Page 69 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter fifty-four

Cyrus strode quickly through the main hall and out through the courtyard.

Everan and Kord fell in step beside him.

Kord had just returned from Pryam the week prior, after Cyrus had sent Brant to take Kord’s place in overseeing building the Pryamese army.

He’d brought back a letter from Miriel. It had flowers drawn on it.

She’d also returned the vials of blood Cyrus had sent her so they could talk across the sea between them. That’s gross , her letter had told him. And she said she liked writing letters. Cyrus didn’t. But he’d write to Miriel.

Things were going well for her in Pryam.

With the men Cyrus had sent her, she’d been able to lessen her own illusions that frightened her people so much and replace them with illusions of men from Rael.

Slowly they’d replace those with real men from Rael.

Rumors would fade. All and all, things were settling there for her, which was more than could be said about Rael.

“How many?” Cyrus asked as he stormed through the courtyard, his anger building from the news Kord had just delivered.

“Four,” Kord said.

Four wagons they’d lost. The displaced Raelean nobles had attacked another harvest caravan a half day’s ride from the capital.

This was the third attack in the past two weeks, even with increased guard, and things were escalating.

The wagons of grain weren’t the worst of the losses now.

This time, a hedge witch had been killed.

It was a relatively new witch who’d recently joined the coven, but it was still a hard loss for Essandra and was a detriment to continuing harvests.

And Cyrus’s tolerance was gone. He’d root these men from wherever they were hiding and kill every last one of them.

“The nobles want to meet,” Kord continued. “They want to discuss terms of peace.”

“With what they’ve done today, they’ve ruined their chance at that,” he replied darkly.

“If this will stop the attacks, I think we should consider it.”

Cyrus halted abruptly, halting them all. “They’ve killed another one of Essandra’s witches. For that, they’ll pay.”

“And how many more of our people will we lose while you’re figuring out a way to make them pay? We don’t even know where the nobles are. And the men loyal to them could very well be walking among us.”

Cyrus stared at him. Kord had been different since coming back from Pryam. “What’s going on with you?” he asked. “Did something happen in Pryam?”

Kord shook his head with a snort. “No. Nothing happened in Pryam. Exactly nothing. And you know what? It was nice to be in a kingdom with nothing happening.”

Cyrus looked to Everan. His friend said nothing to agree with Kord. He also said nothing to disagree.

“Look, Cyrus,” Kord said, “all I’m saying is that there’s a lot going on right now. You’re planning a strike against Serra, you want to go after the Shadow King—”

“I’ve agreed to wait on the Shadow King,” Cyrus countered.

Kord tossed up his hands. “But we have to remind you of that every time you think about him. You’re already fighting a war with famine, you’ve overcommitted our few resources—both in a free-for-all invitation for worldwide refugees, and now with Pryam.

Add waging a civil war against the nobles?

” He snorted again. “Thank the fucking gods you can’t get to your brother in Mercia, otherwise that would be on the table too.

Cyrus”—he shook his head—“you can’t do it all.

At least not all at the same time. Not to mention what you’re putting yourself through.

You just bonded yourself with this witch and nearly died. ”

“I didn’t nearly die.”

“A roomful of people literally watched you hemorrhage from your fucking nose and pass the fuck out.”

“I’m fine now.” Mostly fine, other than the storm of power that constantly eddied inside him and sometimes threatened his balance. He’d get it under control.

“Just… think about it. If we made peace with the nobles, it would be one thing resolved.” His blue eyes burned with an icy fire. “Think about it?”

“I’ll think about it,” Cyrus said, but the words tasted sour on his tongue.

Cyrus sat at the end of the table in the council room. Disappointed. He’d been eager for this meeting, a little too eager, thinking it would be another discussion about Serra. Instead, he held an envelope in his hands that bore a green seal.

From Gregor.

The king of Japheth had sent a reply to Everan’s very diplomatic response to his last letter.

Perhaps Cyrus should just give it to Everan now to read and reply as he saw fit.

He was better at these things anyway. But he broke the seal and opened it.

His nonchalance quickly turned to annoyance as he read through.

He tossed the letter onto the table for Everan to read.

“He invites me to Japheth,” Cyrus said as Everan picked up the letter and skimmed it.

“Will you go?” Verin asked.

Everan passed the letter to Kord beside him.

Cyrus sighed.

