Rebel Spring

“I’m so glad you think so.” He glanced directly at the chattering weasel. “Why are you here again?”

Aron looked momentarily offended, but recovered quickly. “At the king’s wishes. He has been very kind and generous to me and, of course, I will avail myself to him in any way he wants.”

“Right. Well, you should go right ahead and avail yourself,” he nodded toward the king, surrounded by important nobles and other dignitaries who’d come out for the event, “over there.”

“Yes, of course. I will. But first I wanted to—”

A drunken voice from the crowd shouted out, loud enough to be heard over everyone else.

“Fools! Every last one of you! You would believe the King of Blood’s empty promises and accept his gifts without question? You think he means to unite us as one happy kingdom? Lies! He’s driven only by greed and a lust for power! He must be stopped, or we’re all doomed!”

Silence fell.

Magnus’s gaze shot toward the king to see if he’d heard.

He had. With a flick of the king’s hand, four guards marched toward the crowd, located the man, and wrenched him forward so forcefully that he fell to his knees just left of where Magnus had dug into the soft, grassy earth. When he tried to rise, a guard pushed him back down. The empty bottle he clutched in his right hand fell to the ground.

King Gaius approached, beckoning for both Magnus and Aron to come to his side.

The man wore what looked like finely tailored clothes that had slowly tattered to near rags. A jeweled ring, crusted in grime, encircled his left index finger. His face held a few week’s worth of dark beard and he smelled as if he hadn’t had bathed in the same amount of time. His eyes were glazed with however much wine he’d consumed, but otherwise fiercely fixed on those who now faced him.

The king swept his gaze over the man. “What is your name?”

He answered defiantly. “Darius Larides, lord of this land, formerly betrothed to Emilia, late crown princess of Auranos. I chose to fight in the battle against you. And now my family is dead for having opposed you, my home destroyed. My future holds nothing but pain—but I assure you, yours holds the very same! The people here will not always believe your lies. They will not allow you to rule unchallenged. More rebel forces gather even as we speak. Auranians are not as stupid and self-involved as you think we are.”

The king nodded, his expression unreadable. He raised his voice loud enough to be heard by those gathered nearby. “Lord Darius thinks I believe you all to be stupid and self-involved. I do not. You are the wisest of all your fellow countrymen for coming here to celebrate with me today. This lord is full of drink and foolish bravery. Perhaps another day he would not be so bold to insult a king who only wishes the best for his kingdom.”

There was a tense pause.

“I’m sure we can find a good place for him in the dungeon,” Magnus said, looking away as if bored. “He may yet have worth. It sounds as if he comes from an important family if he was betrothed to the eldest Bellos girl.”

“Do you agree, Lord Aron,” the king asked, “with what my son suggests?”

Aron’s brow creased, as if he was grappling for the correct response. “I don’t know, your grace.”

Magnus glared at the useless boy. Why did his father care to even ask his opinion?

“It’s difficult,” the king said, nodding. “But such moments as these require a decisive statement. Stand up, Lord Darius.”

With rough prompting from the guards, the lord got to his feet. He moved his hateful glare over the three of them that stood facing him, his arms held tight behind him.

“Would you take back your words?” the king asked smoothly. “And issue a public apology for what you’ve said here, spoiling my ceremony with your lies and insults?”

Magnus’s gaze moved to the knife in the king’s hand, which caught a glimmer of sunshine.

Lord Darius saw this too. He swallowed hard, but he did not lower his gaze. “Take me to your stinking dungeon. Put me on trial for treason. I don’t care.”

King Gaius smiled slowly. “Of course you don’t. But kindly remember one thing, Lord Darius, if you could . . .”

“What?”

“A king does not take orders from a worm.”

The knife moved so quickly that all Magnus saw was a flash of glinting metal. The next moment, blood sprayed from the drunken lord’s throat and he fell to the ground.

The king raised the weapon above his head to show the crowd. “A fitting blood sacrifice for my road, for you all to witness for yourselves. Lord Darius was an enemy to you all, as much as any common rebel. I truly wish to be a benevolent king to all citizens of the newly united Mytica, but I will not tolerate those who would stand against me.”

Magnus watched the blood seep from the gaping wound on the lord’s throat, soaking into the ground. Lord Darius’s gaze was on Magnus himself, filled with hatred even as the last bit of life faded from his eyes.

“Well done, your majesty,” Aron murmured. “Of course, you were right. He deserved no pity.”

Of course, you were right. Words that the prince himself should be saying, but he found they did not arrive readily on his tongue. Despite the heat of the day, the death of the lord had sent a violent chill through him. It felt wrong. Unnecessary. Indulgent. But of course he would never admit this aloud.

The crowd remained quiet, looking on at this turn of events with confusion, fear, or revulsion in their eyes. Many—more than Magnus might expect—looked on with respect at the actions of their new king. Then they turned to each other with alarm as a tremor rumbled beneath their feet. Magnus felt the vibrations pulsing through the shovel he still held. Lord Darius’s empty wine bottle rolled until it hit a tree, hard enough to break the glass.