Page 26 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter twenty

Cyrus walked with purpose. He had a plan. He turned a corner to find Kord, Sergen, and Hephain walking toward him.

“I need you to come with me,” he said to Kord. Then his gaze paused on Hephain.

The ex-guard gave a small bow of his head.

“How many men did you keep?” Cyrus asked him. The last Cyrus had seen him, he’d charged Hephain with determining the fate of the remainder of Pyro’s guards.

“About a quarter, Sire.”

The title grated him, but Cyrus was too caught up in his answer to really be bothered. “A quarter?” That was certainly less than he’d expected Hephain to keep of the men he’d once led. His eyes narrowed. “Seifer? Pollock? Beal?” he asked.

Hephain shook his head. “I kept only those sympathetic to your cause, those I knew would be loyal to your rule.”

That was a surprise. Cyrus eyed him a little longer.

The ex-guard had already stripped the rich purple—Pyro’s sigil color—from his armor accents and replaced it with a flat black and red.

Cyrus had seen these colors more and more among the men, although he wasn’t sure from where they’d come, or what had inspired them.

Perhaps it was the black ash of a fallen kingdom, the red blood of a fallen sovereign.

Cyrus didn’t have the time or the care to think about things like colors or sigils or symbols, but he also knew men needed things to bond them, to unify them and rally their spirits. So black and red it was.

Finally, Cyrus said, “You come with me too.”

Sergen gave a bow of his head and left them, and Cyrus led Kord and Hephain to a room where more of his men had gathered: Everan, Jaem, Brant, Ram, and Bash.

There were so many more he could have invited, but these were the men he trusted most. These were a good start.

Cyrus was also pleased to see Kieve had come.

Kieve had abandoned the villa and now stayed in a room at the far south end of the palace, a small room that he rarely left.

He’d said he was better, but he didn’t seem better.

He remained quiet and withdrawn. He was quiet now, and his silence hung heavy in the room, a reminder of what they’d all escaped from, of what they were fighting for.

Cyrus didn’t burden him with attention—Kieve didn’t like attention—but he was glad to see him here.

Cyrus took up a side drawing room for his makeshift council chamber, with a hastily found table and mismatched chairs. There was a palace council room of grandeur, but somehow this pragmatism felt more natural and fitting.

Essandra had come too. Cyrus was surprised she’d obliged him.

He wasn’t sure what he needed a witch for yet, or even what she could do, but she’d offered him power in exchange for power, and he planned to take advantage of that while he could.

He wondered if she felt uncomfortable in a room full of bloodsport fighters. Her face gave away nothing.

Cyrus put his hands on the table and leaned his weight forward, looking around at everyone. “Brothers.”

All eyes were on him.

“If I’m going to do this, I need help,” he told them. “I need a council.”

The men all glanced at one another.

Cyrus’s eyes stopped on Everan and Kord. On Kieve. On Brant. “Some of you know me well.” Then they moved to Hephain. “Some of you don’t, but you will.” His gaze swept around the room. “But all of you are men I’m choosing to put my trust in for the future.”

“Wait,” Essandra interrupted. “A council entirely of bloodsport fighters?”

“Are you inquiring for yourself?” Kord asked her.

She didn’t bother to look at him as she flicked her hand. “I have neither the time nor the desire.” Her eyes were on Cyrus. “But you need a mix of others, not just fighters.”

“Others?” Kord asked. “We’ve served him well so far. What will others provide that we cannot?”

Essandra tilted her head, finally shifting her gaze to him. “You know the sword, but are you versed in history, or economics? Trade?” Her stare sharped on him. “Are you going to negotiate a treaty? Do you know what Rael needs? What Rael has to offer?”

Kord didn’t answer. She cast her eyes around the rest of the table.

“Any of you? Does anyone know law? Finances, taxation?” She shook her head.

“A king also needs people around him with diverse thought,” she pressed.

“He needs a council who thinks differently from one another, and who will debate properly.”

“You made your point,” Kord gruffed.

Cyrus sighed, but he couldn’t argue. She wasn’t wrong. If anything, it was even more of an indication that he wasn’t the right person to do this. He needed expertise beyond what any of them had. But how to get that expertise…

He mulled for a moment, then said, “I need a man to deliver a message.”

“I can at least do that,” Kord replied.

“I need scholars. Go to the university. Ask for those with knowledge in these fields. Ask if they want to contribute to the new Rael. If so, tell them to come speak to me.”

Kord nodded.

Cyrus paused for a moment. Then he said, “Hephain.”

The lead guard shifted in surprise. “My sword is yours, Sire,” he answered.

“You’ll call me Cyrus. All of you.” To Hephain, he said, “As lead guard, you accompanied Pyro here often and are familiar with many of Orrid’s court. You know Rael and who can be trusted. Is there anyone I should look to retain?”

Hephain paused for a moment, thinking. “Fatim Tavoy, master of coin; Murius Sinlane, master of law; and Verin Faulk, merchant councillor. They all held loyalty to the kingdom over loyalty to the king.”

“Find these men,” Cyrus said.