“Cyrus,” Kord said. “You can’t really be thinking of not going.” He passed the letter around the table.

Of course he was thinking of not going.

“Sire,” Verin said, “this is an excellent opportunity to explore the possibilities between Japheth and Rael.”

“And what of the Shadowlands?” Cyrus cut back. “What if he has no intentions of severing his alliance with the Shadow King?”

“It sounds like he does.”

“By a vague comment from an overconfident messenger?”

“Very true,” Verin said. “But we won’t know for sure until you talk to him. He could come here, or you go there, but he has made the first invitation. I don’t think we have a choice.”

Cyrus looked around the room. His eyes stopped on Essandra.

“Do you think I should go?” he asked her.

She shifted in her chair, and her eyes darted around the table. “I…” She straightened. “I think you should. No decisions should be made. Meet with him, talk to him, return when you know more, and then we’ll decide—collectively—where to go from there.”

Cyrus rested his weight on his elbows against the edge of the table. “Fine.” Then he leaned back in his chair. “Send a reply. I’ll go in a couple weeks.”

The councilmen filed out of the room in high spirits, but Cyrus walked with aversion knotting in his shoulders. There was something about this king of Japheth that bothered him beyond his current alliance with the Shadow King, but he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.

Essandra walked silently beside him. It had been over a week since the nobles’ attack that had killed the hedge witch, and while she wasn’t outwardly grieving, she was quiet and withdrawn.

Cyrus knew it wasn’t just the loss. She was suffering the failure and shame of not being able to keep her coven safe.

And Cyrus was suffering the failure and shame of not being able to give that to her.

Suddenly she perked up. “Orion,” she said.

That name was like a fork dragged across a plate.

Cyrus stiffened as he saw the assassin walking toward them, alive.

Unfortunately. But he stifled the growl in his throat, as well as his want to dagger this man as he approached.

Orion had just returned from Serra, and Cyrus was eager to hear what he had to say.

“Took you long enough,” Cyrus told him, not bothering with a greeting.

“It’s a massive fucking kingdom,” the assassin cut back. Then he quickly nodded to Essandra. “Apologies for the language, Lady Essandra.”

She gave a small shake of her head, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.

Maybe Cyrus would dagger this man.

“My study,” Cyrus said shortly. He led them all to the room. Inside, they swept around the large trestle table in the center that sat layered with maps.

“So how many slaves are there, and where are they primarily?” Cyrus asked, picking up a pen.

Orion pointed to the capital city by an inlet labeled Slaver’s Bay on the east side of the kingdom.

“I’d estimate seventy-five to a hundred thousand all in this area.

” His finger moved slightly north. “Another fifty thousand here.” Then he trailed east and down to the southern coast. “And maybe sixty thousand spanning the east side.”

“So, upward of two hundred thousand in total,” Cyrus said as he noted the numbers on the side.

“That’s double the size of Aleon’s army,” Kord said.

“But they aren’t soldiers,” countered Everan. “Aleon would decimate them.”

“We’re not fighting Aleon right now,” Cyrus replied. He looked back at Orion. “So, the majority of the slaves are in the capital?”

The assassin nodded. “It’s also the main port city, so it’s where the majority of their slave trade comes in and out of. Another interesting detail—most common citizens don’t keep slaves. They’re primarily held among the nobles, located in and around the capital.”

“Just like Rael,” Everan said.

Cyrus nodded. That was good—centralized targets, and the slaves weren’t as scattered as he’d feared. “What about the west?” he asked.

“The west is largely uninhabited,” Orion told them. “If you think Rael is hot and barren, western Serra is even worse.” He pointed to the center of the kingdom between two sets of mountains. “Once you get past here, there’s not much you’ll encounter.”

Interesting. Cyrus nodded again. “So how many Serrans do you think there are?”

“People living in poverty? I don’t know. A lot. But the size of their army is significantly less than the number of slaves.”

Cyrus jerked his head up in surprise.

“Wait, what?” Everan said. “That can’t be right. I was held in Serra for over a year. The capital’s huge. And everyone knows it’s one of the largest kingdoms.”

“Largest in terms of wasteland,” Orion said. “Once you get outside the capital, there’s nothing.”

Cyrus snorted. “Quite the ruse,” he said. “It makes me think no one has ever visited Serra.”

Orion frowned. “Who would want to?”