Page 35 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter twenty-eight

Cyrus roared in pain.

“If you kept still, it wouldn’t hurt as much,” Everan said as he helped hold him down.

Cyrus lay on Teron’s worktable. He was glad the old healer had moved into the palace, making life much easier for one prone to injury.

And Teron was there, prepared to heal him, but they needed to get the arrow out first. Cyrus had broken the shaft off too close to the skin, and it was nearly impossible to grab onto now.

Kord straddled his stomach, practically sitting on him, trying to grip the small piece of broken shaft with a pair of pincers.

“Again,” Kord said.

Everan and Ram held him tighter, and Kord pulled. The ends of the pincers slipped, snapping a nauseating pain through his shoulder. Cyrus roared again.

“There’s too much blood,” Kord said. “I can’t get a grip.”

“Let me try,” Everan said. He swung up onto the table over Cyrus, and Kord dropped down to take his place holding Cyrus’s left arm.

“I need light,” Everan called, and Bash held the flame closer. Morning was still a long way away, made even longer by the pain.

Essandra watched them from where she stood in the corner. She didn’t have any healing power. She probably wouldn’t have offered it even if she did. Everan dug the edges of the pincers into his shoulder, driving Cyrus near mad with pain.

“I think you caught part of his skin,” Kord said, dropping his face closer, trying to see.

Everan shoved him back. “Yeah, well, I have to get enough to grip the shaft. Hold him.”

Ram and Kord gripped him tightly.

“Wait,” Cyrus begged. “Wait!”

But Everan didn’t wait and dug the pincers into his shoulder again. Cyrus bellowed. Everan pulled, and finally, the arrow came free. An ungodly sound ripped from Cyrus’s throat, and he felt like he was going to pass out.

“Your turn,” Everan told Teron, and he dropped down off the table.

Ram and Kord released him, but Cyrus didn’t have any fight in him anymore.

The pain left him shaking. His inhales came in ragged pulls.

Sweat slicked his skin. For a few breaths, he just lay there, barely registering the sounds around him—the scrape of boots, the low murmur of voices—his eyes unfocused.

Then, warmth touched his skin as Teron’s healing flowed into him. There was no flash of light, no dramatic swell of power—just a slow, steady warmth sinking beneath his skin and spreading through him. It dulled the sharpest edges of pain first, then eased the stiffness in his chest.

Cyrus’s breathing slowed. The shaking subsided. His body relaxed, and he sank back fully against the table. The haze behind his eyes lifted.

His mind began to clear.

Gods, he was tired, but there was no time for rest. He needed to figure out how to get his men back from Mercia. Nearly fifty were trapped there, including Jaem and Kieve. Bravat was the only one with his blood and the means to call him. Cyrus hoped they’d double back and find him.

“Is there no other witch who can open a portal?” he asked Essandra as he slowly recovered. “Even a small one?”

“No,” she said. “It’s a very specific ability.”

Cyrus cursed. “Can we not find another?”

“Portal witches are rare, and even if I did find one, to get them to want to join the coven, to let me bond with them and use their power…” She shook her head. “It’s not likely.”

He swore again. “Can you not at least try?”

“Have I not tried enough already?” she snapped back. “Have I not given enough? Lost enough? Tomel and Merene are dead, just so you could chase after your brother, who wasn’t even there !”

Cyrus sobered, and shame filled him. He’d been baited with the first opportunity at Alexander, and a lot of people had suffered for it, including his own men.

Essandra had lost two witches. He swallowed.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. You have done enough.

More than enough. I’ll find another way to get the men back from Mercia. ”

The room fell quiet and stayed quiet. It took a little longer for Teron to finish healing him.

He’d been hit with a barbed arrow that had practically destroyed his shoulder, as well as had a few more injuries he didn’t remember receiving.

Ram, Kord, and Everan all took off for some much-needed rest once they’d made sure Cyrus was all right, but Essandra stayed.

Was she worried for him? He’d been hurt pretty badly.

He wasn’t quite fully healed as Teron’s power started waning, but he was healed enough.

“You can get the rest tomorrow,” Cyrus told him, pushing himself up.

