Page 28 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter twenty-two

The nobles didn’t try for the capital again that night. Or the next. Or the next. But Cyrus wasn’t foolish enough to think they weren’t coming.

Within a week, he’d assembled his new council.

It was surprising he was able to get them to come to the palace, given it wasn’t exactly the safest place in Rael right now.

Not only had he found the six men Hephain had recommended, but he’d also secured a number of scholars from the university willing to share their expertise.

They’d managed to talk Cyrus into a few more councilmen as well.

Now he had a philosopher, although he wasn’t sure why he needed a philosopher.

He’d also appointed a chief architect and a chief physician.

Cyrus already considered Teron his chief physician, but Teron was the only one who possessed real power, and he couldn’t heal everyone, nor did he have the time or energy to direct others.

This new chief physician was to lead health and welfare for the masses.

He didn’t have power, but he had knowledge and a network of doctors.

With Rael’s council now mostly formed, the makeshift meeting room wouldn’t hold them all, and to Cyrus’s dismay, they had to move into the official royal council chamber—a room built more for display than discussion.

Polished gold leaf trimmed every molding.

At the center stood an absurdly long table, flanked by velvet-backed thrones instead of chairs.

The room reeked of old power, old arrogance.

A tightness ran between his shoulders. Cyrus shifted in his high-backed seat, uncomfortable, and began to wonder if he now had too large a council.

And needing this many councilmen was also more evidence that he wasn’t the right person to lead this kingdom.

What was he doing other than employing men who knew better than him?

All the while, Essandra sat quietly, watching him.

Judging him. They were probably all judging him; it was just worse when she did it.

He didn’t even know why he’d had her attend.

He tapped the letter that Everan had handed him as he’d entered on the edge of the table.

It bore a half-red, half-yellow seal. A letter from Osan, the kingdom across the Aged Sea.

It was the first official letter he’d received as king, yet he didn’t find himself entirely eager to open it.

As he broke the seal and read the words, he almost wished he hadn’t.

“It’s a marriage proposal,” he said, and he tossed the letter to the center for the others to read.

“What?” Essandra said in surprise.

He almost picked it back up to read it over again, still in disbelief himself.

“It’s an invitation from King Tagasi to discuss the potential for an alliance,” Murius, his new master of law, said as he read over the letter. “His daughter, Daiyona, is unwed.” He said this as if it were different from what Cyrus had just stated.

Kord snorted. “This king moves fast.”

King Orrid’s corpse still hung from the entry gates of the arena.

“Osan has had strained relations with Rael for over twenty years,” Murius said. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call them enemies, but they certainly weren’t friends. It doesn’t surprise me he would seek this opportunity as quickly as he could. He borders Kharav and has no other allies.”

Kharav. That was what some people called the Shadowlands. A prickle of violence ran up Cyrus’s spine, but he pushed it down. He had to focus. “I haven’t even secured Rael yet.”

“He’s assuming you will. But, regardless, King Orrid is dead. You can expect many kingdoms to now start looking for opportunities with Rael.”

“I’m not interested in marriage.”

“You should be interested in what marriage brings—security, capabilities we don’t possess, trade, to name a few. King Tagasi is an excellent consideration for—”

“You said I can expect many kingdoms to start reaching out,” Cyrus said. “I won’t be so hasty to accept the first one. Again, I have other things to focus on, like securing Rael.”

“Then what will you tell King Tagasi?”

“I’ll tell him I’ve received his letter.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“But we should—”

“ That’s all ,” Cyrus said, more firmly. And that was all.

They spent the remainder of the morning reviewing assets of the crown and recommendations for even more council roles to fill, which Cyrus was quickly tiring of, then the conversation drifted to more potential allies to consider. But Cyrus didn’t want to rehash their conversation about Osan.

“We’ll deal with that later,” Cyrus found himself saying as he stood.

He’d had enough for the day—at least enough of this council.

He’d pick back up with Everan and Kord separately to discuss where to deploy men next to advance against the kingdom’s remaining nobles, whom he fully expected to make another attempt at the capital.

But as he moved to leave, Naik, his chief physician, spoke up.

“Sire, what will you do about the dead?”

