Rebel Spring

No one, it would seem, except for Jonas. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny or magical answers. Destiny was not set. And if he had enough help from those who might be willing to fight at his side, he knew he could change the future.

The crowd hushed for the briefest of moments before the swelling murmur rose again. King Gaius had emerged onto the balcony—a tall and handsome man with piercing, dark eyes that scanned the crowd as if memorizing each and every face.

The sudden need to hide gripped Jonas, as if he might be picked out from the multitude, but he forced himself to remain calm. While he had once met the king face-to-face, he would not be discovered here today. His gray cloak hid his identity well enough; it was a similar cloak to the one worn by half the men here, including Brion.

Next upon the balcony strode Magnus, crown prince to King Gaius’s throne. Magnus was a near mirror image of his father, but younger, of course, and with a scar that sliced across his cheek, visible even from a distance.

Jonas had briefly crossed paths with the Limerian prince on the battlefield; he did not forget that Magnus had stopped a blade from finding his heart. But now they were no longer fighting for the same side. They were enemies.

The regal-looking Queen Althea joined her son to the left of the king, her dark hair streaked with silver. It was the first time Jonas had seen the woman, but he knew who she was. She cast a haughty gaze down at the crowd.

Brion grabbed hold of Jonas’s arm and Jonas glanced at his friend with mild amusement. “Did you want to hold hands? I don’t think that’s—”

“Just remain calm,” Brion told him, not cracking a smile. “If you lose your head you might, uh, lose your head. Got it?”

The next moment Jonas understood why. Lord Aron Lagaris and Princess Cleiona Bellos, the youngest daughter of the former king, joined the others on the balcony. The crowd cheered at the sight of them.

Princess Cleo’s long, pale, golden hair caught the sunlight. Once, Jonas had hated that hair and had fantasies of ripping it out by its roots. To him, it had symbolized the richness of Auranos, only an arm’s reach away from the desperate poverty of Paelsia.

Now he knew nothing had ever been as simple as he’d thought.

“She’s their prisoner,” Jonas breathed.

“Doesn’t look like a prisoner to me,” Brion said. “But, sure, if you say so.”

“The Damoras killed her father, stole her throne. She hates them—how can she not?”

“And now she’s standing dutifully next to her betrothed.”

Her betrothed. Jonas’s gaze slid to Aron and narrowed.

His brother’s murderer now stood above them all in a place of honor next to his future bride and the conquering king.

“You all right?” Brion asked warily.

Jonas couldn’t answer. He was busy envisioning himself scaling the wall, jumping onto the balcony, and tearing Aron apart with his bare hands. He’d once imagined many different methods to exact death on this preening waste of life, but he’d thought he’d set aside his desire for vengeance in favor of the loftier goals of a rebel.

He’d been wrong.

“I want him dead,” Jonas gritted out.

“I know.” Brion had been there when Jonas grieved for Tomas, when he’d raged about getting his revenge. “And you will see that day. But it’s not going to be today.”

Slowly, very slowly, Jonas reined in his mindless rage. His muscles relaxed and Brion finally loosened his hold on him.

“Better?” Brion asked.

Jonas hadn’t torn his gaze from the hateful, arrogant-looking boy on the balcony. “I won’t be better until I can watch him bleed.”

“It’s a goal,” Brion allowed. “A worthy one. But like I said, it won’t be today. Calm down.”

Jonas let out a breath. “Issuing orders now, are we?”

“As second in command of our little band of merry rebels, if my captain suddenly goes crazy, I’ll take over. It kind of comes with the job.”

“Good to know you’re taking this seriously.”

“First time for everything.”

On the balcony, Aron drew closer to Cleo, reaching down to take her hand in his. She turned her beautiful face to look up at him, but no smile touched her lips.

“She could do better than that jackass,” Jonas mumbled.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

The crowd had grown even more massive in minutes, and the sweltering heat of the day beat down on them. Sweat dripped down Jonas’s brow and he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his cloak.

Finally, King Gaius stepped forward and raised his hand. Silence fell.

“It is my great honor,” the king said, his voice strong enough to carry easily over the crowd, “to stand here before you not only as the king of Limeros, but now of Paelsia and Auranos as well. There was once a time when the three kingdoms of Mytica were united as one—strong, prosperous, and at peace. And now, at long last, we shall have that again.”

Those in the crowd mumbled quietly to each other, the majority of faces set with lines of distrust, of fear, despite the king’s smooth words. The King of Blood’s reputation preceded him. From whispered conversations in the crowd before and after the executions, Jonas heard many say that their opinions could be swayed today to believe the king was a friend or a foe. Many doubted that the dead rebels had been right in whatever anarchy they’d attempted; that perhaps such rebels only made conditions worse for everyone by angering the king.