“I also have a few additional proposals,” Hephain added, “for a master of records, master of ships, and master of public works. All men exceptional at their craft who would serve you well.”

Cyrus turned to Jaem. “Go with Hephain to see if any of these men are still alive. If they are, bring them here.”

Jaem gave a nod.

Cyrus leaned back in his chair. That was a start. He just hoped it was the right one. As much as he didn’t want to do this, he was committed to trying to do it right. If everything fell apart, it wouldn’t just be his failure—it would be the end to everything they’d fought for.

Cyrus hated the massive dining hall, with its six-tier chandeliers hanging from ceilings higher than eight men tall. He hated its tapestries and gilded wall reliefs, its corner candelabras and golden inlays set into the marble floor. He hated the table that sat at least fifty people.

But he didn’t hate the excited smile on Visa’s face as she shuffled him to sit at the head of the table, before a fully prepared feast. Everan took the chair to Cyrus’s left.

“Fucking hells,” Kord said as he walked in with Brant, Ram, and Bash just behind him.

Brant stared with his eyes wide at the spread on the table. “This is the most food I’ve ever seen.”

“The best food I’ve ever seen,” Jaem added as he slid into the seat beside Ram.

“Don’t tell that to me, tell it to Portia,” Visa said with a grin. “She’s happier than a bee in a poppy field in that kitchen. Make sure you save room for dessert.”

“Get her in here to eat with us,” Cyrus said.

“She won’t. She said she’s never leaving it.” Visa shook her head with a laugh. “I think she wants to sleep in there too.”

They all laughed.

But the laughter quieted as Essandra stepped through the door.

She wore a midnight-blue gown with her hair swept up off her neck—very formal. She glanced at all of them, and the faintest flicker of unease flashed across her face.

“Who invited her?” Kord muttered.

“I did,” Visa said. She jumped up from where she was sitting beside Everan and ran to Essandra, linking their arms and pulling her toward the table. “I’m glad you came!”

“I feel a little overdressed,” Essandra whispered to her, too faintly for the room to hear. Almost too faintly for Cyrus to hear. But not quite.

Visa gave her a reassuring smile. “I think you look beautiful!”

She did look beautiful. Cyrus stood and pulled out the chair to his right. “Lady Essandra,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed as she reached him, and she paused. “Are you mocking me?”

He shifted back. What? “No. Of course not.”

She softened slightly. “Oh,” she said.

Did she really think he would mock her?

Her face snapped back to a cool countenance as she seated herself, and Cyrus took his own chair again.

But then he glanced around. “Wait, where’s Kieve?”

“I tried to get him to come,” Visa said. “But he just wanted to eat in his chamber. I thought you’d be fine with that.”

He sighed but nodded. Whatever Kieve wanted. “What about Teron?” he asked.

“He’s still packing his books,” Visa told him. “He’s decided to stay at the villa tonight. He said he’ll try to come tomorrow. I did drop him off some dinner, though.”

Cyrus had convinced the healer to move into the palace with him. If Cyrus was going to live here, so would Teron. However, the old man refused to let anyone pack his books—he insisted on doing that himself.

“Should we invite Hephain?” Kord asked.

Visa gasped. “Oh! I didn’t even think of him. I’m so sorry.”

“If that’s all right with you?” Kord asked Cyrus.

“Fine,” Cyrus told him. He glanced around the table. “We can work out who else might join us. You see there’s plenty of room. But for now—eat, brothers.” He nodded and smiled at Visa. “Sister.”

Happy laughter and clapping echoed around the table.

Everan raised his glass. “Before we do that, I’d like to say a few words.”

They all quieted.

He drew in a breath. “I don’t want to bring up the horrors that we’ve been through, but without acknowledging them, we can’t truly appreciate how far we’ve come.

” He leveled his gaze on Cyrus. “Cyrus, you brought us through our darkest times. Sometimes, the only hope I had was the promise you made to me—the promise you made to us all—that you would get us out. I’m alive today because of you.

” His eyes welled. “I’m free today because of you.

” He took Visa’s hand. “I have happiness because of you. My friend. My brother. My king.”

Everyone nodded their heads.

Everan raised his glass higher. “Here’s to our new king.” He nodded to Essandra. “To our new friends.” With his glass even higher, he said, “To our new life.”

A cheer rang through the hall, and they heartily passed around the plates of food as they fell into lively conversation.

Cyrus looked at Essandra.

“You are so loved,” she said. “Well done, seer.”

He snorted. “You’re as much to thank for this as I am.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You built this—the hearts you have here.” She gave a sad smile. “Enjoy it. Happiness is so fleeting.”

The food was the best that Cyrus had ever tasted, the conversation the best he’d ever had, the jokes the funniest he’d ever heard.

It didn’t matter that it was in a palace.

It could have been on a dirt floor around a pot of unflavored broth.

What mattered was that they were together, like this.

Free. Safe. This was what they’d dreamed of. What they fought for.

The door to the hall swung open, and Hephain barged in. “Cyrus!” His voice was grave and urgent. “The palace is under attack!”