Page 37 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter thirty

The council room was quiet. Too quiet for what had happened over the past few days.

Not only had Cyrus pursued Alexander against his council’s advice, but while he was gone, the council had also been a target of the nobles’ attack.

In addition to the two witches who’d been killed, three councilmen had been lost: Murius, Cyrus’s master of law; his chief philosopher, whose name he still couldn’t remember—perhaps he never knew it; and Pontil, his chief architect.

The architect would pose a problem as they worked to rebuild the city.

He’d have to find another with mastercraft knowledge of engineering and structural foundations.

However, these failings weren’t what held his council’s attention now. Instead, their eyes were on the letter that Cyrus held in his hand, bearing a red-and-yellow seal. A letter from Osan.

Cyrus broke the seal and opened it.

To King Cyrus of Rael,

I write with finality.

I have learned that your court not only tolerates but elevates those who walk in the shadows—witches whose hands bend the laws of nature and corrupt the balance that holds kingdoms in peace.

Osan stands upon a thousand years of tradition. We are a people of discipline, a people of honor, a people of principle. This darkness has no place in our halls, no seat at our tables, no voice in our counsel. To walk beside it is to walk toward ruin.

I extended an offer of alliance in good faith, believing your rise heralded a return of strength and honor to Rael. I see now that I was mistaken. A king who grants influence to such forces cannot be trusted with peace.

This offer is hereby withdrawn.

Osan does not bargain with darkness.

King Tagasi of Osan,

Keeper of the Eternal Flame

Cyrus flicked a glance toward Essandra at the far end of the table. She sat with her eyes on him, with that unreadable stillness she so often wore. He tucked the letter away.

“Tagasi has withdrawn his proposal for alliance talks,” he told the council.

“On what grounds?” Verin asked.

“He’s pursuing other options.”

“Might you share the letter, Sire?”

“No. It’s of no consequence. I had no intention of an alliance with Osan.” He’d even forgotten the offer.

“We cannot continue to shuck potential alliances while at the same time provoking kingdoms we have no quarrel with.”

“No one is provoking anyone,” Everan countered, ever the mediator.

“That’s exactly what that rampant bull Bravat is doing,” Fatim said. “And when he’s caught, Mercia will know Rael—”

“He’s not going to be caught. He’s simply trapped there with the others until we can find a way to bring them back.”

“It’s only a matter of time before they are caught,” Verin said. “We should have never gone.”

“But I did,” Cyrus said. He said it matter-of-factly, hiding the weight in his chest. He wasn’t sure if the shame that sat heavy in him now was the shame of failure or the shame of being foolish and careless enough to have made the attempt to begin with.

Surely it was the failure, because if he’d had gotten Alexander, he’d have no shame at all.

And if he were honest with himself, if the opportunity at Alexander presented itself again, he’d absolutely take it.

However, his biggest regret was the loss of the two witches.

Essandra sat quietly, making no effort to defend his decision to go to Mercia, and he didn’t expect her to.

She was still upset about it too, although finding the cup she’d been searching for seemed to have assuaged that anger a little.

Without the attack and resulting destruction, they might not have found it at all.

Sharing the news of the treasury storehouses didn’t win him back complete favor with the council, but it did finally help the conversation move forward as they discussed where to move the coin and how to allocate some of the funds to their rebuilding efforts.

It would also help them purchase additional rice and grain to supplement their dwindling storehouses.

The crop produced by the hedge witches was helping, but it wasn’t enough.

Cyrus didn’t linger too long on this topic, as there was still the silent pressure to trade with the Shadowlands.

By late morning, he’d had enough and moved for them to break. They all agreed.

“Oh, Sire, one more thing,” Fatim said as they stood. “Will you be the one to address the king’s grievances now that Murius is gone?”

What grievances? “I don’t have any grievances.” Well, he had many grievances, but not ones he’d air.

Fatim awkwardly cleared his throat. “Not your own, Sire—the grievances of the people. Murius was fulfilling the duties of both master of law and justice. We might want to consider these as separate roles going forward and prioritize appointing a justice to manage grievances.”

Justice. The mere word made his chest tighten. “I won’t have a man by that title.”

“But if you name a justice, you can leave judgments to—”

“I said I won’t have a man by that title,” Cyrus snapped.

