Rebel Spring (15 page)

He couldn’t help but laugh. “I can live with that.”

I
t had been seven days surrounded by a swarm of rebels. With the fine clothes she’d arrived there wearing, she stuck out in the camp like a sore thumb. After a day, she’d asked for a change of clothing and received some ragged garments to wear. Jonas gave her an extra tunic and a loose pair of trousers held up only by the power of a drawstring cinched tightly around her waist.

Among the rebels, Cleo had drawn closer to those who didn’t look at her as if they despised her simply for being royalty. Among these rare few was Brion, Jonas’s second in command, and a young, skinny boy named Tarus, who sported a shock of red hair that immediately reminded her of Nic.

Nic.

Worry ate at her with each hour, each day that passed since she’d been taken from the dress shop. Was he all right? What would the king do to him? And Mira . . . she must think Cleo dead by now. If only Cleo could get a message to her.

She’d asked Jonas if she could send one. He’d replied simply with a “no.” And then he’d walked away from her, ignoring her outrage.

Presently, she sat with Brion, Tarus, and one of the very few female rebels, Onoria, around the campfire. Auranian days were warm and temperate and filled with light, but at night here in the Wildlands, the breeze seemed every bit as cold as she imagined Limeros to be.

“Every hawk you see is a Watcher watching us,” Tarus said. “My pa told me that.”

“
Every
hawk?” Brion scoffed. “Not every single one. Most are just birds, nothing more magical than that.”

“Do you believe in magic?” Cleo asked, curious.

Brion pushed a long stick into the crackling fire. “Depends on the day. Today, not so much. Tomorrow . . . maybe.”

Cleo glanced up. “So what about
that
hawk? Is that a Watcher?”

A golden hawk had settled into one of the few trees that didn’t have a sleeping shack built into its branches. It seemed quite content to sit there and look down on them.

Onoria looked up at it, pushing long strands of dark hair out of her eyes. “I’ve noticed her before. She never hunts, just watches us. Or, really, if you ask me—she watches Jonas.”

“Really?” Cleo said, now intrigued.

“See? Definitely a Watcher if she’s taken a special interest in our leader.” Tarus stared up at the bird with admiration. “Their wings are made from pure gold, did you know that? That’s what my ma told me.”

Cleo remembered her hours of research as well as the legends she’d heard all her life. “I’ve heard they can also look like mortals if they choose to—with golden skin and beauty unlike anything seen in our world.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve seen a few unreal beauties in my life.” Brion grinned. “You’re not so bad yourself, princess. And Onoria . . . you too, of course.”

Onoria rolled her eyes. “Save your charm for someone who cares.”

Now Cleo couldn’t hold back her smile. “I assure you, I’m not a Watcher. If I was, I’d escape back to the safety of the Sanctuary as soon as I could.”

“Gotta find a wheel for that,” Tarus said.

Cleo looked at him. “What did you say?”

“A stone wheel.” He shrugged. “Don’t know if it’s true, it’s just what I heard from my grandma.”

The boy’s family seemed filled to overflowing with storytellers.

“What do you mean, a stone wheel?” asked Onoria. “Never heard of that before.”

“It’s how they get back and forth between the mortal world and the Sanctuary in hawk form. They have these magical, carved stone wheels hidden here and there. Might look like nothing but a ruin to us, but without the wheels, they’re trapped here.”

“Don’t let Jonas hear you talking like that,” Brion said. “He won’t listen to any nonsense about magic or Watchers. He thinks it makes Paelsians weak to hold on to legends rather than look at cold, hard facts.”

Magical stone wheels. It was certainly a charming story. Silly, but charming.

How much of such legends passed down from generation to generation could potentially be true, though? Jonas was naive to dismiss such talk without any consideration at all. Cleo had met an exiled Watcher without knowing it. She’d held magic in the palm of her hand. Sometimes it was far closer than anyone would ever believe.

How she wished she had her ring; it had been a horrible mistake to hide it away. It was far too precious to be out of her sight.

Cleo was about to ask Tarus if he knew anything about such an object, or if his family had told him any stories about the Kindred, when she felt an almost physical burning on the side of her face. She glanced over to see that Lysandra was glaring at her from the other side of camp.

