Rebel Spring by Morgan Rhodes Page B

the last bit of life faded from his eyes.
    “Well done, your majesty,” Aron murmured. “Of course, you were right. He deserved no pity.”
    Of course, you were right
. Words that the prince himself should be saying, but he found they did not arrive readily on his tongue. Despite the heat of the day, the death of the lord had sent a violent chill through him. It felt wrong. Unnecessary. Indulgent. But of course he would never admit this aloud.
    The crowd remained quiet, looking on at this turn of events with confusion, fear, or revulsion in their eyes. Many—more than Magnus might expect—looked on with respect at the actions of their new king. Then they turned to each other with alarm as a tremor rumbled beneath their feet. Magnus felt the vibrations pulsing through the shovel he still held. Lord Darius’s empty wine bottle rolled until it hit a tree, hard enough to break the glass.
    “Goddess, what is that?” the queen whispered, her face paling. She’d drawn close enough to grip Magnus’s sleeve.
    It was over as quickly as it began.
    The king swept his gaze across the crowd, his brow furrowed as if he was concentrating very hard. “Is this what she meant, I wonder?” he murmured.
    “What did you say, Gaius?” the queen asked, her voice shaky.
    “Nothing of interest.” He handed the bloody knife off to a guard and wiped the bit of blood that had sprayed onto his face with a cloth offered by another guard. “Come with me. We will tour the interior of the temple. I’ve decided this is where the wedding will take place.”
    “Here?” Magnus finally tore his gaze completely from the dead lord, whose eyes sightlessly glared at Magnus with reproach. “In the temple dedicated to the arch enemy of the Goddess Valoria?”
    “I had no idea you were so devoted to our goddess that you would be offended.”
    He wasn’t, of course. Most Limerians were very devout in their faith, dedicating two days a week to silence and prayer, but Magnus had found it difficult to believe in anything with true passion in his life. Still, this venue struck him as an unusual choice.
    The more he considered it, however, the more he realized it was strategic. Where else would the princess be wed but in the place her people, even those who’d recently strayed from strong adherence to their collective faith, would find most sacred? Limerians were already under the king’s thumb. Paelsians were too poor and downtrodden to be considered a true threat to the crown, especially now that they were being rounded up to construct the road. But Auranians—they were still the wild card as they began to emerge from their collective, hedonistic slumber.
    Thirty chiseled white marble steps led into the massive temple. The entire building seemed to be carved out of the material, which also seemed to be everywhere in the palace. It reminded Magnus of the ice that stretched out before the Limerian castle. Pale, cold, pristine.
    Massive marble pillars stretched up to the roof, lining the interior. The main sanctuary had a twenty-foot-tall statue of the goddess Cleiona at its entrance, her arms stretched to her sides. Carved into her palms was the triangular symbol for fire and the spiral symbol for air, the elements she embodied. Her hair was long and wavy, her expression haughty but strangely captivating. For a moment, the goddess reminded Magnus of the one named for her, the princess herself.
    The heady scent of incense and fragrant candles wafted through the air. At the altar, a fire burned, representing Cleiona’s eternal fire magic. There was nothing like this in Limeros. The Temple of Valoria was dark and utilitarian and always filled to overflowing with worshippers.
    This place, though . . . it felt like magic.
    Aron caught Magnus’s eye. There was now a sour look on the lord’s face.
    “I’m so pleased for you,” Aron said, his voice tight. “May you and Princess Cleo have many wonderful years together.”
    “I can only pray I will be