Page 51 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter forty

It was going to be a long night. Cyrus sat on his throne, still brimming with the heat of fight. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, the blade still unsheathed with its tip sharp against the stone between his feet.

The assassins stood in front of him. He hadn’t realized there were so many—twelve. Not that it mattered. Cyrus’s own men were with him, and he had the strength of both numbers and fury.

He stared at the group of assassins as Everan and Kord stripped them of their remaining weapons and uncovered their faces.

He was surprised to see a mix of skin colors.

Clearly these men weren’t all from the same kingdom.

Their clothing was simple but well made, fitted to their lean bodies.

They covered not just their faces, but also their bodies and arms. These men weren’t Shadowmen, as he’d previously thought.

“Did you light the pyre?” Cyrus asked them.

“What pyre?” It was the same man who’d mostly spoken for them before.

He was light-skinned—likely from one of the Northern kingdoms, although Cyrus couldn’t place his accent.

His hair was cut short, with a faint sheen of copper mixed with blond, matching the shadow of a beard across his face.

His gray eyes stayed leveled on Cyrus. They were piercing, like steel.

“Don’t play games—the one in the courtyard.”

“We didn’t light a fucking pyre.”

Cyrus narrowed his eyes at him. “Who sent you?”

“We’re not here on an order. We came on our own.”

They hadn’t come on an order to kill. That tempered his anger only slightly. “For what?”

“Help.”

Cyrus snorted. “Interesting way of asking for it.”

“You attacked us .” The man’s eyes blazed in defiance, but he checked himself, then added, “It was never our intention to bring harm.” He was fearless. Cyrus could have liked this man… if he didn’t want to kill him.

“The more questions I have to ask you, the less inclined I am to listen,” Cyrus told him. “Say why you’re here or your next words can be to your gods as you meet them.”

“We need the power of your witch.” He glanced at Essandra. “That is, if she has the ability to do what we need her to.” His gray eyes rolled back to Cyrus—eyes too cocky, too proud. “In exchange, we offer our services.”

“I don’t need your services.”

The man scoffed. “All kings need assassins, and the Jackals are the best you can get.”

“I already have dogs, and I handle my own matters.”

The assassin’s gray eyes narrowed. “Men pay a life’s earnings for our talents. It will be well worth your while.”

“Why do you need a witch?” Essandra asked.

The men turned their heads to her in surprise. Cyrus found himself a little surprised as well. She’d remained heavily silent so far.

“Assassins are bonded to their duty by the guild witch’s magic,” the man said. He held up his arm and pulled the cuff of his sleeve back, again showing the mark on his wrist. “We need another witch to break it. A powerful one.”

“How do you know I can?”

“We found a bond witch who was willing to help us, but she wasn’t strong enough. She said the only witch she knew who could do something like this was Sabine Laveau, and if she had to bet money, she’d wager you’d be in Rael, that there was something you were looking for here.”

The cup.

And Sabine . The assassin had called her that before. Where else had Cyrus heard that name?

Essandra stood deathly still.

“Then,” the man continued, “in Etreus, we heard the new king of Rael had himself a witch that he used to take the throne. Heard that she had power that could level a kingdom.” He tilted his head.

“Put two and two together.” The look on his face was entirely too smug.

“So, can you do it?” he pressed. “Can you break the bond?”

“I can. Not to be confused with I will .”

The man looked back at Cyrus. “Name your price.”

“I do not belong to him,” Essandra snapped—as she liked to remind Cyrus.

He almost chuckled. She stepped closer to the man, and Cyrus’s urge to laugh quickly evaporated. He didn’t like her this close to an assassin who wasn’t going to get his way.

“Essandra,” he warned.

“I make bargains of my own will,” she said coldly. “But you can’t afford my price.”

The assassin stared back at her. “Essandra?” he repeated. “Is that what you’re going by?” A smile tugged at his lips and his eyes narrowed. “Are you hiding from someone, Sabine?”

Essandra’s only movement was the faint lift in her throat as she swallowed. Her face was fixed, sharp and shadowed.

“Ah, you are.” The assassin’s smile widened. “Then I’ll offer you something else. You help us, and we won’t breathe a word of it. No one knows you’re here. They’ll continue to not know you’re here.”

That offer sounded more like a threat. It was interesting that this man thought he was in a position to make threats.

“Or I’ll just kill you,” Cyrus said. “Same outcome.”

“Hey, now.” The assassin held up his hand. “I offer this in goodwill.”

The worst fucking goodwill.

“Take them,” Cyrus said. Everan, Kord, and the rest of his men swept forward, wrestling the assassins’ hands behind their backs and binding them tightly.

“Wait!” the assassin said.

No waiting.

“You can’t keep us here!” He fought against Everan’s hold. “If you’re not going to break the bond, you have to let us go.”

No, Cyrus wouldn’t be doing that. Not if it put Essandra at risk. He gave Everan a nod to take them.

The man looked desperately at Essandra, but she offered no intervention.

“Just let us go!” the man bellowed as Cyrus’s men dragged them from the hall and toward the dungeons. “You don’t understand—you can’t keep us here!”

Cyrus could do as he liked.

The throne room grew quiet.

Essandra stood so still she could have passed for stone. Even after they were alone, she didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed on the open doors of the throne room, where the assassins had been dragged out.

Cyrus waited for her to explain.

She didn’t.

“What was that?” he asked her.

“I don’t know those men.”

“You thought they’d come for you, though.”

Her face remained fixed. “Have you forgotten the nobles? There are many who want to harm me. That’s the nature of power.”

“You aren’t afraid of the nobles, but you were afraid of these men. Who did you think they were?”

She didn’t answer him.

Cyrus stepped closer. “You act like I don’t know what it means to bury your past and become someone else.”

Still, she wouldn’t look at him.

“Who are you hiding from?” So, this was why she wouldn’t stay. She was running. “Who is Sabine Laveau?” he pressed.

She gave a slight tremble but quickly recovered, her cold veneer snapping back into place. Ever so slowly, she turned her head. “Sabine Laveau is dead.”

Sleep evaded him yet again. Cyrus lay in his bed until he couldn’t stand it any longer, then he rose and paced the room. He knew the assassins weren’t Shadowmen, but seeing them, believing it was them—even if only for a moment…

It brought back the rage.

The fire clawed at him from the inside, burning away all logic and reason.

He needed to calm down. He lay back on his bed again, inhaling deeply the cool night air, but it didn’t help.

Nothing helped. He twisted in the sheets that were too hot against his body, turning and seething, feverish and feeding his anger more with every thought of how he could do absolutely nothing against those who deserved fate’s wrath most. Alexander.

The Shadow King. They deserved a punishment worse than death.

They deserved pain. But they weren’t in pain.

They were carrying on with their lives, attaining status and commanding armies, ruling kingdoms and taking wives.

Being happy. Because fate was so unjust. He turned again, the silence pressing too close—

Suddenly, a scream ripped through his mind. “ No! Please! No! ” the woman’s voice begged.

Essandra’s voice.

“ No! ” she screamed.

Cyrus bolted up from his bed, grabbing his sword. He tore out of his room and down the hall.