Page 56 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter forty-four

The port was larger than Cyrus had expected.

Pryam was a small kingdom, and he’d imagined a small port, but it was at least three times the size of Rael’s.

Ships filled the waters around them, slowing Cyrus’s vessel to nearly a crawl as they drew nearer to the docks.

Cog ships, he noted, used for either trade or war, and Cyrus was curious which they were used for here.

He stood on the bow, his impatience mounting, but not as much as Kord’s, who stood pale as a ghost beside him. It had been a tough journey for his friend, who’d spent most of it with his head over the railing, emptying the contents of his stomach into the sea.

“Get me off this fucking ship,” Kord muttered.

Cyrus half expected him to jump the railing and swim the rest of the way to the docks. He smiled sympathetically.

“It didn’t seem to take that long to get here,” Everan said, joining them from behind.

Kord snorted weakly. “Speak for yourself.”

But Cyrus felt the same. He’d thought they’d reach Pryam’s ports nearer to nightfall, but it was only midday.

If he could wrap up this meeting with Morak quickly, he could leave earlier than anticipated—maybe even tonight.

Then he could get back to Rael. It was interesting—all the time he’d dreamed and fought to get out of that cursed kingdom only to be looking forward to getting back.

Cyrus swept his eyes around the harbor and, now that his attention was on it, noticed the air hung heavy with an eerie stillness. “That’s strange,” he muttered.

“What is?” Everan asked, now beside him.

“The ships. They’re empty.”

There was no lively clamor of sailors at work, no clanging of chains and crates from cargo being raised and lowered, no boatmen’s calls. All the decks were barren and quiet, save the echoing lap of waves against the hulls as the vessels rocked silently in the water.

“Where is everyone?” Kord asked.

It was a good question, and Cyrus warily dropped his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The chapping wind of the sea tamed to a gentle breeze as they drew closer. Salt mingled with the earthiness of weathered wood. The ship came to a stop against the worn wooden pylons, and the gangways creaked as they extended to the dock.

At first glance, Pryam wasn’t entirely unlike coastal Rael—a semi-arid rocky desert. There were a fair number of palm trees that sprang up along the golden coastline—something Rael didn’t have—and Pryam lacked Rael’s crippling heat, although it was still hot.

Despite the early unease, Kord was the first one off the ship.

Cyrus waited for Ram to join both him and Everan at the bow before following.

They’d brought a fair number of men with them—a couple hundred.

Visiting another kingdom always carried risks—risks that seemed a little greater now.

Essandra had made Cyrus promise to bring his armor, and he had, although he had no intention of wearing it.

He fought better without scraps of metal hindering his movement.

Scraps of metal. He should be more appreciative. It was probably the finest-made armor in the world—crafted by a forge witch, flawlessly fit to his body, and impenetrable.

Still, he wouldn’t wear it. And he hadn’t told anyone about its power. Not even Everan and Kord. It felt pretentious to even say.

Cyrus’s men followed him down the gangway and the empty docks and up the stairs between the seawalls. They wore their blades sheathed but kept their hands on the hilts of their swords.

When they reached the top of the wall, they paused. Rows of guards lined both sides of the port’s mainway, clearly laying out a path. It was an orchestrated display—perhaps one for welcoming an arriving king, although they didn’t particularly feel welcoming.

He eyed the guards, who were strapped with more blades than one carried into battle.

Not the best sign. Their faces were covered, not by wraps like the Shadowmen or the assassins but with golden masks.

They wore ornate, sand-colored clothing—more ornate than his own—embroidered and heavy but fitted to their form.

Cyrus stood, sweating in his linen tunic. How did these men breathe? Although that was the least of his questions.

He glanced at Everan, whose sword-arm shoulder dropped and coiled as his hand tightened even more around the hilt of his blade.

But Cyrus reminded himself he was here by invitation. Of marriage. This was more likely a grandiose display rather than overt hostility.

And if it was hostility, Cyrus knew how to be hostile.

He led his men forward, alert and ready, following the path laid for him.

As they made their way deeper into the city, it started to feel more like a proper city.

People bustled through the streets, although they stayed clear of the path made by the guards.

A young child toddled close, but his mother grabbed him and then quickly brushed the shape of a circle over her chest.