Fatim gave a resigned bow of his head. “Yes, Sire.”

Cyrus quieted. He hadn’t meant to be so sharp.

“A justice of Rael is a very different role from the justice of Mercia,” Essandra interjected, finally speaking, “and you do need one.”

An uneasy silence stirred the air. Several of the councilmen shifted in their seats.

Even now, even with her siding with them, they didn’t like having a witch in the room—especially one that challenged Cyrus like an equal.

She might have helped take Rael and stopped the nobles’ attack to reclaim the capital, but her presence still made them uncomfortable. Wary.

Cyrus sat back in his chair. Essandra’s emerald eyes returned his stare.

He’d been a little concerned that she’d disappear the moment she’d found the cup, but she was still working to collect a few remaining pieces for her spell, and she still wanted access to his power, at least for a little while longer.

He wasn’t sure why he was so inclined to listen when she spoke. Maybe it was because she recognized his aversion to the position of a justice even when she knew so little else about him. Or maybe it was because he was finding it increasingly bothersome to disappoint this woman.

She’d said he needed a justice. Fine. “Then call it something different,” he said.

She looked around the table at the councilmen. “Assemble scholars of law for candidacy for the role of magistrate, formerly known as justice.”

They all looked at Cyrus, shifting again.

“Why are you looking at me?” he asked them. “Did you not hear her?”

The councilmen bowed quickly.

Fatim paused. “And what about the current grievances, until the role is filled?”

Cyrus was about to tell him the grievances would wait, when Essandra said, “Those with grievances can assemble in the throne room in the morning, beginning next week. King Cyrus will listen to three per day until the role is filled.”

Cyrus cut her a sharp look, but she only raised a brow at him with an air of finality.

Fine. He gave no objection.

Fatim bowed again. “Yes, Sire,”

And the councilmen made their way out of the room.

Essandra, Everan, and Kord all stayed.

After everyone was gone, Cyrus sat back in his chair. “Three per day?” he said irritably. “I don’t want to deal with other people’s problems—I have my own problems.”

“You’re king,” Everan said. “Other people’s problems are your problems. And it’s just until you appoint a magistrate.”

“Why don’t you do it?” Cyrus asked him.

Essandra eyed him sharply. “Without a master of law or a magistrate, it’s the king’s responsibility to hear grievances. You’ll be there.”

No. He wouldn’t. He didn’t have time for this. Nor the care. He wouldn’t.

Cyrus shifted uncomfortably on the throne—the last place he wanted to be sitting. But Essandra had sat him down squarely with the look of death in her eye should he even think about moving, and she now stood to his right to make sure he stayed through the grievances she’d committed him to.

It was his own fault he was here. Earlier that morning, he’d met with a group of men, all candidates for magistrate.

Cyrus appreciated the speed at which the council had assembled them.

Then he did what he usually did while in his finest form: told them he didn’t care who was selected, solicited the council’s recommendation, disagreed, then selected no candidate at all.

So here he sat, simmering in his annoyance. He also hadn’t heard anything yet from Bravat, making him increasingly agitated. The recusant fighter was supposed to have used the blood to contact him two days after Cyrus had left him in Mercia. It had now been a week.

Cyrus shifted again. He didn’t want to be here, but three grievances—that was what he had to get through. He could manage three grievances.

People filed into the throne room. A lot of people. The grievance process was open to the public, although for the life of him, Cyrus couldn’t figure out why people would want to come and listen to other people’s problems.

Essandra stood to his right, just off the dais, her hands clasped at her waist and her face unreadable.

As the crowd settled in, a hush swept over the room—not exactly out of reverence for their king, but out of wariness for the witch beside him.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, heads turning, eyes darting.

Cyrus caught more than a few people shifting uncomfortably.

They feared her.

Good. They should.

The first to come forward was a group of men who complained the wages offered by their employer weren’t livable wages.

“Go to another employer,” Cyrus told them.

“But, Sire,” one of the men countered, “jobs are few. Employers know this and take advantage. There used to be a minimum wage, but King Orrid did away with it at the start of last year.”

Cyrus looked at his councilmen nearby. “Why?”

“Employers complained it was eating too much into their profits,” Fatim said.