“I’ve missed you so much,” she said, smiling. “I’ve already heard wonderful things about your speech in Limeros. I only wish I could have been there to hear it.”
Magnus regarded her coolly. “It’s too bad you weren’t.”
“It must have been quite a hardship to have spent so much time with Princess Cleiona,” she said with sympathy. “From what I’ve heard of the spoiled girl, I dread our eventual meeting.”
“She’s not like that at all. Spending time with my new bride has been both an honor and a delight. Despite our many differences, she makes me happier than I ever could have anticipated.”
Lucia’s eyes widened as if she didn’t hear the sarcasm behind his words. She’d always been the only one able to see beyond his masks in the past—she’d known him better than anyone else. But perhaps they’d spent too much time apart lately and she’d lost her talent to read him.
“If you’ll excuse me, sister.” He swallowed his disappointment. By now, it was a familiar taste. “I must leave once again. I only hope my beautiful new bride does not miss me too much while I’m gone from her side.”
Even though he knew meeting with the exiled Watcher could give him more clues about how to find the Kindred, all Magnus currently cared about was vengeance. Finding the rebel who’d killed his mother helped sharpen his focus like a killing blade.
The rebels, however, were much harder to track down that he’d thought. Privately, he’d ridiculed Aron’s failure to gain any clues to Jonas Agallon’s whereabouts. Now, after a full week of searching with no success, he too felt the staggering weight of failure.
At dusk, the prince’s entourage arrived at a camp set up by a unit of guards in eastern Auranos, barely an arm’s reach from the edge of the thick tangle of Wildlands, following rumors of the rebels’ shifting travels. Next, Magnus was pained to admit, they would have to put the search for Jonas on hold to journey into Paelsia itself and head directly to the road camp currently located in the shadow of the Forbidden Mountains.
Magnus’s large tent was readied for him to take dinner and rest for the night. The sun had mostly set, but there was still enough light to see. A campfire crackled nearby. The days in this particular kingdom were warm and temperate, but at night, and so close to the Paelsian border, it cooled down considerably. The cool air held the scent of the smoky fire and roasting venison and the sound of hidden insects buzzing and chirping in the thick forest only thirty paces from camp.
“I think we make an excellent team,” Aron said, jarring Magnus from his thoughts.
Lord Aron Lagaris might now have the official designation of kingsliege, but he was a complete waste of space, Magnus reflected sourly—nor did he have any clue of the real reason they were next headed to the road camp other than for a general inspection. The silver flask Aron continually drank from was an annoyance— almost as much as the boy himself. Magnus had no respect for anyone who relied on artificial means to maintain their courage.
Magnus removed his black leather gloves and warmed his hands over the fire as he gave Aron a sidelong glance. “Do you, now.”
Aron took yet another swig from his flask. “I know things have been a bit tense between us, what with the Cleo issue . . .”
“‘Cleo issue’?”
The boy nodded. “It’s best in the end that a princess marry a prince. I suppose.”
“Ah. I suppose.” Oh, this was deeply unpleasant. Being trapped into meaningless small talk with an idiot had never intrigued him, even on a good day. Which this wasn’t.
“I only hope for your sake that she’s forgotten the night of passion we shared.”
Magnus gave him a hard look. “You are deeply unwise to broach this subject right now.”
Aron immediately blanched. “I mean no disrespect.”
A hot rise of anger fought to push past his simple annoyance. “Of course you do. All that ever comes out of your mouth is disrespect, Lagaris.”
Aron raked a hand through his hair and paced back and forth, taking another quick swig from his flask. “It’s just that to wed a girl who could not keep herself pure for her future husband—”
“Close your mouth before you insult my bride’s honor with another word.” Magnus drew out his dagger to absently run it under his fingernails. Aron followed the blade’s movements with fearful eyes. “She belongs to me now, not you. Never forget that.”
Not that he really cared, he reminded himself sternly. He had not touched Cleo apart from the kiss in Limeros. And that had been under duress.
Still, Magnus had to admit the girl was an excellent actress. With his lips pressed to hers, he could have sworn he tasted warm honey rather than cold venom in her response. And he also had to admit, if only to himself, that such unexpected sweetness had coaxed a much longer kiss than he’d originally planned.
The princess was dangerous, yet could appear so very innocent to one who didn’t know the truth—much like a spider and her shimmering web. Perhaps Magnus would be best to look at Aron as a hapless fly who’d once found his way into that trap through no fault of his own.
At that moment, a group of guards approached with a prisoner, his hands bound behind his back. The boy was no more than eighteen, his brown hair dark and unruly, his skin tanned from the sun, his eyes flashing with anger.
“Who is this?” Magnus asked, his gaze sweeping the fiercelooking boy.