“I saw Everan and Kord with a few things to mend as well,” Teron said.

Cyrus swung down from the table. His muscles were stiff and sore. “Kade too. He took an arrow to the leg.”

“I’ll see to them all.”

Cyrus nodded. “Thank you, Teron.”

The old man dropped a pile of bloodstained cloths into a large bowl and gave Cyrus a nod good night before retiring to his chamber.

Cyrus’s eyes found Essandra. She was still waiting, watching him.

“You didn’t have to stay,” he said.

“You promised me men. I wanted to make sure you didn’t forget.”

Oh. Right. And here he’d foolishly thought she’d been waiting to see how he fared. He swallowed down the embarrassment knotting in his throat and gave a stiff nod. “You’ll get them. I’ll write the order in the morning.”

“I’d like it now.”

He nodded stiffly again. “Fine.” He looked around Teron’s workroom and found parchment and a reed pen and scribbled out his assignment of men to her cause. He paused. “How many witches do you have?”

“Twenty-two.”

“So, forty-four men.”

“And two for me.”

His hand stopped midsentence. Why did that sting? Maybe because she was nearly always with him now. Was his protection not enough? No. She’d been with him so often lately only because they’d been traveling. Now that they were back, they’d focus on their own agendas and be together much less often.

“Forty-six, then.” He finished the order and held it out for her.

She took it. “Thank you,” she said, and waited a moment for the ink to dry before folding it. “Good night.”

“Good night,” he replied.

They started toward the door at the same time and then stopped at the same time. They both started again, then stopped. An awkwardness twined between them. He motioned her forward. “After you.”

Cyrus followed her out into the hall and realized their chambers, both in the royal wing, were in the same direction. As if it weren’t awkward enough.

It was a long walk—one made even longer by silence.

“Can I ask you something?” he said as he walked beside her.

“Nothing’s stopping you.” She was still upset. Fair.

“Tomel was a portal witch. When he died, you lost his power.”

“Is that a question?”

“The same with your fire witch, Marlene.”

She pursed her lips. “ Merene. ”

He cursed himself under his breath. “It was her power you used to warm us in Mercia, and you used your geomancer’s power to take down the villa.”

“Again, your question?”

“What’s your power?”

Her step kept steady, but there was the faintest falter in her breath. Did the question bother her?

“Do you turn into a dragon?” he jested.

She shot him a daggered glance.

Or a viper. He kept that comment to himself. “Tell me. What is it?”

“What does it matter?”

He shrugged. “I’m just curious. Why won’t you tell me?”

They reached the split in the hall that broke toward their different rooms, and she moved to turn down the one leading to her chamber. “It’s not your business.”

He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Not my business?”

“You don’t have a right—”

“I think I do.” Anger ripped through him now. “I let you have my body, my blood, whatever this fucking power is that you pull from me. But every time I ask you a gods-damned question, you’d rather hurt me than give me an answer.” His rage grew with his words. “What secrets do I keep from you ?”

She shoved against him. “I freed you!” she snapped. “I made all this possible!”

“No, I freed you .”

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked!” she shouted back at him. “And what secrets do you keep? A lot!”

“Like what? All you have to do is ask, and I’ll tell you, like you’re going to tell me now. What’s your power?”

“Let me go.” She tried to pull her arm away from him again, but he grabbed her around her throat, just under her jaw, and pushed her up against the wall.

“Tell me your fucking power.” He was certain he was about to find out. She’d hit him with pain any moment now. The thought should have made him pause, but anger fueled him past thinking.

She struggled against him. He held her tighter. He wasn’t sure why she didn’t use her full force. He’d press her until she did, or until she just answered him.

“Tell me!” he demanded.

“I don’t have a power,” she finally cried.

He paused. She didn’t have a power. That couldn’t be true. He loosened his hold, but he didn’t take his hand from her throat.

“I’m a bond witch. I have no power that belongs to me; I can only use the power of others.” Her lip trembled in bitterness. “It makes me invaluable in a coven, but powerless on my own.”

His anger evaporated. Was this why she was so guarded? Did she think herself weak?

