“As was I. And yet, they didn’t. It leaves me with certain suspicions. A girl of sixteen without any survival skills finds herself in the hands of violent rebels who are currently making their home in the thick of the Wildlands. Yet she easily escapes? Without a bruise or a scratch? Now that I know the leader’s name in this particular group of heathens, this leaves me with many questions.”
“Who is the leader?”
“Jonas Agallon.”
It took Magnus a moment to place the name. “The wine seller’s son from Paelsia. The one with the murdered brother. He was a scout for Chief Basilius.”
“That’s right.”
“Who told you this? The princess?”
“No—in fact, she claims to have been kept secluded during her captivity and did not see any of the rebels’ faces. My guards were unable to find the princess specifically, but in their travels they did uncover some information about the rebels. This was one piece of information.”
Magnus considered all of this. “Are you saying that you believe her to now be aligned with the rebels?”
“Let’s just say that I plan to keep a very close eye on her in the days ahead, and you should do the same. Especially with the wedding so close now.”
A muscle in Magnus’s cheek twitched. “Of course. The wedding.”
“Is there a problem with that?”
“None at all.” He turned to study the Limerian coat of arms which now adorned the wall, which included the image of a cobra and a pair of crossed swords. “That she has returned in time for the wedding makes me believe she is in no way aligned with these rebels. I would think she would have liked to avoid such a ceremony if she could, even if it meant remaining among their kind.”
“Perhaps you’re right. But she is back. And you should also know that we’re expecting a very important guest for the wedding. The message reached me only this morning that Prince Ashur Cortas of the Kraeshian Empire will be attending.”
The name was well-known to Magnus. “What a great honor.”
“Indeed. I was very surprised and very pleased the prince accepted our invitation on behalf of his father.” The king said this tightly, as if he did not mean it. The Kraeshian Empire lay across the Silver Sea and was ten times the size of Mytica. Prince Ashur’s father, the emperor, was the most powerful man in the world.
Not that Magnus would ever say such a thing out loud in front of King Gaius.
His father was silent for a moment. “There’s another grave matter I must discuss with you. Please come inside.” The king turned to the throne room and entered through the large wooden doors, his hound’s claws scratching against the marble floor as the dog stayed at his master’s side.
Please. It was a word so rarely used by his father that it sounded like one from a foreign tongue. Slowly, he followed the king into the room.
“What’s wrong? Is it Lucia?” Magnus asked, his voice strained.
“No. This unfortunate matter doesn’t concern her.”
The fear that had tightened like a fist in his chest unclenched. “If not Lucia, then what do you need to tell me?”
The king looked off to his left and Magnus followed the direction of his gaze. Upon a marble slab lay the queen, her arms folded across her stomach. She was very still, very silent.
Magnus frowned. Why would she be sleeping in the throne room?
It took him a moment to understand.
“Mother . . .” he began, his breath coming quicker as he approached her.
“It’s the work of rebels,” the king said, his voice low and even. “They were upset that we refused to meet their demands about ceasing construction on the Imperial Road. This is my punishment.”
The queen’s face was pale, and Magnus could have sworn she was only sleeping. He reached out a hand toward her, but clenched his fist and brought it back to his side. There was blood on her pale gray dress. So much. His own blood turned to ice at the sight of it.
“Rebels,” Magnus said, the words hollow in his throat. “How do you know?”
“This was the weapon used. The murderer left it behind.” The king held up a dagger, one with jewels embedded in its hilt, the silver blade wavy. “Such evidence has helped us pinpoint his identity.”
Magnus’s gaze moved from the ornamental weapon to his father’s face. “Who is he?”