Page 31 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter twenty-four

Cyrus reached the council room just as Everan and Kord did, and they all stepped inside, where more men were waiting than he remembered appointing. Bravat was also there. Cyrus cut a surprised glance at Everan and Kord, who both returned leery frowns.

“Sire,” one of the councilmen greeted him from where he stood beside Bravat. “Thank you for coming so quickly. You need to see this.” He held out a rolled parchment.

Essandra had slipped in as well, moving quietly around, and took a seat at the far side of the table. The councilmen followed her with wary eyes, but they said nothing.

Cyrus unrolled the parchment and scanned the words. It was an invitation to the masses. The ousted Raelean nobles were looking for additional people to join their army to take back the capital.

“My men found several of these,” Bravat told him. “They’re being distributed throughout the capital.” He held out another parchment and said, “And they also found this.”

My men. Bravat spoke as if he were in a position of command.

But Cyrus immediately forgot about that annoyance as he took the second parchment and looked at it.

It was a drawing of a woman that closely resembled Essandra, except her eyes were like those of a snake, and her teeth were sharper.

An attempt to make her look scarier. There was a backdrop of flames around her, and across the bottom, it read, BURN THE WITCHES .

Heat coursed through his veins. “Who did this?” He tossed the parchments onto the table. Everan picked up the nobles’ recruitment notice, and Kord the picture of Essandra.

Fatim, his master of coin, cleared his throat. “Well, obviously the nobles are the ones who are seeking men to join—”

“I’m not talking about the call for an army, I’m talking about the picture.”

“Likely the same,” Everan said. “It looks like they were both done on the same kind of parchment.”

“The nobles have seen what we can do,” Essandra said stiffly. “We’re more of a threat to them now than your army.”

“Clearly it’s propaganda, though,” Kord said.

“People believe propaganda all the time,” she cut back. “And act on it.”

Cyrus met her eyes squarely. “I would never let anything happen. No one will harm the witches.” He looked back at the council. “What is the news of Mercia?”

“But are you not concerned at all about the nobles?” Fatim asked.

“Not particularly. What about Mercia?”

“But, Sire, they’re trying to rally forces against you.”

He felt his patience slipping. “With the disparity that used to exist between the rich and poor, I seriously doubt going back to old ways will appeal to people at all. Now, Mercia.”

“But what changes will they see under your rule?” Fatim asked. “They might find the nobles’ offer enticing. We have nothing for them. Our storehouses are dwindling.”

“The coven is working on that.” His patience slid even further.

“We can only do so much,” Essandra interjected. Her eyes on Cyrus were sharp. “And our solution for you is temporary.” Until she found whatever she was looking for.

His merchant councillor leaned forward. “Purchasing rice from the Shadowlands still remains a viable—”

“We will not buy from the Shadowlands,” Cyrus snapped. “That’s final.” He cut his gaze around the room. “Now, what about Mercia?” he demanded.

His council stared back at him.

“Nothing consequential,” Murius, his master of law, finally said. “A new lord justice has been named.”

Cyrus stilled as his heart tripped, then quickened.

Murius glanced down at a piece of parchment in his hands. “And the Mercian queen—”

“What do you mean a new lord justice ?” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. Lord justice. The position his father held… His heart beat faster. And heavier.

“Well, not exactly a new justice, I suppose. It’s the same man that has been serving the regent, but with the coronation of the queen, he’s been officially appointed.”

But wait… “What happened to the old one?” What happened to his father?

Murius frowned. “Beurnat the Bear fell in battle a couple years back—three or so? It’s his son that now holds the position.”

Cyrus froze. His mouth went dry, and his throat tightened.

“He has two sons, I believe,” Murius added.

Cyrus gaped at him in surprise. Two sons? They acknowledged Cyrus still? They so openly knew about him yet let him be trapped in this hell. For over twenty years.

And his father was dead?

He leaned his weight on the table, gripping its edges as though he could crush it. His skin burned.

“There’s more,” Murius said. “The Mercian queen is to wed the king of Aleon.”

“As expected,” another councilman added.

But Cyrus didn’t care about the Mercian queen.

His father was dead.

And Alexander was justice.

The perfect son, in the place of their father, all the while Cyrus rotted in this hell.

The councilman said something else, but his words were lost to Cyrus. Years had passed— years that he hadn’t known about his father, years that he’d bled on the sands of the arena as his brother basked in status.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, but he looked up to find all eyes on him.

“So, my father’s dead,” he said quietly, “and my brother has taken his place.” Did Alexander wear his father’s armor now? The thought sent another surge of bitterness through him.

Murius gaped at him as murmurs rippled through the room. “The Mercian justice is your brother? You’re the son of Beurnat the Bear?”

Only Cyrus’s most trusted men of House Pyro had known.

The room grew louder.

“H-how can this be?” the councilman stammered. A man of your class, from such a prevalent family—how did you even get here?”

“A story for another day,” Everan said, politely closing that conversation. He looked back at Cyrus, his face grim. “I’m sorry about your father.”

