Page 57 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

The palace was as palaces were—opulent, beautiful, wasteful, especially in contrast to the humble commoner-filled port city.

Its stone matched the rock of Pryam’s landscape, gold and sand, with marble accents throughout.

It seemed to glow in the light of the sun, but what kept Cyrus’s eye more were the rows of guards still on either side of the golden brick mainway.

How many men did Morak have? Even more lined the sweeping stairs of the palace to the carved double doors that stood at least three men high.

Two footmen—not guards—pushed open the doors as they approached, and a third came quickly from inside with a tray of drinks. The girl took one of the chalices from the tray and turned back to Cyrus, holding it for him.

“It’s rose water,” she said, pushing it into his hands. “You’ll love it. It’s so refreshing, especially after the heat.” Then she turned and swept forward again.

Cyrus handed Everan the chalice, who handed it to Ram, who set it on the pillar of a bust at the entry. They continued.

The girl took them through a series of halls, each growing even more elaborate, if that were possible.

Everything was over-the-top, from the crystal chandeliers to the gold-spun tapestries, to the life-size statues centered between windows that stretched from the floor to the unreachable ceiling.

And all along the way—golden-masked guards.

The girl stole several glances at Cyrus and his men before she finally asked, “Are these men that are with you the ones that helped you take Rael?”

A seemingly innocent question, but he knew what she was doing—she was trying to tell if they were all fighters. Why would that matter? Unless she was expecting a fight…

“They are,” Cyrus answered.

“Are these all the men you brought?” she asked. “Or are there more on the ship who will need accommodations?”

Cyrus cut a glance at Everan, whose eyes narrowed.

“Actually, we won’t have need for accommodation,” Cyrus said. “I don’t want to impose.”

There was the faintest air of relief in her breath, although she quickly said, “You’re no imposition. We’re excited you’ve come. I’ve had the grand suite prepared for you.”

She smiled and stopped at a large alcove with gilded doors, nodding to a footman outside, who pulled one open.

“I’ll stay with my men,” Cyrus said. “Should I need to stay the night, I’ll stay on the ship.”

She paused, her smile fading, and her large eyes flickered quickly as the wheels of her mind turned. Did she know how obvious she was? “That… hardly sounds comfortable,” she said.

“I’m not a man of comfort.”

She wrung her hands in front of her. “Well, at least take the opportunity to freshen up. I’ll also call for some wonderful samplings of Pryamese foods and drinks for your men.”

“They’re fine,” he said. “As am I.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her nervousness returned. “Perhaps I’ll just leave you here, then. It won’t be long until dinner.”

“Why don’t you wait with me, princess ? I’d like to hear more about Pryam.” This girl might be a pawn, but she was the only thing he had right now if things went sideways, and he didn’t want to let her get away from him.

The girl took a step backward. Did she sense it? “I have to make sure everything is ready. I’ll send someone shortly to bring you to the dining room.”

She gave a small curtsy. As she turned to leave, his men didn’t move for her. Shakily, she turned back to face him. “Is there anything else you need?” she asked with a small hitch in her voice. Her hands trembled as she clutched the fabric of her gown.

He could hold her, not let her go. Then he’d force Morak’s hand—perhaps even force violence.

Here. Now. But if he was wrong, if there were no foul intentions at play, he’d succeed in beheading alliance talks before they’d even begun.

Something was going on, but was he confident enough that there was ill intention to risk it all?

Morak had no reason to hold ill will against him, at least not that he was aware of. And Cyrus had come with hopes of partnership. He needed an alliance.

“No,” he said finally. “Thank you for your hospitality. I’ll see you at dinner.”

She swallowed and forced an uneasy smile. “Yes. I’m looking forward to it.” His men parted to let her pass, and she quickly turned and briskly made her way down the hall. Her guards followed, leaving Cyrus and his men alone.

Cyrus watched her, cursing himself. He shouldn’t have let her go. But then what? He cursed himself again. He’d come for an alliance, which was not likely to happen if he took the princess of Pryam prisoner in her own palace. No—she wasn’t the princess… but the effect would be the same.

Kord and Ram stepped back out into the hall from the chamber. “The room is clear,” Kord said.

Everan frowned. “But something’s weird here. I don’t like it.”

Cyrus shook his head. “Neither do I.”

“Why do I feel confined to this chamber?” Cyrus paced the stretch of room between the double doors that led to a bath chamber and another set of doors that led to a secondary room with a bed.

This suite was at least twice the size of his chamber back in Rael.

It could hold all the men he’d brought, although most of them stood post in the hall.

“Because you are,” Everan said. He stood by the arched tri-panel windows that looked out over a somewhat-out-of-place garden of lush topiaries and florals.

