47. Chapter 47
Chapter forty-seven
Teron tended to Cyrus’s cut palms as Essandra cleaned the blood from the floor, despite Cyrus’s objections. Visa helped her, but that didn’t make it better. He didn’t like seeing them do that, but by the time Teron was finished, they were done.
The hour was late—well into the night.
“Thank you,” Cyrus told Teron and Visa before they took their leave.
Alone with Essandra again, he was finally starting to feel a little better. But Essandra’s face was pale. He held out his hand for her to come to him, and he pulled her close.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
She nodded.
“It’s the dark magic, isn’t it?”
“I’m fine,” she insisted.
A pang of guilt ate at him. She’d done this for him.
“Let’s get you something to eat,” he said, and he led her down the hall toward the kitchens.
The kitchen staff was asleep, but how hard could it be to find something to eat?
He sat her in a small chair before rummaging through the shelves and pantry.
So much food, but none of it really in a state that he was used to eating it.
Raw vegetables—carrots, celery, asparagus.
Unpalatable. He kept looking. Finally, he found some dried fish—a personal favorite—and he smiled.
“Here,” he said, bringing it to her.
She stared at it for a moment, and her brows dipped down. “Actually,” she said, “I’m not hungry. I think I just need to rest.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, holding it closer. If she just smelled it, it would probably trigger her appetite.
But she pulled away with a grimace. “I’m sure,” she said quickly.
He set the fish on the center worktable. “All right,” he said softly. She looked worse than before. No more dark magic , he swore to himself.
She stood but held his arm tightly. He didn’t like this at all.
“I got you,” he said, and he scooped her into his arms.
Cyrus carried her back to his chamber and laid her gently in his bed. By the time he’d pulled off his clothes and climbed in beside her, she was already asleep.
He pulled her close. Her warmth calmed him—the feel of body against body, skin against skin. Soul against soul. He closed his eyes as he breathed her in, then let sleep take him too.
He fell into the colors of his mind, into the world of dreams, where a vision of a woman came.
He’d seen this woman before—a woman on a white horse.
Her dark hair blew wild in the wind around her, with long braids and feathers woven in.
She wore paint on her face, as she had when he last saw her, but it was different this time.
She’d marked her eyes in black, running the ink wide from temple to temple, with red lines down her cheeks.
It wasn’t often he had recurring dreams, but a couple of times now, he’d seen her. He still didn’t know who she was, although he didn’t particularly care. She meant nothing, she was no one to him. But she was easier to watch than dreams of blood.
When Cyrus woke, Essandra was gone, probably off doing witchy things. He stretched and rose quickly. The morning was still early, and despite not getting very much sleep, he felt rested and well and in high spirits, all things considering.
It was the start of a good day—a day of planning war.
He was ready. He was glad he’d left Jaem in Mercia again, to resume his feed of information.
Cyrus had also settled on a strategy, and now that he was confident he could maintain the element of surprise, he was even more sure of it.
He just needed to convince his council. He wouldn’t spend too much energy on that, though.
He would move forward with or without their support.
It was Everan and Kord he cared about more. They were the ones who would be with him on the battlefield. And the rest of his men.
And Miriel. But Bash would be a challenge, once he heard what Cyrus planned to ask of her.
“Absolutely not,” Bash snapped as they all sat around the table in the council room. He reacted just as Cyrus had expected.
As did his council, although Cyrus didn’t care about them.
Cyrus looked at Miriel. “You only have to hold the illusion of our army there in Japheth until I reach the Shadow King.” All he needed was for her to distract Phillip and keep him focused on Japheth until Cyrus could launch an attack against the Shadowlands.
“Gregor will figure it out pretty quickly,” Bash said. He gave the king of Japheth too much credit.
Cyrus didn’t actually think he would. “Miriel’s illusions are exceptional. He won’t have a clue.”
“And the more distance we keep between the illusion of our army and his actual army, the easier it will be to maintain the ruse,” Everan added.
“Putting pressure on Aleon by making Phillip believe our army is in Japheth will keep him from moving his forces to the Shadowlands,” Cyrus said.
“So, you’ll send her to fight with Gregor?” Bash asked bitterly.
“There won’t be a fight,” Cyrus insisted. “As soon as I launch my attack against the Shadow King, you’ll pull Miriel out.”
“Gregor isn’t going to react well to that,” Kord said.
Cyrus shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Once Phillip sees Gregor is alone, he’ll take care of him.”
“I don’t like it,” Bash said.
But it wasn’t Bash’s decision. Cyrus focused on Miriel. “You’d only be there to put up the illusion,” he told her. “Then I’ll pull you out. I promise.”
