folds of her gown.

  “Much gratitude to you, Prince Ashur.”

  “Think nothing of it.” He leaned against the balcony railing, gazing out at the rolling vista visible beyond the city walls. In the moonlight, his eyes appeared to be silver, but she wasn’t sure what color they really were. “Tell me of the magic here, princess.”

  The question took her by surprise. “The magic?”

  “It’s quite a history Mytica has for such a small group of kingdoms. Such mythology, what with the Watchers . . . the Kindred. Fascinating, really.”

  “Just silly stories told to children.” She clasped her hands together to cover up her ring. There was something in the prince’s voice . . . something that told her he wasn’t asking this only out of random curiosity.

  “I don’t think you really believe that.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “No, you strike me as the kind of girl who, despite her youth, has very specific beliefs.”

  “Then that just proves how little you know about me. Ask anyone. I’m not interested in history or mythology. I don’t think very deeply about anything at all, especially not fantastical things like magic.”

  Prince Ashur looked at her steadily. “Does the Kindred exist?”

  Her heart began to pound harder. “Why do you care if it does or not?”

  “That you ask that proves how little you know about me,” he said, echoing her previous words. “It’s all right, princess. We don’t need to discuss this right now. But perhaps one day soon you’ll wish to talk more about this with me. I plan to stay here for a while and explore. There are answers I seek and I won’t be leaving until I have them.”

  “I wish you the very best of luck in finding your answers,” she said evenly.

  “Good night, princess. And my sincere congratulations on your marriage.” He bowed his head and left the balcony.

  Cleo waited until she was quite sure he had left before she put her hands on the balcony railing and leaned her full, drooping weight on her wrists. The Kraeshian prince was here not only to attend the wedding but
also to find out about the Kindred.

  Which could mean only one thing: he wanted it for himself.

  He couldn’t have it. No one could. If the Kindred did indeed exist, it belonged to Cleo. She had the ring that would enable her to use it—and use it she would, to reclaim her kingdom.

  She rubbed her ring, then forced herself to return to the banquet. The king eyed her with displeasure as she approached the dais. His forehead was bandaged, some blood from his wound soaking through the gauze. “It’s time for you to go upstairs and prepare yourself for your wedding night.”

  Her mouth went dry. “But, the feast—”

  “The feast is over for you.” A hateful smile snaked across his face. He raised his voice so everyone could hear him. “I would like you all to bid good night to the bride and groom. We would not want to keep them from where we all know they’d rather be.”

  Some laughter rose from the gathered crowd, many of whom by now had had enough Paelsian wine to help forget the troubles of the day.

  “Go with Cronus,” the king said to Cleo, grabbing her arm so he could draw her close enough to hear his lowered voice. “You’ll be prepared as if you were any other blushing bride. No one will ever know your chastity is long gone. Consider yourself very lucky that I still consider you of value despite this rather large flaw in your character.”

  Magnus did not even spare her a glance.

  Cronus stepped forward. “Follow me, princess.”

  There was no room for argument in the guard’s harsh tone.

  Cleo cast a glance at the gathered guests, who offered her tense smiles as she trailed after Cronus. Nic’s attention was also on her, his body rigid, an apology in his tortured gaze that he was unable to save her from what was to come.

  The chambers Cronus guided her to had been prepared specially for the bride and groom. It included a room that had once been reserved for very important guests of her father. A massive four- poster bed sat against the far wall. A fire blazed in an enormous fireplace, and the room was otherwise lit by hundreds of flickering candles. Rose petals of all colors had been artfully strewn across the floor in looping patterns, leading toward the bed.

  Her attendants were there and worked feverishly to loosen her braided hair, to change her into yet another gown, this one gauzy and flowing, its thin fabric leaving little modesty for her to cling to. They rubbed her wrists and her throat with scented oils that had the same cloyingly sweet perfume as the rose petals.

  “You’re so very lucky, princess,” Helena said. “I would give my younger sister’s life to spend even one night with Prince Magnus. And now you get to spend all of your nights with him.”

  “And I’d give my older sister’s life,” Dora said pointedly, with a sharp look in Helena’s direction.

  “I only hope that the rumors aren’t true.” Helena’s gaze snapped to Cleo’s, and she gave the princess an unpleasant smile. “For your sake.”

  Cleo frowned. “What rumors?”

  “Helena,” Dora said from between clenched teeth. “Be careful what you say.”

  Helena laughed lightly. “Don’t you think the princess has the right to know that her new husband is said to have forbidden feelings for Princess Lucia, and she for him? Such love between siblings . . . quite the scandal if many learned of this.”

  “Pardon my sister,” Dora said, her cheeks reddening. “She has been drinking tonight in celebration of your wedding. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  Cleo narrowed her eyes. “I’ll remember you attempted to save her from spreading such unsavory lies.” She would never admit that this information was very interesting to her, whether true or not.

  Without another word, the girls moved away from her and were gone from the room like wisps of smoke. Cronus pulled the door shut behind them. Cleo ran to it and tried the handle, only to find it locked from the outside.

