Page 50 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter thirty-nine

They tore down the pyre before the sun rose. Every splinter of wood, every ashen ember. But Cyrus could still smell the smoke. Everything had been cleared, but the message still lingered in the air.

BURN THE WITCHES.

They spent the day chasing down who might be responsible. No one had stepped forward. No one had seen anything. No guards. No staff. There were no whispers.

Now, as the sun set, he stood at the window in the drawing room that overlooked the courtyard.

“It had to have been the nobles,” Hephain said from where he stood near the door with Brant.

“They’re still working to turn the people against the witches,” Kord added.

“For which you do nothing to help,” Cyrus snapped.

His friend took a step back. “I had nothing to do with this.”

“You speak against Essandra at every opportunity.”

Kord scoffed. “Wait, are you angry at me ?”

Cyrus pushed out a frustrated breath, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He wasn’t angry at Kord. He was just… angry.

“The nobles are the most likely party responsible,” Everan said.

“How would they have gotten in? Into my own palace? My own courtyard?” Cyrus rested his hand against the window ledge, his knuckles white.

After the fire had been lit, no one had tried to stop it.

It had burned long enough to be seen. To matter.

It had burned long enough for Essandra to see.

His blood grew even hotter. He looked back at Hephain.

“Double the guards throughout the palace. And double the guard for each witch.”

“What about those outside the palace?” Brant asked.

“Have Bash take another unit to reinforce the fields. Who’s managing the east side? Ryman?”

“Yeah, Ryman.”

“Good.” The prior lead of House Lycus was a solid man, an excellent fighter, well respected, smart. “When Sergen gets back, he can take two additional units and join him.”

“I’ll see to it now.”

“Good.” Cyrus gave him a nod. “Brant,” he called, holding him back as Everan, Kord, and Hephain left. He pulled a letter he’d prepared and stared at the seal a moment—a sword sigil. Everan had thought of the idea, and Essandra had created it. It was so… official.

But this letter was official.

He handed it to Brant. “I need you to deliver this to Pryam. There’s a ship preparing to take you tomorrow morning.”

Brant’s eyes widened. “Are you accepting the marriage alliance?”

Cyrus wouldn’t go so far as to say that.

But he needed legitimacy, something to hold against the nobles.

And against others. He wasn’t just being judged from within; other kingdoms were watching.

His council was right—he needed an alliance—for the strength it brought, for the resources, and it would be proof he was taking the crown seriously, that he was choosing Rael, that he was trying.

And it would give him an army…

However, given Osan’s withdrawal, an alliance might be increasingly hard to find now. He couldn’t be so inflexible and discriminative.

“I’m accepting the conversation,” he said. “We’ll go to Pryam in two weeks’ time, and I’ll decide then.” Two weeks would give him enough time to make sure Rael was stable, and Essandra protected.

Brant took the letter, then left to prepare for his departure in the morning.

Cyrus sighed. Despite his decision, the thought of marriage still felt like a blade down his spine.

He was trying to manage rebuilding Rael while still looking for opportunities against Alexander and the Shadow King.

Not only did he have no desire for a wife, but he had no time.

Not to mention an arranged marriage was its own form of oppression.

And how did this woman even feel about it?

What even was her name again? Mary? Melody?

M… something. He tried to push it from his mind.

He needed some air. The fading light meant the high heat of the afternoon was gone.

He bid the dogs to stay and made his way through the halls and outside the palace.

A slight breeze blew through, and it felt good. He breathed it in deeply.

Cyrus walked the gravel path to a side street that ran parallel to the mainway into the city.

Cracks of metal against metal sounded as city keepers struck flints for the street torches.

This was his favorite time of day—when day was over.

He kept his gait easy and casual. It was a nice evening.

Perhaps he should have brought the dogs.

As the road curved, he slowed in his step.

Essandra stood on a plot of cleared land that would eventually hold one of the two new schools. Her dark brown hair hung long over her shoulders and down her back. In the fading light, it looked black against the ivory of her skin. Somehow, she still radiated light.

Would things change between them if he wed?

His chest tightened. It shouldn’t matter.

She’d been very clear with him—she wouldn’t be here much longer.

It was why she kept her distance, why she pushed him to make decisions for Rael that would withstand her absence.

And anything else between them would complicate everything.

Although Cyrus had never been deterred by complication.

But then there was the practical matter that she just didn’t want him. And he couldn’t want her.

So, it was settled.

“How is everything coming?” he asked as he approached.

She moved with a start.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No, it’s fine.” She waved it off. “It’s going well. Everything’s been cleared, and we expect to start building in the next two weeks or so.”

“Great. That’s great.” He glanced around. Was she out here alone? “Where are your guards?”

“I dismissed them. I’m headed back now, anyway.”

After what had just happened? He didn’t like that at all. “I’ll walk you.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“I know.” And he waited.

