Page 40 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)
Chapter thirty-two
No one said a word about the state of the council room.
They stepped carefully through the broken marble sculptures and over the torn paintings that had been ripped from the walls. Robes and shoes brushed against glass fragments as the councilmen took their seats without comment.
None of them looked at Cyrus.
Neither did they mention his hastily appointed magistrate. When Ruth entered, they all rose, bowing politely in quiet greeting before taking their seats again.
Ruth sat with her eyes wide behind her spectacles as she glanced around the room—from the scattering of stone and marble to the broken chandelier crystals glinting in the corners. Cyrus wanted to tell her that it wasn’t normally like this, but he wasn’t sure what normal even looked like anymore.
Nothing was normal. Nothing had been normal. Ever.
Grief still gripped him in its claws. His whole body ached—his arms, his legs, his chest, his heart. He couldn’t fill his lungs. He couldn’t think.
What had happened to Kieve was his fault. Cyrus should have never let him go to Mercia. Kieve hadn’t been well, and he’d known it. But he’d been so fixated on the opportunity to get Alexander, so blind to what was happening right in front of him.
If he had made Kieve stay in Rael…
If Cyrus had never gone to Mercia at all…
And now, as he sat at the table looking back at his councilmen, all he could feel was pain. And regret. And shame. And rage.
His eyes caught on Essandra as she walked in.
Her red dress was striking against her dark hair and fair skin.
She took a sweeping look around the room, and her eyes stopped on him.
It was everything he could do not to ask her to sit beside him.
He desperately needed the calm that her touch brought—not that he could touch her, but maybe just the feel of her closeness…
“It looks like we have everyone, Sire,” said Fatim. “There was something you wanted to share with us?”
He didn’t actually want to share anything.
In fact, it had taken everything Everan had to convince him to pull the council together.
Cyrus suspected it wasn’t so much that the news couldn’t wait, but more that he needed to bridge the divide of his actions—going to Mercia, spontaneously appointing Ruth, publicly threatening to aid rebellion against other kingdoms. Threatening Serra and the Shadowlands.
Everan was trying to get him to move forward, and Cyrus wanted to move forward. He just also wanted to leave.
He tried to pull his mind together as he looked around the room. “I have news. It was the Shadow King who captured the Mercian queen.”
The councilmen shifted back in their chairs in surprise.
“Is she still alive?” Naik, his chief physician, asked.
“I don’t know, but she’s been foreseen to take his throne and wed Aleon’s king, neither of which has happened yet, so I’d assume so.”
It still struck him strangely to speak of his ability so openly.
The council had had questions when they’d learned about him in the early weeks, but their shock quickly dwindled as they discovered that visions couldn’t be conjured on a whim, and rarely did they show anything useful or that he could even identify.
It probably also helped that his power paled in comparison to Essandra’s, which she made no effort to hide.
“The Shadow King also captured and killed a couple of our own men,” he continued, “some of those who were trapped in Mercia when the portal collapsed.”
The councilmen shifted in their chairs.
“Who?” Naik asked.
But Cyrus couldn’t say it. Saying it would make it real, and he wasn’t ready for it to be real yet.
“Does he know they’re from Rael?” Fatim asked.
Cyrus shook his head. “I’ve still heard nothing from Bravat,” he said, “so I still don’t know the state of the rest of our men. I expect an update soon.”
“So, councilmen,” Everan said, standing. “Not a lot of news, unfortunately, but the king wanted to keep you all updated with as much as he had.”
Everan tried so hard.
Cyrus almost felt guilty as he said, “I also want to discuss a move against the Shadowlands.”
All heads snapped to him, including Everan’s, as that wasn’t a topic they’d discussed bringing to the council.
“With what?” Fatim asked incredulously.
“We already have almost forty thousand men.” Cyrus hadn’t initially believed it when Kord had told him, but with all the fighters from the churn houses, they had the start of a large army.
“It will take time to build enough strength to move against the Shadowlands, I know,” he added.
“But we must have an end in mind—what we’re working toward. ”
Lomas leaned forward. “We should be working toward stabilizing Rael, feeding our people, building alliances, and preventing further attacks from the nobles.”
Cyrus cast his gaze on his master of public works. “I don’t disagree with any of those things. I’m merely looking to the future. Our long-term plan.”
“The Shadowlands is a feat that even the strongest kingdoms do not dare—we’re fools to even speak of it.”
“We’re cowards if we don’t,” Cyrus said.
“If we make any move at all, it should be a move against Serra,” Nevin countered. “That’s what the people want.” Nevin was his master of ships, and Cyrus wasn’t sure why he was even here. He was certain now, however, that he had too many councilmen.
Cyrus stood. “The people have said they want the Shadowlands.” It had been the Shadow King who’d sold Cyrus to Serra to begin with. It had been the Shadow King who’d killed Kieve. It was the Shadow King’s head he’d take first.
“Serra has put significantly more people in chains, stealing them from their homes,” Verin said. “Their kingdom’s economy lives off it. The Shadowlands are but an enabler, a contributor.”
“We shouldn’t be talking about Serra or the Shadowlands,” Fatim argued.
But they were talking, and talking all at once. Too much.
Everan interjected, waiving the room quiet.
“There’s obviously strong opposing opinions,” he said.
He looked at Cyrus. “Even if moving against the Shadowlands first is the right action, I think what you’re hearing is that there are concerns for Rael.
And people are weary of fighting, even the discussion of fighting.
Let’s table this for now. This isn’t a topic that will be resolved in one sitting anyway. ”
Cyrus didn’t want to table it, but there wasn’t much he could do right now, even if his council had agreed with him. He needed a larger army. He needed a plan.
And he had every intention of getting both.
Everan called them to close, and the councilmen filtered out, as did his men.
Everan moved to approach him, but Cyrus waved him off.
“Not now.” He already knew Everan was disappointed in him.
He didn’t need to hear it too. Instead, Cyrus moved to where Essandra still lingered.
He was glad she waited; he had several things he wanted to say to her, but before he could start, she asked, “What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m—”
“I know you’re upset about Kieve, but you need to focus on Rael.”
“I am focused on Rael,” he argued. “I’m just looking at the future—”
“There’s plenty of future right in front of you.” Her words were chastising, but her voice was gentle. Sympathetic almost.
He didn’t want her sympathy. “Is that all?” he asked.
She glanced down at her hands clasped at her waist. “No. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”
Probably the same topic he had for her… “Me too, but you first.”
“No, you first,” she said.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Um, about yesterday… and last night. I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
She stiffened as her brows dipped. “You’re sorry?”
“I don’t know why I did that. Took you. I shouldn’t have used you like that. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Oh.” Her eyes narrowed, and she shifted her gaze down again. “Right.” Her words came clipped now, and her face grew sharper. Was she angry? Why?
He swore under his breath. Because he’d been too free with her.
“It won’t happen again,” he assured her.
Her lips thinned. “Good,” she snapped. She turned to leave.
“Wait. Was there something else you wanted to talk about?”
“No. Never mind.” And she left him standing in the empty council room.
Cyrus moved to follow her, but the pull of the blood bond stopped him in his step. Hope sprang in his chest.
Kieve?