  She was trapped.

  Before, when she’d been able to walk around freely, she could almost fool herself into believing she still had some power. That was such a lie. She had no power here at all.

  Magnus would dominate her. He would abuse her as his father had today. As the attendants prepared her for her wedding night, the mirror had reflected the faint bruise on her cheekbone where the king had struck her and on her throat where he’d come close to strangling her.

  But Cleo had chosen this. She could have escaped with Jonas, but she’d chosen to stay here. There had to be a reason for that . . . a higher goal than fleeing with the rebel.

  She ran over to her discarded banquet dress. Her amethyst ring glinted in the candlelight as she pulled out the gift Prince Ashur had given her. She slowly unwrapped it, only to see an unexpected edge of gold.

  It was a golden dagger. A beautiful one, with an artfully carved hilt and a curved blade. She remembered the prince’s words: “It is something given in my land to a bride on her wedding night.” With a chill she recognized its purpose: something that could be used by an unhappy bride to take her own life if she felt she had no other choice.

  Or . . . the life of her new husband.

  The sound of the door unlocking and opening had her scrambling to hide the weapon behind her back. A moment later, Magnus entered. His black gaze moved through the large room, pausing on the candles, the rose petals, and then finally coming to rest on her.

  Again, she regretted having drunk so much wine. She desperately needed her thoughts to be sharp, not muddy.

  “So it seems we’re finally alone,” he said.

  Cleo was certain he could hear how loud her heart now beat.

  Magnus leaned over and picked up a red rose petal, squeezing it between his fingers. “Did they really think this all was necessary?”

  She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “You don’t find it . . . romantic?”

  He released the petal and it fluttered slowly down to the floor, where it landed like a splash of blood. “As if I care about such drivel.”

  “Many men would on their wedding night.”

  “About roses and candles? No, princess. Most men couldn’t care less about such things. There’s only one thing men are interested in on their wedding night and I think you’re already very aware what that is.”

  Her heart doubled its pace.

  Whatever stricken expression she now wore coaxed a low chuckle from his throat. “That look . . . such contempt. Am I really that ugly to you?”

  The question took her by surprise. Ugly? Despite the scar, he was far from ugly—at least, physically.

  “Far worse,” she said honestly.

  He trailed his fingers over the length of his scar as he studied her for a moment.

  She clutched the dagger. If he came any closer she would use it.

  “Believe me, princess, I have no illusions of any of this. I know you hate me and that will never change.”

  “Should it?” Her words came out hoarse. “Actually, I can’t think of a single reason why I should feel anything toward you.”

  “No, it’s well within your rights to feel nothing toward me at all—as it is in many arranged marriages. But hate is something. The problem with hate, however, is it leaves you at a disadvantage. It clouds your mind every bit as much as five goblets of wine can.”

  Magnus moved toward the bed, his gaze focused on the thick mahogany posters. He traced his index finger along the carving on one of them. He was now closer to her. Too close. She didn’t step away. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear, especially now that there was no one around to intervene.

  “This reminds me of my grandfather.” Magnus’s tone turned wistful. “He had a book about sea creatures and he told me stories about them when I was a child. He snuck past my father so he could do so, after my nursemaid put me to bed. My father never cared much for amusing stories—or amusing anything, reall
y. If I couldn’t learn something tangible from a book it was banned from the palace. Or burned. But when my grandfather was king it was different.”

  Cleo hadn’t noticed the carving on the bedpost until now. Fish and shells and maidens of the sea with tails instead of legs, all carved intricately into the dark wood. It was beautiful and crafted by a renowned artist from Hawk’s Brow whom her father had commissioned to carve many other fine pieces around the castle.

  “I’ve heard a little about King Davidus,” she said when silence fell. “He was different than your father.”

  Magnus snorted softly. “He was indeed. Makes me wonder sometimes if my grandmother had taken a demon lover that helped create my father. My grandfather was firm in his rule, of course. He was no pushover. But he was kind and his people loved him. He didn’t need to govern his kingdom with an iron fist and the threat of blood.” His gaze met hers, and something slid behind his eyes that looked like grief. “He died when I was six years old. He drank something that didn’t agree with him.”

  “Someone poisoned him?”

  There was still that strange and unexpected pain in his eyes, but his mouth pressed into a hard line. “Not ‘someone.’ I saw him put the poison in the goblet, emptying it from a hollow ring. I watched him hand it to my grandfather. Watched my grandfather drink it.”

  Cleo was silent, listening.

  “And when my father saw that I’d seen what he did, he smiled as if I should approve. I didn’t understand at the time, but I do now. My father will do whatever it takes to rid himself of someone standing in his way. Nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change. Understand that, princess, and your life will be much easier.”

  What was this? A warning? Was Magnus actually trying to help her?

  “You don’t think me a threat, do you?” she asked carefully.

  He drew closer to her—much too close. She clutched the knife behind her so tightly the handle dug painfully into her palm.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think,” Magnus said. “There’s no magic behind a thought, unless you’re a witch.”