Cyrus released the table and straightened. “Don’t be,” he said sourly. “My only regret is that I didn’t get to do it myself.” But then he stilled as the whisper of a thought came to him. “The Mercian queen is to marry the king of Aleon?”

Murius nodded, still reeling. “She’s probably traveling now.”

He paused, his pulse quickening. “I had a dream of the queen going to Aleon.”

“You saw them?” It was Essandra who spoke now. Her eyes were curiously fixed on him. “Are you sure? It was her?”

He nodded, pushing his mind to remember more. “Under the banner of Aleon.” His paused, the realization hitting him. “It wasn’t a dream, was it?”

Her eager eyes told him it was so much more than that.

“If Alexander is her justice, he’ll be with her,” he thought aloud. “He’ll be with his queen. I have to go. I might still be able to intercept him.”

“In-intercept the queen of Mercia?” Murius stammered again, still not recovered from the prior news. “Are you serious?”

“Visions lack the context of time,” Essandra added. “You might have seen her, but you don’t know when you’ve seen her. It could be now; it could be months in the future.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. And he didn’t care. Even without the dream, this news came directly from Mercia. He looked back at Murius. “Mercia sent this directly, yes?”

“Well, it’s a royal proclamation. Most likely every kingdom received the same thing, but yes, it came directly from Mercia. Still, you can’t possibly—”

“How long would it have taken the news to travel?” Cyrus asked, an urgency rising in him.

Another councilman shook his head. “A week for a messenger to Hestershire, a bird to Savoy, another bird to Rodine, and then here. If the queen was departing for Aleon when this was sent, she’s halfway there already, at least.”

“You can’t attack the queen of Mercia,” a balding man in a neatly pressed tunic said. “They are not an enemy, and we can’t risk war should they discover you. We don’t even hold the full kingdom of Rael yet—the nobles are literally trying to rally an army against you as we speak.”

“Who even are you?” Cyrus challenged. He’d never seen this man. What was he even doing here? And why did he presume he had the right to have an opinion on this?

“Pontil, Sire. Your chief architect.”

Cyrus stared at him for a moment and suddenly remembered he did know this man. He’d actually appointed him. Mild embarrassment swept through him, further fueling his frustration. “Well, we’re not talking about architecture,” he said angrily, “and I don’t really give a fuck about the nobles.”

“Cyrus,” Kord said, “you’re king now. You have to think of Rael.”

“All I’ve been doing is thinking of Rael!” he snapped. “For months now!”

His friend quieted, shaking his head, and Cyrus immediately regretted his tone. He rested his weight back on the edge of the table. “If fate has let me live this long, it means I’m not finished.”

Kord’s brows dipped. “But that doesn’t mean this is fate’s purpose for you.”

“To be handed this opportunity—what else would it be, then?”

Kord gestured around the room. “ This. Rebuilding. Healing for our people.”

He dropped his voice. “What about my healing?” His eyes traveled between Kord and Everan. “Please, brothers,” he said.

“You can’t seriously be thinking of actually going,” Murius said. “Now? And with so little information?”

Cyrus ignored the councilman and kept his eyes on Everan and Kord. Kord glanced at Everan.

“I’ll go with you,” Bravat said, cracking the silence that now weighted the room. “I’ll go with you to kill a justice.”

He snapped his head to Bravat in surprise. The large fighter wore a crooked smile. Cyrus wasn’t foolish enough to believe this was an offer out of loyalty—it came too quickly, his tone was too eager—but Cyrus didn’t particularly care. Bravat could fight, and that was what he needed right now.

Ram gave a nod. “I’ll go too.”

Cyrus looked back at Everan and Kord. “Brothers,” he pleaded. This was his chance at Alexander, and he didn’t know if he’d get another. He had to take it, but he couldn’t do it without them.

Everan pursed his lips, then swore. “All right,” he said. “But the council is right—the Mercian queen can’t know who we are. You’d put Rael at risk.”

“We put Rael at risk just thinking about this,” Murius said, growing flustered.

Cyrus ignored him.

“How are we even going to get there?” Kord asked. “Do you know how far that is? By the time we make it, we’ll have missed her.”

“Sire, I beg you to think this through,” Murius pressed.

Cyrus leveled his eyes on Essandra. “There’s got to be something you can do.”

Essandra’s gaze on him grew even sharper.

She probably hadn’t intended for him to make use of the coven’s power outside of Rael.

He didn’t care. Power for power , she’d said.

He’d hold her to that. She’d probably revoke the terms after this.

He didn’t care about that either. Alexander had taken everything from him.

Now Cyrus would take it back, no matter what it cost him.

His voice dropped lower as he spoke only to her now. “I want you to think about whatever it is you’re looking for here. And how badly you want it. How you’ll do whatever it takes to get it. You think about that, and you might come close to understanding how I feel right now.”

Her expression changed, but he couldn’t read it.

“I just need to intercept him,” he said. “Can you slow the queen somehow? Buy us time?”

“No,” she answered finally.

The air left his lungs.

But then she said, “I can do something better.”