Page 33 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter twenty-six

The Mercian soldiers lay where they’d fallen, their throats slit. Cyrus stepped through the bodies with his sword in hand, moving slowly, as if in a dream. They’d been lined up on their knees and executed. The smell of death hadn’t yet set in—they hadn’t been here long.

“Do you think the queen escaped?” Kord asked him.

He shook his head. “No. No one would have taken the time to line up these men and execute them if they were still in pursuit of a queen.”

“So they have her, then. Who do you think would have done this?”

The Shadow King was the most obvious answer, but it was hard to imagine he’d have been informed of the Mercian queen’s travel plans or have been able to get inside Mercia to attack her.

“Every wearer of a crown has a long list of enemies,” he replied. But the thought that this was the work of the Shadow King seeded an anger deep in his stomach. He turned over the body of a Mercian soldier with his boot. They’d been efficient killings. Experienced.

“We’ve checked all the bodies,” Kord said. “No one here has the same face as you.”

Scavengers had started to steal the soft tissue—eyes and inside the mouths. It would have been hard to recognize everyone, but Cyrus didn’t doubt what Kord told him. He could still feel the weight of Alexander in his chest—alive.

“Maybe they’ve taken your brother too,” Kord added.

With everything the Shadow King had already taken from him, if he’d taken this opportunity from him too…

A rage swelled within him. He let out a roar and arced his sword, cleaving the dead Northman’s head from his body. What he wouldn’t give for it to have been the Shadow King’s.

But as quickly as Cyrus had lost control, he got it back again, and he straightened, drawing a long inhale and letting it out slowly.

“Cyrus,” Brant called from behind him.

He turned.

Brant reached him with a dark navy box in his hands. “We found this among the trunks in the carriage.” He held it out.

Cyrus took it.

“Not much else, though,” Brant added. “Dresses. Women’s personal effects.”

Cyrus pulled off the top of the box. Inside was a crown. It had a smooth base, with a sculpted floral top edging. A queen’s crown. And he’d seen this floral petal style before. As a child. This design…

The Mercian queen had definitely been here.

He surveyed the site around him again. She’d also definitely been taken. But he was too late. He’d missed it. He’d missed his chance at Alexander. He snapped the box shut and pushed out a frustrated breath between his teeth.

“What do you want to do now?” Kord asked him.

What was there to do? The only thing he could. “Return to Rael,” he said bitterly.

As he stepped to his horse, he almost tossed the crown but instead paused and toyed with the weight of the box in his hand.

He opened it again. This was the first thing he’d touched in over twenty years that was connected to the life he’d once had.

And despite the contempt that curdled in the pit of his stomach, something about it still called to him.

Cyrus closed the box again. He wanted to throw it. Crush it. Destroy it.

But something wouldn’t let him.

He slipped it into his saddlebag.

“Let’s head out,” he called to his men.

“So, that’s it?” Bravat shouted out, pushing through the men to the front. “We just go? With nothing?”

Cyrus didn’t like it either but… “What do you propose, if nothing’s here?”

Bravat grinned. “I say we find us a Northern temple. You know what’s in Northern temples?” His grin grew wider. “Gold.” He glanced back over his shoulder at his old arena teammates. “I have a few men who I think would love to pay some homage.”

Cyrus certainly didn’t mind the men collecting some spoils to make up for their fruitless journey, but… “It’s too much of a risk. If you’re caught—”

“We won’t be caught.”

Cyrus stifled a growl. He hadn’t come to cause petty trouble in Mercia, but Bravat had been the first to support Cyrus in coming after his brother when he’d faced heavy opposition from his new council.

And Cyrus cared about Mercian temples no more than he cared about Raelean temples, especially ones that Alexander was responsible for safeguarding.

Fine. “Two days,” Cyrus told him. How much trouble could Bravat get himself into in two days’ time?

He handed him two vials of his blood that Essandra provided from her satchel.

Cyrus had kept his curse hidden from everyone except those closest to him his whole life; to be more open with it now, to actually use it, was a strange feeling.

The large fighter took the vials warily. When he’d first learned of Cyrus’s ability, he’d reacted the same as many of the men—not necessarily afraid, but cautious.

“You can’t be caught,” Cyrus warned him again. “Use the blood to call to me in two days, when you’re ready to return, and Essandra will open the portal to bring you back.”

Bravat slipped the vials into his pocket, looking at Cyrus with a wary eye.

“Two days, Bravat,” Cyrus stressed.

“Yeah, I heard you.”

The big fighter mounted his horse, giving a last look at Cyrus, and with several of his old teammates, they spurred their mounts into a gallop to go find their temples of gold.

Cyrus watched them as they disappeared. He hoped he wouldn’t regret this lenience. He turned and walked through what was left of the Mercian company once more before mounting his horse.

As he settled into his saddle, the warmth that Essandra had cast in him days before suddenly evaporated, leaving a sharp cold in its place. He glanced at Everan and Kord, who both clutched their chests, feeling it too. Then he looked at Essandra.

Her expression was one he hadn’t seen before: fear. And worry.

Her emerald eyes locked with his, and an even deeper cold ran through him. “Something’s wrong,” she said. “We have to get back to Rael. Now. ”