“Are you happy now?” she hissed. “There you have it. I have no power.”

“So, all this power you do have, you pull it all from others?”

She cast her eyes down.

And he realized—this wasn’t a woman trying to be difficult; this was a woman who doubted herself. And a woman who didn’t trust him.

He shook his head. She didn’t see it. Cyrus drew her chin up to look at him. “Is yours not the greatest power of all, then?”

Her breaths came unevenly, and she softened.

He dropped his hand from her and took a step back, giving her space.

The shift sent a stab of pain through his partially healed wound, and he winced.

Her eyes dropped to his shoulder. She took a small step toward him as she sucked in a short breath to say something, but she caught herself, stopping abruptly, and bit back whatever words were on her tongue.

Cyrus would have liked to hear them, but he didn’t press her. He imagined he’d done that enough already. He wasn’t sure what else to say now, so he simply said, “Good night.”

“Good night,” she said, so softly it almost didn’t reach his ears. Then she turned and padded down the hall to her chamber.

He stood there long after she’d disappeared from sight. No power of her own , she’d said, but damned if it didn’t feel like he was under a spell.

Cyrus paced his chamber. Kieve and Jaem didn’t have blood to call him through the bond, and Bravat hadn’t yet used his vials. Cyrus was getting impatient. Bravat would call soon, he assured himself, and when he did, Cyrus would tell him about the others still trapped in Mercia.

After they found one another, they’d have to journey back the way men normally did, although it would be dangerous for them.

Maybe he could ask Essandra to send the illusion witch for additional protection.

No— he’d asked enough of her for this failed mission already.

If they could make it to the Aged Sea, Cyrus could send a ship for them.

Shame and guilt filled him. He’d gone after Alexander, against his council, leaving Rael weak for the nobles’ attack.

They’d come after the witches, and Essandra had lost two members of her coven because of it.

Everan and Kord had tried to convince him that the nobles would have attacked regardless, but Cyrus didn’t believe that.

His absence had given them the opportunity they’d been waiting for.

And he had nothing to show for it.

All that risk, and Alexander hadn’t even been there.

A dog bumped against his leg with its nose, and Cyrus dropped his hand to its head.

Had his brother been taken with the Mercian queen? The mystery still remained of who had attacked her caravan, although Cyrus didn’t particularly care, unless they’d also taken Alexander. But if it had been the Shadow King…

A knock pulled him from his thoughts, and the dogs wiggled at the door. He opened it to find Essandra, and he stepped back in surprise. She took that as an invitation and swept into his chamber, followed by several others—members of her coven.

Essandra carried a dark breastplate, and the rest carried what appeared to be a full set of armor. They set the armor on his bed, then turned and left. Only Essandra stayed.

“What’s this?” Cyrus asked. He eyed her and the breastplate she still held.

“It’s armor.”

He snorted. “I know it’s armor. Why do you have it?”

“I had Mal make it.”

Mal. The forge witch.

“It can’t be pierced,” she explained.

He tilted his head. “You want me to wear armor now?”

Essandra set the breastplate down beside the rest of the pieces but kept her hand on it. Her green eyes were serious. “You were hurt pretty badly yesterday.”

“I have Teron.”

“You won’t always have Teron, and you won’t even let him completely heal you.” She paused. “And it could have been worse. The arrow could have hit your heart, and then you wouldn’t have made it to Teron at all.”

If she held any resentment or offense from their encounter in the hall the night before, it didn’t show.

“Are you worried for me?” he asked, risking a little jest to gauge her.

“I don’t want you to die.” She was still sharp with her tongue, but the tone of her voice, the way she looked at him, the angles of her face, were… a little less sharp.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “From you, that almost sounds like affection.”

“Affection for the Aether. And your cock.”

He snorted and had to glance away. This woman…

“You’ll wear it,” she told him firmly. “Whenever you travel, or fight, or while otherwise engaging in dangerous activity.”

“Should I wear it with you?”

Her face was still fixed, but he thought he saw a faint flicker in her eyes. “That’s not a bad idea.”

Then she turned and swept out of his chamber, as abruptly as she’d come.