The beginning stages of a rebellion were nothing like what one saw in movies, or read about in books. For the first several months, their rag-tag group did their best to establish a foothold in the Kingswood, gather supplies, avoid detection. In short: they hid and nursed their wounds. They sent out messengers, covertly posted counter-propaganda, encouraged their meager numbers to spread the word. In other words: they waited for reinforcements. So in practice, what they were doing was mainly hiding and waiting, with the occasional hunt or briefing thrown in, and a healthy dose of digging latrines.
It was giving Mace plenty of time to think about duty.
That morning, he sat with his back to one of the pillars in the Henge, gliding a whetstone across a sword with practiced movements, scowling at his thoughts. If they were caught, he would be charged with desertion, he knew. There would be little chance to plead his case if their cause did not succeed – his assignment had been to defend the Council and at times assist the King. At the moment, Tristan was neither. There was a time he might not have taken such a risk; certainly he wouldn’t have taken it if he’d had a unit at his command. But as a lone operative, shirking his duties of rank for his duties of conscience, he couldn’t imagine abandoning the rightful heir…and not just because Morgana had begged him to. Shaman would never be safe with a sociopath on the throne.
But all of that was just a long way of saying they had to win. They had to, for everyone’s sake. And that meant a time was coming when Tristan would have to do more than hide and wait.
As if on cue, the Forest King emerged from the morning mist, carrying his father’s sword. Mace’s hands stilled, eyebrows lifting minutely. Then he packed the whetstone carefully into his kit, and stood, holding his own blade loosely in a reverse-grip.
For a moment, Mace just watched him. They hadn’t really had an opportunity to talk about what had happened; Tristan had been busy running from it, and Mace was not the type to force a conversation, even if he hadn’t been playing nursemaid to a dozen little rebels in the woods. He should have, though…too much time had passed. Quietly he’d been growing restless, concerned that the boy would not recover, worried that their cause was dead in the water. But here he was, holding the symbol of his father’s reign. Maybe he’d come around after all. Maybe there was hope.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said, stepping into the center of the Henge.
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