“She still hates me, doesn’t she?” It was a discouraging thought. After their initial exchange, she’d hoped she might have won the girl over—at least a little. They’d both experienced loss, experienced pain. That bonded them, even if Lysandra didn’t want to acknowledge it.

If Cleo was perfectly honest, she envied the girl her current freedom. To be among all these rebels and seem so liberated and so utterly unafraid . . . it was kind of amazing.

“I think Lys hates everybody,” Brion said, gnawing on an already very bare bone of what remained of his meal. Onoria laughed at this comment under her breath. “Even me, if you can believe it. Although I think I’m slowly winning her over. Watch, soon she’ll be madly in love with me. But . . . don’t take it personally, princess.”

She’d try her best. She took a deep breath and asked what was really on her mind. “Any news about the road? Has the king stopped construction on it? What do we know about the slaves?”

Brion looked away, toward the fire. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“Will Jonas send another letter?”

“The stars, the moon. Stunning, really.”

“It is nice,” Tarus agreed. “Only lousy thing here are the insects wanting to take a chunk of your flesh.” To punctuate this, he slapped his arm to kill a bloodthirsty mosquito.

Cleo went cold. “Nothing’s happened, has it?”

Onoria remained silent and averted her gaze.

Brion shoved the stick back into the fire, moving the burning wood around. “Nope. And, honestly? I doubt it will.”

She stared at him speechlessly for a moment. “I
told
Jonas it was pointless. The king doesn’t want me back alive—at least, not enough to meet the demands of a rebel. The wedding is inconsequential to him—as am I.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’re not,” Tarus said, which earned him a sharp look from both Brion and Onoria. “What? Doesn’t she have the right to know?”

Cleo’s chest tightened. “Know what?”

Brion shrugged, his expression grim. “Jonas doesn’t want me to say anything to you.”

She grabbed the sleeve of his tunic until he finally looked at her. “All the more reason why you must tell me.”

He hesitated only another moment. “King Gaius has sent out search parties for you. They’ve been scouring Auranos and Paelsia from coast to coast.”

“And?”

“And he’s leaving a trail of bodies behind, butchered, of anyone who gets in his way or refuses to answer questions. All of them dead as a lesson to others that he’s serious—that he wants you found as soon as possible. So does he seem to want you back so you can marry his son right on schedule ten days from now? Yes. Is he willing to free the slaves on his Blood Road to do it? Afraid not.” Brion’s voice grew quieter, and he began to put out the fire, standing up to kick dirt on it. “I guess you’ll be joining us permanently, princess. Welcome to your new home.”

She went colder with every word he spoke. “No, you’re wrong. Jonas is wrong. I can’t stay here.”

“The more harm the king does out there, the more Auranians will see he isn’t as benevolent and generous as he claims to be in his speeches. They will finally see that he’s their enemy, not a true king to be obeyed and respected.”

Her thoughts raced. “Perhaps. But the king is going to tear apart this entire kingdom and kill anyone who stands in his way until he finds me. He wants everyone to see that I’m valuable to him—that he cherishes the princess of Auranos. Even though he couldn’t care less about my life if it didn’t help him fool the people into behaving themselves and not giving him any problems. Am I wrong?”

Brion’s expression had lost every bit of its previous humor. Onoria and Tarus looked on grimly. “Unfortunately, I don’t think you’re wrong at all.”

With the bonfire out and the camp now in darkness, Cleo looked up to see a glimmer of stars and a bright full moon beyond the ceiling of leaves. Across the camp, through the shadows, her gaze moved to Jonas, who was speaking to Lysandra, the muscles in his back tense.

“Jonas!” she called out to him.

He turned to look at her, moonlight highlighting his handsome face—just as an arrow pierced through the air and sliced into his shoulder.

He grasped the arrow and tore it out, his pained gaze frantic as he sought hers again. “Run, Cleo. Run now!”

Dozens of red-uniformed guards spilled into the camp. Cleo scanned her immediate surroundings for a weapon—a knife, an ax, anything that could give her some protection and the chance to help fight back against their attackers. But there was nothing.

A guard in a red uniform was headed directly toward her, his sword drawn.

