Rebel Spring

The ground here was dry, cracked, and what little vegetation it bore was brown and withering. The air was not as cold as Limeros, where one’s breath would freeze into clouds as they spoke, but there was a dry chill here that nonetheless worked its way into Magnus’s very bones.

It made him miss the more temperate climes of Auranos. So sunny and golden, and filled with light and life.

No, wait. What was he thinking? He didn’t miss such things. He didn’t care for Auranos. He looked forward to the day he’d return to Limeros and never look back. He much preferred frozen ponds to flower gardens.

“Your highness . . .” Aron said, his words strained as if he’d had to repeat himself several times to be heard. “Your highness!”

Magnus gripped the reins of his horse so tightly that they bit through the leather of his gloves. “What?”

“Not very hospitable a landscape, is it?”

On this much, they agreed. “No, it certainly isn’t.”

Small talk. Not his favorite pastime.

If they were to travel west, toward the Silver Sea, Paelsia would eventually become greener. That was where the locals planted their vineyards, the ones that grew such perfect grapes that they were sought after by every kingdom in the world for their wine. Every kingdom apart from Limeros, that was, which had forbade intoxicating substances on orders of the king. The king had chosen not to create such laws in Auranos yet. To do so might very well tip Auranos to rebellion.

At the city of tents, they were greeted by a man with a bald head and a broad, greasy smile.

“This is such a great honor.” The man grasped Magnus’s gloved hand and kissed it. “Such a true honor to welcome you here, your highness.” He nodded. “And Lord Aron. I’ve been greatly anticipating your visit.”

“You are Xanthus?” Magnus asked.

The man’s eyes widened and he began to laugh. “Oh, no. I am merely Franco Rossatas, assistant engineer on this site.”

“Assistant? Where is Xanthus?”

“In his private tent, where he spends most of his time, your highness. Since you arrived later than we expected, he would prefer to speak with you there at first light, as he’s already retired for the evening.”

Impatience ignited within Magnus to hear such irrelevant drivel. “I was told he would be meeting me upon my arrival and now I find that he’d prefer sleep over civility? What greeting is this for the son of the king to meet only with the assistant engineer after my long and arduous journey here?”

Franco swallowed hard. “I will be sure to inform Xanthus personally of your displeasure. In the meantime, if you please, your highness, allow me to take you to see our progress here on his behalf.”

For a moment, Magnus considered demanding that the sleeping fool be woken, but held his tongue. Truth be told, he too was very tired. Perhaps their meeting could wait until tomorrow.

Franco led them to the road itself, explaining details as they walked and gesturing broadly with a flabby arm. Large swathes of mostly lifeless forest had been cut down to make way for the road. Trees with wide, brittle trunks lay throughout the camp like fallen giants. To the left the view was thick with sweaty, weary-looking men who toiled even in the darkness.

“Over here, we have men working constantly on the stonework,” he said, “which is a layer of the road, making it flat and easy for travel by wheeled vehicle.”

“Honestly, Franco,” Aron said with a sneer. “Such unnecessary explanations. Do you think Prince Magnus is a village idiot who doesn’t understand road construction?”

Franco blanched. “Of course not, my liege. I just wanted to explain it in a way that . . . that . . .”

“That even a village idiot could understand.” Aron took out one of his cigarillos, lighting it off a nearby torch.

“I meant no disrespect of course. I beg for your forgiveness.”

Magnus ignored the two and glanced off toward the clearing. The area was peppered with guards on foot and on horseback. A group of Paelsian slaves moved past where they stood, laden down with heavy stones, their faces dirty, their clothes ripped. Those who didn’t glance toward their superiors with fear instead cast bold glares of hatred.

It was a very different sight than the road crew based in Auranos.

Magnus watched until they disappeared behind the farthest tent. “When do the slaves rest?”

“Rest?” Franco repeated. “When they drop.”

A young boy trudged past them with a stone that had to weigh half of what he did, his face a mask of pain and misery.

“How many have died?”

“Too many,” Franco said with annoyance. “Paelsians are supposed to be hearty people, but quite honestly, I’m less than impressed by what I’ve seen here. They’re lazy, selfish, and more often than not, only the whip will keep them focused.”

While unquestionably effective, Magnus had never been fond of the whip as a form of punishment. “I wonder how you’d fare with the same amount of work. Would you be hearty enough to handle the stresses of such a job without the threat of a whipping?”

Franco’s bushy brows moved upward, his face reddening. “Your grace, if it weren’t for such discipline there would be little chance that the road would be finished in the timeline Xanthus demands from us, especially this section into the mountains.”

“And is there any progress on the search?”

“Search?” The man frowned. “Search for what?”