He thought again about Cleo. He hadn’t admitted a thing, but he wondered what she would say if he told her the whole truth about Aron, about his mother, about the king.
Would she tell anyone about her suspicions that Magnus killed Aron? And would it even matter if she did? She had no allies within these walls, apart from the useless and inconsequential Nic.
And, of course, her new best friend, Lucia.
Before he could meaningfully consider any of this, they’d arrived at their destination—a place that struck him with surprise.
“He’s questioning the rebel in the throne room?” Magnus asked.
“Yes, your highness.”
Fancy. Perhaps the king didn’t wish to soil his fine clothes or dirty his boots by descending into the dungeon today. Several guards were stationed outside the doors, and four more stood inside. Gregor, the rebel who’d attacked Magnus in Limeros, kneeled at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the large golden throne, where the king calmly sat.
“Finally,” the king said to Magnus. Then he addressed the guards. “We’re waiting for one more guest. In the meantime, the rest of you can leave. Cronus, you stay.”
Cronus bowed. The other guards turned and marched out of the room, closing the tall, heavy doors behind them.
“Who are we waiting for?” Magnus asked.
“Something vital I feel has been missing until now.” The king fixed his gaze on Gregor. “I believe you two are already acquainted.”
Gregor didn’t look up, and Magnus regarded him with disdain. This boy had made him bleed. And he would have killed him, had Magnus not been so alert.
Magnus walked a slow circle around Gregor, who was much thinner than he last saw him a month ago. His dark hair was matted and dirty; his left hand was bandaged with dirty rags crusted with dried blood. His face showed fading bruises. His lip was split.
And he smelled rancid.
“Gregor has the answers I need.” The king’s tone was surprisingly calm, almost friendly. “And he’s going to tell us everything.”
“I’ve already told you all I know.” Gregor finally spoke, his voice hoarse.
“I want you to tell me more about Phaedra, the Watcher who visited your dreams.”
The name took Magnus by complete surprise.
“Phaedra,” he said aloud. “Her name is Phaedra?”
“Perhaps,” Gregor said, shrugging.
Magnus reeled around and grabbed the boy by his throat. “The proper answer is either yes or no, rebel scum.”
“Yes,” Gregor hissed. Magnus released him. “Her name is Phaedra.”
It was the name of the Watcher Magnus had seen, the one who’d saved Jonas’s life before Xanthus snuffed out hers.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
“You haven’t dreamed of her lately, have you?” Magnus said.
“No.”
“This,” the king said, “I find hard to believe. Gregor, tell me what Phaedra told you about the Kindred. I want to know if she instructed you how to find it.”
Gregor’s cheek twitched. “I don’t know anything about the Kindred.”
The king offered him a grimace of a smile. “You see, I, too, have been contacted by a Watcher. Although not this Phaedra; I’ve never heard of her before. But perhaps lowly peasants dream of lowly Watchers. Still, that she chose you . . . it gives me pause.”
The king did enjoy the sound of his own voice. Magnus wished very much he’d get on with it. He needed answers, and long-winded speeches weren’t getting him any closer.
“What I know,” the king continued, “is that the Kindred exist. And after many years, it can finally be found. I only need to know precisely how.”
“Perhaps you should ask your own Watcher, because I can’t help you,” Gregor said, his voice shaking with naked contempt.
Magnus glanced at the king to see a cold smile twisting his lips.
“So you don’t know,” the king said.
“No. And you know what?” With the simple raising of his chin, Magnus could see Gregor had made the fateful decision to choose defiance over obedience. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you in a million years.”
The king nodded, his neutral expression unchanged. “Exactly as I figured.”
Just then the throne room doors swung open.
“Ah,” the king said. “Very good. This should help.”
Magnus watched Gregor’s face go ashen as a girl, flanked by guards, her hands tied behind her back, entered. She had long, curly black hair and flashing light brown eyes. She wore a dirty canvas tunic over dark brown trousers, the clothing of a boy.
She looked ready to kill.
“I’ve come to believe this girl is your sister,” the king said. “She is, yes?”
Gregor hadn’t taken his eyes off the girl for a second. “Release her.”
“Not so fast. Here’s how this will go. You will tell me what I need to know. We will discuss the matter man-to-man without any need for violence. After that, you and your sister—Lysandra, correct?—you and Lysandra will be prepared for public execution. Apart from having to endure the presence of the crowd, your deaths will be quick and virtually painless. However, if you refuse to tell me what I need to know, I will have your sister tortured to death in front of a much smaller audience, which will include you. Should I go into detail about what will be done to her?”
The calm demeanor with which the king delivered this news sent a chill racing down Magnus’s spine.