The line of the city sloped slightly, allowing views of the harbor in the distance, but not a view of Cyrus’s ship—strategic of Morak to put Cyrus in this room.

Cyrus’s jaw tightened. “Is this how kings are normally received?”

Kord snorted from his seat at a six-chair table with Ram, who sat opposite him. “I don’t think there’s anything normal about this kingdom,” Kord said.

Cyrus was still angry with himself for allowing the girl to leave. He should have asked her for a tour of the palace. He should have asked more questions in general.

A knock sounded on the door, but as he moved to answer, Everan stepped in front of him, making him pause. His friend reached around and slid another dagger into the back sheath of Cyrus’s sword belt that he normally kept empty.

Everan’s eyes were dark and serious. “If this goes to shit, Ram and Kord will help you get back to the boat. Do not wait for anyone, including me. You leave. Do you understand?”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“Cyrus”—Everan gritted his teeth—“the first priority is to get you out. The rest of us will find a way to follow.”

Cyrus sighed and looked at Kord and Ram, who were both checking the reach of their own weapons. They nodded at their assignments.

“Fine,” Cyrus said. He had no guilt in lying.

Kord opened the door, and a waiting footman bowed.

“Dinner is ready, Majesty,” the man said politely to Cyrus. “I’ll escort you, if you’re ready.”

He knew what the man meant—to escort him alone—but he acted like he didn’t. Cyrus had no intention of going alone. He had no intention of fighting alone. “Lead on,” Cyrus told him. “We’ll follow.”

The man opened his mouth slightly but then closed it without voicing his objection. He glanced at Everan, Kord, and Ram, but then only said, “Of course,” and turned on his heel and started down the hall.

Kord cut Cyrus a slight smirk. “After you,” he said.

Cyrus walked as if he were walking into battle—focusing, honing, listening, aware of everything around him. His men trailed quietly behind, or as quietly as two hundred men could reasonably move through a palace.

This wasn’t the welcome he’d expected, but Cyrus recognized he wasn’t a traveled man, nor a man familiar with the customs of royal diplomacy. He was eager to meet Morak and flush out this king’s true intentions.

When he reached the dining room, Cyrus paused. A row of palace guards lined the back wall, but the only person present for dinner was the girl, who stood by her seat at the end of the table.

“King Cyrus,” she greeted him, extending her hand to the chair at the opposite end. “Please.”

“Where is King Morak?”

“He remains indisposed, but you mentioned that you wanted to hear more about—”

“What keeps him indisposed?”

She glanced at her guards along the wall. Their golden masks looked slightly more ominous as the light faded with the day, drawing shadows across them.

“Let’s talk about Pryam,” she said, trying to recover the conversation. She stepped to her chair to sit but remained standing. A prompt for him to take his own seat. “I’ll take you to the king tomorrow—”

“You’ll take me to him now.” He had no intention of sitting for dinner, and he was done with the games. Then something caught his eye. A stitch, a ripple, at the outer edges of the room.

Cyrus stilled.

It was so faint, virtually unnoticeable. But he’d noticed. He’d seen this before.

With Essandra’s illusions.

Were the guards an illusion?

He eyed them closely—their impractical garb, their masks that showed no eyes. Their sheer number. If it was an illusion, it was an elaborate one and well beyond what Essandra could do. But there was no mistaking the slight fray where the illusion met reality.

He was sure of it now.

This girl wasn’t the princess; she was a witch .

And if this was magic, it wasn’t showmanship. It was a misdirection—something to trick him, perhaps until it was too late…

“Where is King Morak?” he asked more firmly.

Her breaths came faster, and she didn’t answer.

Cyrus started toward her.

The guards put their hands on their hilts in unison and stepped forward, but Cyrus ignored them. Illusions were harmless. He moved around the corner of the table.

The girl stumbled back quickly and bumped up against her chair, almost knocking it over. “Don’t come any closer,” she demanded. The guards pulled their swords from the scabbards.

“Cyrus!” Everan called, and he and Kord pulled their own blades.

The guards swept forward. The girl turned to flee, but Cyrus was faster, and he caught her. As he seized her, she screamed, and the images of the guards—all but one—vanished.

They weren’t real. The one guard remaining was quickly pinned by Everan and Kord.

Cyrus gripped the girl tightly at the base her jaw. She whimpered under his bruising hold.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

A sob escaped her lips. “I told you; I’m Princess Miriel.”

He didn’t believe her. “Where is Morak?”

She didn’t answer.

“Where is he?” he snarled, tightening his hold.

“He’s dead!” she cried.

They all stopped.

Cyrus stared at her. “What do you mean he’s dead ?”