Cyrus still hated the address, but he hadn’t managed to get people to stop using it. The question made him pause, though. “What about them?” They’d already been clearing bodies and burning them to prevent vermin and disease.

“King Orrid is still strung up on the gates of the arena.”

He eyed the councilman. “I don’t see the problem,” he said. It hadn’t even been two weeks. He could hang there a little while longer.

“Cyrus,” Everan said quietly beside him. “Everyone has seen him; it’s enough.”

Nothing was enough, but… “Fine. Pull him down,” he said. He was tired, and had no more energy for debate, or anything else for that matter. “We’re done for today.”

“Sire,” Fatim, his master of coin, said. “We have one more matter to discuss.”

Cyrus clasped the ends of the table and rested his weight on his arms, drawing every ounce of patience he could. “What?”

“Food. Provisions are low.”

He mulled for a moment. “Take the royal supply. We won’t feast in a palace if there isn’t enough for everyone.”

“That will make only a temporary difference.”

Verin, his merchant councillor, interjected. “We can look to negotiate the same terms with the Shadowlands that Orrid had—”

“Nothing from the Shadowlands,” Cyrus said abruptly. The thought brought such a vile reaction within him.

“But trade with the Shadowlands accounts for over half of our provisions,” Fatim argued.

“I said no food from the Shadowlands.” Cyrus wouldn’t budge on this.

“So, you’ll have us starve?”

“I’ll have us figure out another way. Rael has farmlands.”

“A few, yes, but not the climate to support mass farming.”

Cyrus raked his hand through his hair in frustration. “Do I not have a room full of scholars here?”

“Not scholars of agriculture,” Verin said.

Cyrus could feel it—his frustration turning to anger, getting the better of him.

And why? Trade was an expected topic, and provisions were a necessary challenge to solve.

Why was he getting angry? This needed his attention—this was his job.

Maybe it was because he didn’t want this job.

And every day he spent building Rael was a day denying him the opportunity that fate had given him to set things right.

Against his father. Against Alexander. And he was tired—not the tired that comes with lack of sleep, but the deep exhaustion that comes from being pushed beyond one’s limits.

He could handle the arena but not the crown—what sense did that make? None. But he couldn’t focus on what made sense and what didn’t; he needed to get out of this room, out of this place.

“Get me a master of agriculture,” he demanded, then turned and strode from the council room. It wasn’t his finest demonstration of leadership, he knew, but he couldn’t think about that either right now.

Cyrus reached his chamber and pushed through the door, which felt much heavier than he remembered.

The whole world felt heavier now. He collapsed onto his bed.

The dogs whined for attention, but he couldn’t give it to them.

He had nothing left. If only sleep would come. But he wasn’t that fortunate.

The sun shone bright through the window, and he dropped his arm over his face to shield himself from it. He tried to push everything from his mind, letting himself fall into his inner darkness and walk the edge of where consciousness ended and sleep began.

And then he saw her.

The Mercian princess.

This was the second dream in which she’d come to him recently.

Cyrus had seen her many times in many dreams over the years, but not for the past three years.

He didn’t think much of it; he hadn’t really known her as a child, and she’d meant little to him then.

He hadn’t even realized her absence, but for her sudden return.

And now came the return of the dreams—dreams that didn’t feel like dreams.

Rose petals fell around her as she rode under the banner of Aleon—a warm welcome for the Mercian queen. She was smiling. A monster of a man rode beside her, with markings across his chest and down his arms. His face was covered. He looked like a Shadowman, but that couldn’t be possible.

A knock on the chamber door ripped him from the depths of his mind. His thoughts evaporated as the dogs jumped to their feet.

The door swung open without giving him an opportunity to answer. It was the witch.

He sighed and let his head fall back onto the bed. She was here for one of two things, neither of which he had the energy to give.

“Be warned, witch,” he said. “I’m not in my best form.”

“I’ve yet to see you in your best form,” she replied shortly.

Witty, this one, but he wasn’t in the mood. What had he just been thinking about? It escaped him now, but it had felt important.

“Get up,” she told him.

“Now’s not the time,” he said.

“Not the time for a solution to your food shortage and dependence on the Shadowlands?”

Cyrus sat up. “What did you say?”

“I said get up .” Then she turned and swept out of the room.