Rufus had been the only other rebel waiting at the meeting spot later that morning. Jonas had found him standing there with tears streaming down his dirty face, trembling with fear and rambling about fire magic and witches and sorcery.
Only two of forty-seven had been accounted for. It was a crushing defeat in far too many ways, and if Jonas thought about it too much he could barely see straight, could barely function beyond his guilt and grief.
His plan. His orders.
His fault.
Again.
Desperately trying to push aside his own pain, Jonas had immediately begun to gather information about other potential survivors—anyone who’d been captured alive and carted away.
The guard they’d found wore red. He was the enemy.
He had to have answers that could help Jonas. He had to.
Finally, the guard opened his eyes. He was older than most other guards, with graying hair at his temples. He also walked with a limp, which had made him easier to catch.
“You . . . I know you,” the guard muttered, his eyes glittering in the meager torchlight. “You’re Jonas Agallon, the murderer of Queen Althea.”
He threw these words like weapons. Jonas flinched inwardly, but showed no sign that the most heinous lie ever told about him caused him injury.
“I didn’t kill the queen,” he growled.
“Why would I believe you?”
Ignoring Rufus’s squeamish expression, Jonas walked a slow circle around the restrained guard, trying to determine how difficult it would be to get him talking.
“You don’t have to believe me.” He leaned closer. “But you’re going to answer some questions for me now.”
The guard’s upper lip drew back from his yellow teeth in a snarl. “I’ll tell you nothing.”
He’d expected that, of course. Nothing was ever easy.
Jonas pulled the jeweled dagger from the sheath on his belt. Its wavy silver blade caught the moonlight, immediately drawing the guard’s attention.
It was the very same weapon that had taken his older brother from this world. That vain and pompous Auranian lord had left it behind, embedded in Tomas’s throat. This dagger had become a symbol to Jonas, representing the line he’d drawn in the sand between his past as the son of a poor wine seller who toiled every day in his father’s vineyard, and his future as a rebel, certain he would die fighting for what he believed in most: freedom from tyranny for those he loved. And freedom from tyranny for those he’d never even met before.
A world without King Gaius’s hands wringing the necks of the weak and powerless.
Jonas pressed the dagger to the guard’s throat. “I suggest you answer my questions if you don’t want your blood to be spilled tonight.”
“I’ll do more than bleed if the king learns I’ve done anything to help you.”
He was right—the crime of assisting a rebel would undoubtedly lead to torture or execution. Likely both. Though the king enjoyed making pretty speeches about the united kingdoms of Mytica with a broad smile on his handsome face, he did not receive the nickname “the King of Blood” by being fair and kind.
“One week ago, there was a rebel attack on the road camp east of here. Do you know about it?”
The guard held his gaze unflinchingly. “I heard the rebels died screaming.”
Jonas’s heart twisted. He clenched his hand into a fist, aching to make this guard suffer. A tremor shook through him at the memory of last week, but he tried to focus on the task at hand. Only the task at hand.
Rufus raked his fingers through his messy hair and paced back and forth in nervous lines.
“I need to know if any rebels were captured alive,” Jonas continued. “And I need to know where the king is holding them.”
“I have no idea.”
“I don’t believe you. Start talking or I promise I’ll cut your throat.”