Even under the shadows cast by the darkening sky and mainway torchlights, he thought he saw the faint trace of a smile. Was it a smile? Perhaps wishful thinking on his part. It was so easy to imagine.

She brushed a lock of hair from her face with graceful fingers.

He could still feel them—across his back and in his hair.

Not from their recent joining, but from when she’d comforted him after he’d lost Kieve.

She’d only acted from a place of compassion in his grief, but still, her touch…

the calm that came from holding her, the feel of her underneath him, him wrapped up in her, inside her.

He’d remembered it many times over. He’d needed her in that moment.

He still needed her. But in a short time, she’d be gone.

And she was pressing him to take the future of Rael seriously. She was frustrated that he wasn’t.

He did want her to know that he was taking this seriously now, that he understood the obligation, the responsibility, and that he’d give himself to it.

“I wrote to Morak,” he told her.

“Oh,” she said. They stepped out onto the mainway from the side street. The flames of the street torches lit the cobblestone, but the side buildings faded into black.

“I’ll go to Pryam in two weeks’ time to talk about an alliance.”

Night shadowed her face. He couldn’t tell if she was satisfied with that. Probably not. How much satisfaction could really come from him doing something he should have done already?

“I haven’t been fully present,” he said, “but I am now.”

She only looked down at the ground in front of her. Was she not pleased to hear this? Why did she look disappointed?

“I know you’ve been frustrated with me,” he said.

She looked up at him. “Cyrus.” Her pause was heavy. “I know I said—”

His attention shifted to movement in the shadows. Cyrus grasped her wrist, stopping them both. Every sense sharpened—his eyes, his ears, his skin against the air.

“What is it?” she asked quietly.

He combed the darkness around them, listening.

Something wasn’t right.

“Get inside the palace,” he said. He kept hold of her, sliding his hand from her wrist to her upper arm and walking her forward.

But their path was cut off by two silhouettes in front of them.

Then there were four.

Cyrus pulled Essandra behind him but quickly realized they were surrounded. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

“Sabine Laveau,” one of the men said.

Essandra’s body stiffened as she gripped him, and Cyrus felt something he rarely felt from her—fear. Real fear.

“What do you want?” Cyrus demanded.

“Easy now,” the silhouette replied. “We’ve only come for the witch.”

Cyrus drew his sword as fire lit under his skin. “Then you’ve come to spill your own blood.”

A second silhouette chuckled. “Careful, soldier. You don’t want trouble with us, especially once your king learns who we are.”

It was Cyrus’s turn to chuckle. “He doesn’t give a fuck who you are.”

“Oh, I think he will,” the first man said, “but we’re not here for trouble; we just want to talk.”

Cyrus pulled Essandra closer, holding her against him.

Men who said they just wanted to talk never just wanted to talk.

As they stepped into the light, he was better able to see them.

He’d assumed they’d been sent by the nobles, but their clothing was the color of night, and they wore wraps covering their faces.

No. These were Shadowmen .

The anger within him turned to rage, and Cyrus splintered. He attacked, launching himself forward.

The men fell back, caught by surprise at his speed of assault, and they clawed for the swords in their back scabbards.

“Stop!” one of them bellowed.

He would not stop. He would not wait. No more questions, no restraint—he went for their heads. They spun away, narrowly missing his blade’s call for blood, and rapidly shifted to defense.

Essandra threw up a wall of stone, splitting the surrounding men so Cyrus could focus on the four in front of him.

It wouldn’t keep the others for long—he had to be quick.

He lunged with a series of blows, each with the power of death.

The men were good at evading them, but not good enough as Cyrus’s blade caught one across the thigh.

“Back!” the largest of them barked at the other three. They weren’t fully engaging. If they weren’t planning to kill him now, that was a mistake.

“If you were sent by the Shadow King,” Cyrus snarled, “I have a message for him.”

“We’re not from the Shadowlands,” the man snapped back.

“Then I suggest you spit out pretty quickly where you are from,” Everan said as he appeared from the darkness, his sword to the man’s neck.

Kord and Hephain appeared as well, their swords drawn, with even more of Cyrus’s men.

Everyone came to a halt.

“Drop your swords,” Everan told them.

The intruders all looked at the largest man in front, who slowly lowered his sword to the ground. The rest followed.

“Take them,” Cyrus said.

“Wait!” the leader quickly called. “We’re just here to talk to the witch.”

Cyrus glanced back at Essandra. She made no attempt to speak. No gesture of peace. Just the same unreadable stillness. He looked back at the man. “You’ll get no talk here.”

“Cyrus,” Everan said. “Do you want us to put them down below?”

“Cyrus as in King Cyrus?” the man said. The men with him all cast quick glances between one another.

Cyrus didn’t blink. “What have you come for?” he demanded.

The man pulled up his sleeve, revealing a rune-type marking on the inside of his wrist.

Behind him, Essandra drew in a breath. Her hand gripped his arm.

“The mark of the Jackals,” she said, her voice low. “They’re assassins.”