“What was that?” Kord asked.

“It’s a physical prayer for protection against evil spirits,” Ram said from just behind Cyrus. “It’s of the Verinian faith.”

Everan glanced back at him. “Is that what you are?”

“What my mother was,” Ram answered.

Ram was from the Ballard Isles off the coast of Nayalour, which shared common languages and religions with the other five kingdoms of the Etrean continent, including Pryam.

Cyrus had offered him to return after the rebellion, but there was nothing left after the Serran attacks that had enslaved or killed most of the people and had left the islands in ruin.

Kord snorted. “So, they think we’re evil spirits?”

“Not us ,” Cyrus said, as he noted the people’s wary eyes on the masked guards. “Them.”

“Well, this is getting even more interesting,” Kord said.

That it was.

They continued. The line of guards continued. On and on and on.

Cyrus and his men were easily outnumbered now. His men kept close—Kord and Everan so close that their shoulders brushed his own.

The mainway curved, and they followed the guards’ path, but as they rounded the corner, Kord stopped abruptly, and so did Cyrus, as there, with a party of people who all wore varying shades of gold and cream and white, waited a girl—perhaps the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

Cyrus stared at her, not in a way of lust or want, he’d just never seen anyone quite like her.

Perhaps it was how her golden mane contrasted against the dark hue of her skin, or her striking large wheaten eyes that sat under her long lashes.

Maybe it was her high cheekbones, or the fullness of her lips, or the way her perfectly proportionate face tapered to her chin. And there was something else…

She gave a bow of her head and a curtsy. “King Cyrus,” she said. “Welcome to Pryam.” Her voice was soft and melodic. “I’m Princess Miriel.”

Princess? The subject of his betrothal? That couldn’t be right. This girl couldn’t be more than fourteen or fifteen.

Maybe he hadn’t heard her right; she’d said princess , but maybe there was another.

“Is there… another princess?” he asked.

Her mouth opened slightly, then she closed it again. There was a faint bob of her throat as her lips thinned. She smoothed the front of her dress.

“I am the only heir of King Morak,” she said.

Cyrus stood, staring at her. No, that couldn’t be right. She was a child . And why was she here meeting him? A king wouldn’t send his daughter to meet a bloodsport fighter usurper he didn’t know, especially his only heir.

Unless this wasn’t really his daughter…

A decoy, perhaps. To test him.

“Where is King Morak?” he asked.

She swallowed. He knew nervousness when he saw it… Something was afoot.

“He’s indisposed,” she said. “But I’ll take you to the palace, where you can freshen up from your travels.”

Indisposed? The sinking suspicion in his stomach grew.

She waved a hand, and the guards parted, allowing a carriage forward—a very small carriage, meant only for two people, obviously to get him alone.

He glanced at Everan, and Everan cut him a wary eye in return.

Cyrus looked back at the girl. “Why are you greeting me?” he asked. Did Morak think she’d be able to persuade him away from his men?

Her large eyes darted to Everan, then Kord, then back to him.

She swallowed again, and her breaths came even faster.

“I’m sorry you’re displeased,” she said, clutching the sides of her gown between her fingers.

She was beyond nervousness now, into what Cyrus recognized all too well—fear.

Something was certainly going on here, and Morak was using this girl.

“I’ll walk with my men,” he said.

“It’s a rather long walk,” she countered.

“I like long walks, especially after being on a ship for two days.”

Her eyes traveled over his men. She swallowed yet again. “Very well,” she said, and turned, extending an arm in the direction of the guard-lined mainway. “This way, Majesty.”

They walked silently, Cyrus beside the girl, with Everan and Kord and the rest of his men just behind. Every time the girl looked as if she were about to say something, she glanced back at them, then didn’t.

It wasn’t a far walk, fueling Cyrus’s suspicion of the need for the carriage even more.

He’d lost count of how many guards they’d passed.

It didn’t really matter anymore. Cyrus and his men were heavily outnumbered.

He walked within an arm’s reach of the girl.

He wasn’t above using her if things ran afoul, although, if she had been sent as part of a plot, she likely meant nothing to Morak.

Cyrus would find out when he put a blade to her throat…