Page 55 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Teron read through the script, drawing his finger down the page. He looked up, his eyes wide. “You’re trying to do this spell?”

She swallowed hard. “You know of it?”

“I’ve only ever heard of it. It’s never been successfully done. It requires things not of this world.” He eyed her again. “The Amoran Cup.”

She glanced at Cyrus.

He nodded. She could trust Teron.

“I have it,” she told him.

Teron’s eyes grew even larger. “You have the Amoran Cup?”

Essandra nodded, practically shaking. “Yes. But I’m having trouble understanding everything else that I need. She moved around the table to his side, pointing to the first line of script. “A petal from an everlife tree.”

His mouth dropped open, incredulous. “You grew an everlife tree?”

“Yes,” she said, breathless, seeming to appreciate someone realizing the magnitude of the feat she’d undertaken.

Teron looked back at the book, touching it gingerly.

“I just need to figure out what I’m doing wrong.

” She pointed to the third line on the page.

“This is the one I’m worried about—blood of the dead.

I have their dresses, stained in their blood.

I’ve been using cut pieces from it. Is this the problem, do you think?

” She shook nervously. “I feel like it should work—in spirit spells you can use dried blood.” She roughly brushed a lock of hair out of her face.

“It should work, right? I-I don’t have anything else. It has to work.”

“Yes, that should be all right,” he said.

Relief immediately washed over her face, and she started to calm. She closed her eyes for a moment, nodding, then swallowed. “Good. Good.” Then I have all the pieces. She pointed to the fourth line. “I’m the familial blood for the anchor.” She pulled back. “I must be saying the spell itself wrong.”

Teron’s brows shifted. His mouth pressed into a thin frown. “You cannot be the anchor for them both.”

Essandra stilled. “What?”

“Have you been trying to bring them back together?”

Her breaths quickened again. “Yes.”

“That’s why it’s not working. You must pick one.”

“What?” She shook her head as her bottom lip trembled. “No.”

Teron pointed to a word in the text. “This word— anaktu . Each. They each need an anchor. An anchor with power.”

“No,” she said again. “I just need more power.” She glanced at Cyrus. “I’ll use the blood to draw from the Aether.”

“It won’t matter how much power you can draw,” Teron told her. “You need two anchors—different anchors, as one cannot be used for the other.”

“No.” She kept repeating it.

He shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry. This magic wasn’t meant to be easy. It wasn’t meant to be used by common men, or by men at all, for that matter. It’s a dark power, needing many controls.”

“I can’t bring them both back?” she whispered.

“Not if you don’t have another familial anchor.”

The room began to shake.

“Essandra,” Cyrus said warily.

She turned to him, her eyes rimmed red. “I can’t bring them both back?”

The room shook harder.

“Essandra,” he said again.

“I can’t bring them both back,” she whispered. She staggered sideways, letting out a cry, then dropped to her knees.

Bowls fell from a shelf on the wall. Jars crashed to the floor from the table. Cyrus jumped forward to cover her. Something hit him in the shoulder, and he winced.

“Essandra!” He needed to get her to calm, but her sobs racked her. All he could do was hold her.

Her whole body shook. Cyrus quit trying to stop her and only held her.

Finally, the room stilled.

He glanced at Teron, who’d taken cover under the table. The old man waved that he was all right, and Cyrus turned his focus back to Essandra.

Cries still tremored through her body. He needed to get her out of here—somewhere she could properly grieve. Carefully, gently, Cyrus scooped her into his arms and picked her up. Casting an apologetic nod to Teron, he grabbed the book and carried Essandra out of the workroom to her chamber.

She clung to him as she cried into his neck, and he held her tighter. When he reached her bed, he laid her down, then moved to pull away, but she held his arm.

He knew this grief. He knew the need for warmth to hold, the comfort of skin to skin. So, he crept into the bed beside her and wrapped his arms around her as she wept.

Sleep never came, not that he’d expected it to. Essandra woke two times in the night, then cried herself back into dreams.

Morning came slowly yet too quickly at the same time. His ship to Pryam would depart soon. He didn’t want to leave her. She needed him.

No, she didn’t. He wanted her to need him.

The truth was, she’d been overcome with grief, and he was simply there.

He shifted back slightly to look at her.

Her arm was wrapped around his torso, and her legs tangled in his.

Her pulse beat in the curve of her neck—slowly—the beat of a broken heart.

He moved to dust his fingertips over her cheek but stopped just short of touching her. Gods how he wanted to touch her.

But he needed to go.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he pulled his body from hers and slipped out of the bed. Then, quietly, he made his way to his own chamber. It didn’t take him long to gather his things. Everything was ready.

He met Everan and Kord at the bottom of the stairs just as the sun spilled over the horizon and through the windows of the main hall.

“I stopped by your chamber,” Everan said. “Where were you?”

“Just getting ready,” he replied. Then he caught a passing servant. “Have breakfast sent to Essandra’s chamber. Don’t wake her, just leave it outside the door.”

He couldn’t shake the unease at just leaving her like this, but when she woke, she wouldn’t want him there.

The docks were crowded, bustling mostly with those who would man the ship.

Cyrus paused before he boarded. It had been over fifteen years since he’d sailed over water, and under very different circumstances.

He’d imagined some of the feelings might return—the fear, the anxiousness.

But right now, he was only anxious for what lay ahead.

As he stepped aboard and they raised the anchor, he realized there was no turning back now.

The ship moved off, slow and steady. Men greeted him as he made his way up to the top deck. It wouldn’t be a long sailing—they’d reach Pryam by the following evening.

Cyrus looked back toward Rael, and at the docks growing smaller and smaller. He thought he caught sight of a woman with long dark hair—Essandra—but he shook it off. It was his eyes playing tricks on him.

He tried to clear his mind as he turned his sight forward, east. To Pryam for an alliance. And a wife.