Page 47 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Everan chuckled as he pulled a blade of grass and rolled it between his fingers.

Cyrus noticed his friend didn’t have the same heaviness in his shoulders as he once did, and although Everan was rarely one to smile, he was doing it more and more.

This was the life he’d always wanted, to just live free, with Visa.

He was happy. And Cyrus was happy for him.

Perhaps that was the closest Cyrus would come. And perhaps that was all right.

“I thought the port would look better from up here,” Everan said, with his eyes on the harbor. “But I think it looks worse.”

Ships stolen by incoming refugees filled the port, which was now at maximum capacity, and they’d started anchoring them along the shoreline. The docks were chaotic and bustling, and it was easy to forget what was anchored out of sight.

Some eight hundred escaped slaves had reached the palace that morning. The numbers were lower than the initial wave, but they came steadily, with a group arriving every day or every other day.

Sometimes, Cyrus imagined Alexander arriving. He never fantasized about the misfortune Alexander would have had to suffer to find himself as a refugee. He only dreamed of him actually stepping into Rael, looking for safety. Looking for mercy.

And Cyrus would give him none.

“How many are we up to?” he asked, pulling himself again from this fantasy.

“A little over fifteen thousand.”

In terms of mouths to feed, that was a lot. In terms of adding men to his army, it wasn’t a lot.

“We’ve converted slaves’ barracks to open accommodation halls,” Everan said.

“It feels… not quite right… but everyone seems appreciative. And we’ve put them to work.

Those who are unable to do so are still doing things like mending, looking after the children, contributing however they can.

I don’t know if it’s sustainable indefinitely, but it seems to be working so far. ”

“How many more can we take?”

Everan shook his head. “I don’t know. That depends on how much food your witches can grow.”

The hedge witches had now become the most important of all the witches. Cyrus had given Essandra even more men to protect them, due to the growing threats from the nobles. Losing just one would devastate the kingdom.

“Are you coming to join the council?” Everan asked.

Cyrus sighed. It had been two weeks since the messenger from Japheth had left, but there was still tension from Cyrus deciding to ignore the king of Japheth’s invitation. And it was one more thing on the ever-growing list of things his council was displeased about.

“Why bother?” Cyrus said. “I’m pretty sure we know how things will go.”

“How do you expect it to go? You appointed a council and now you don’t listen to them.”

Cyrus snorted. “I’m not going to listen to someone who tells me that I should unite with an ally of the Shadow King.”

“Or you could look at it differently. The messenger said their relationship wasn’t easily defined. What if their alliance isn’t as strong as one would expect?”

“The fact that they were ever allies to begin with is the problem.”

Everan looked directly at him now. “What if it’s not about uniting with Japheth at all but about breaking the Shadow King from his allies and resources?”

Cyrus paused. That was… a very good point. He looked down at the ships again. “How many men do you think I’d need to take the Shadowlands?”

His friend shifted uneasily. “Cyrus.”

“What? We’re talking about war.”

“No, I’m talking about political action. You’re talking about war.”

“How can I not?”

“You know that’s not the answer.”

It was the only answer. Cyrus flicked away the blade of grass he held in his hand. “Does this mean you won’t be by my side, brother?”

Everan sighed. “I’ll always be by your side.” He rubbed his temple. “I don’t know how many men we’d need to take the Shadowlands. No one seems to have a sense of how big their army is, or what their capabilities are.”

“I need to find out. I also need to know what to prepare for if Mercia and Aleon come to their aid.”

Everan’s head whipped up. “Aleon? Aleon is a hundred thousand strong.”

Cyrus looked back down at the refugee arrivals below. “At this rate, we will be, too, eventually.”

“Cyrus, these aren’t fighters. If you plan to go up against the Shadowlands, you’ll definitely need an alliance, and you’ll need to strip the Shadow King of anyone who might come to his aid.” He shook his head. “But that’s not what you should be focused on right now. These people need you.”

“This is what they’ve asked for! In my own throne room!”

“ One man asked about the Shadowlands, and you’ve latched onto it like a star of fate.

I know your heart beats for personal vengeance against the Shadow King, but those men”—he pointed down at the harbor—“those thousands of men want to see you move against Serra. They want to enjoy their freedom in a stable and thriving kingdom and see their captors fall.”

Cyrus shook his head. He didn’t believe that was all they wanted.

“You talked about the future,” Everan said.

“And I see a future where the Shadowlands fall. But it needs to be the future . A distant future.” He pointed down to the ships again.

“Right now, they need you. Rael needs you.” His voice dropped lower.

“I need you.” His dark eyes burned into Cyrus. “Will you not put us first?” he asked.

Cyrus sighed. Gods-damned this man who could talk him into anything. He cut another look back over the harbor. “Fine. I’ll focus on Serra first.”

“And Rael,” Everan added.

“And Rael. But then”—he turned his eyes to his friend—“I bring down the Shadowlands. No matter what.”