With a frantic look over her shoulder to see her new rebel friends scatter in every direction, she began to run, ducking past trees and bushes in an attempt to escape the guard. Her impractical palace shoes, a stark contrast with the rest of her simpler clothes, sank into the soft dirt with every step.

But the guard was too fast to outrun. He easily caught up to her and grabbed hold of her, turned her around, and slammed her into a tree trunk so hard that she lost her breath and her vision swam. “Tell me, little girl, where is Princess Cleiona?”

When she couldn’t find the air to speak, to respond to his harsh demands, he peered closer at her, his sword biting into the skin at her neck. For a moment she was terrified he would slice her throat wide open and leave her there to bleed to death before she could claim her identity.

But then there was a flicker of recognition in his cruel, narrowed eyes. Even with her hair wrapped tightly into a bun, her face dirty, her clothes that of a Paelsian rebel, did he still recognize her as the princess he’d been sent out to find?

An arrow whizzed so close to her face that she felt the wind from it as it caught the guard in the side of his neck. He stumbled back from her, clawing at his throat as blood gushed from him with each beat of his heart. He dropped to the ground, thrashing in the moss and leaves for a moment longer and then went still. Before Cleo could think, could take a breath, Jonas was there. Her heart leapt at the sight of him.

He grabbed hold of her arm. “We need to move.”

“The camp . . .”

Whatever expression he wore was lost in the shadows, but his tone was tight. “It’s lost. We have a secondary location in case of ambushes. We’ll meet the others there tomorrow.” He grabbed her and they began running.

“Why didn’t you tell me there were search parties out looking for me, murdering everyone they come across?”

“Why would I?” His shirt was soaked with blood, but the wound in his shoulder didn’t seem to slow him down at all.

“Because I have a right to know!”

“You have a right to know,” he muttered, his tone coated with mockery. “Why? Could you have done anything to stop it?”

“I could have gone back to the palace.”

“That’s not part of my plan.”

“I don’t really care! I can’t let more innocent people die.”

Jonas stopped, his grip on her arm tight enough to be painful. He looked so frustrated that for a moment she thought he might shake her, but then his expression eased.

“Many people will die, no matter what happens next—innocent or not. King Gaius may have already stolen your kingdom, but the war continues. And it will continue for as long as he sits his royal arse on that throne. Do you understand this?”

Cleo’s jaw tensed as she looked up at him, angry now. “I’m not an idiot. I understand.”

His glare burned. “Good. Now shut up so I can get you to safety.”

Jonas’s viselike grip loosened only slightly as they hurried through the forest.

“We can hide here. I found this grotto only yesterday.”

Cleo was caught off guard when Jonas pulled her sharply to the right, through a curtain of moss and vines, and through the hollow of a massive oak tree. It led, very unexpectedly, directly into a cave six paces in diameter. It was formed from the thickness of branches and leaves arching over their heads and shielding them from both the guards and any moonlight peeking through the lush green canopy above.

Cleo opened her mouth to speak, but Jonas pressed her back against the wall of this natural barrier.

“Shh,” Jonas cautioned.

Cleo concentrated on trying not to tremble from the cold and her swelling fear.

She could see the guards from where they stood and she held her breath—even the sound of breathing might give away their location. The opening to the grotto was clearly visible through the hollow of the large tree by the torches the guards held. Red uniforms moved past the entrance and guards poked at bushes and shrubs with their swords. Their horses snorted and pawed at the ground.

They were going to be discovered any moment. Jonas’s grip tightened on her, betraying his own trepidation.

The sharp tip of a sword pushed back the vines only inches from Cleo’s face, and she stifled a scream with the back of her hand.

“This way,” one guard shouted at the others, and the sword withdrew. “Make haste, they’re getting away!”

She let out a shuddery sigh of relief as the sound of their pursuers faded into the distance.

Moments later, she jumped as a flame caught her attention. Jonas had struck a piece of flint from his pocket and lit a candle he drew out of a cloth bag hidden in the cave.

“Let me see your neck.” He brought the candle close to her, rubbing his thumb over her skin where the guard had pressed his blade. “Good. It’s only a scratch.”

“Put that out,” she warned. “They’ll see.”