“What about Mercia and Osan?” Bash asked.
“Let me worry about Osan. As for Mercia, if they think the main threat is in Japheth, they’ll send their forces to join Aleon.”
“Great—exactly where Miriel will be,” Bash said sharply.
“You’ll be out before they even get there,” Cyrus told her.
Miriel bit her bottom lip. “And this will let you take the Shadow King by surprise?”
Cyrus nodded. “And it will distract his allies and leave him without their support.”
Miriel glanced at Bash, then back to Cyrus. “I’ll do it.”
Feeling one step closer to victory, Cyrus made his way back to his chamber. It was fucking hot. He’d already sweat through his tunic. He’d change and go find Essandra. She hadn’t been at the meeting, which was odd. Well, not too odd. Sometimes, she was wrapped up in something she was working on.
He pulled a fresh tunic from the side dressing room but stopped as the crash of glass sounded from the bath chamber.
He stepped back into the main bedchamber. “Essandra?”
There was no answer, but a shuffle came from behind the closed door.
He quickly moved to it. “Essandra?”
“A moment!” she called from inside.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Y-yes.” But she didn’t sound all right.
“Can I come in?”
Another shuffle came, and the sound of something falling. A stool, perhaps.
“Essandra?” He tried the handle, and it wasn’t locked.
“No!” she cried as he pushed the door open.
She was on her knees on the floor, frantically trying to wipe up blood from the marble.
“Essandra!” He swept inside and dropped down to her. “What happened?”
Tears streaked her face. Her eyes were full of terror. “I’m so sorry! It was an accident!”
“What?” He shook his head in confusion. “What was an accident?”
She clawed up the towels on the floor, still desperately trying to wipe up the blood. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
He grabbed her arm. “Stop! Leave that! Are you hurt?”
“I couldn’t do it!” she said through her sobs. “I was going to get rid of it, but I couldn’t do it. And now I think I’m losing it!”
“Losing what?”
Her whole body shook. She couldn’t get the words out. She was a mess of blood.
And he froze.
The blood was coming from between her thighs. It soaked her dress to her feet.
“I didn’t mean to,” she cried. “It was an accident. I swear to you.”
His breaths quickened and shallowed as his heart raced faster. “What was an accident?”
Another sob escaped her lips. “I’m so sorry.”
He gripped her shoulders and pulled her still. “What was an accident?” he asked again.
“The child,” she whispered through her tears.
His pulse thrummed so heavily in his throat he could barely pull in a breath. He almost couldn’t ask. “You’re with child?”
Another sob escaped her.
Confusion flooded him. “I thought you could prevent that.”
“I was! I mean, I’ve been doing the spells, but I don’t know—I messed up.” Her sobs racked her body. “I didn’t do it on purpose. Please don’t think I did it on purpose!”
“Stop,” he said, still holding her to try to calm her. “Stop, stop. I don’t think you did it on purpose.”
Sobs still shook her. “I’m so sorry!”
He gripped her tighter. “You don’t have to be sorry. Don’t be sorry.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen! I know you don’t want it. I didn’t mean to. I was going to get rid of it,” she cried. “But then I couldn’t go through with it.”
“That’s not…” He shook his head. This couldn’t be happening. “Don’t even think about that,” he said. “If you’re with child—”
“I went too far, though,” she sobbed. “I think I’m losing it now.”
He glanced around her and noticed her spell circles and candles. His eyes raked over her in horror. “You did this to yourself?”
Another tremble rippled through her. “I started but I couldn’t go through with it. I don’t want to lose it!”
He pulled her close to him, trying to quiet her. “It’s all right. You don’t have to get rid of it. Everything’s going to be all right.”
“There’s so much blood,” she cried.
“I know.” He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bath. “We’ll get you cleaned up,” he said as he set her gently on the floor beside the tub. “I’m going to go get Teron, and I’ll be right back. He’ll fix all of this.”
She nodded through her tears.
Cyrus tore out of his chamber and through the halls.
“Get Teron!” he thundered. He barked out orders to anyone who could hear him.
“Water! Hot! And linens! Now!” He didn’t care who they were.
They all scurried to help. When he reached the chamber again, Visa was there, helping Essandra peel off her dress.
Her deft fingers quickly worked through the layers, and Cyrus was grateful.
Two more women came with hot water, filling the tub. Essandra stood shakily, but Cyrus was there in an instant, picking her up and lifting her in.
Teron came running. Cyrus moved to give him room but kept hold of Essandra’s hand. Teron reached out and put a hand on her shoulder.
The water was now red with Essandra’s blood. She winced as she doubled forward.
“Take the pain away,” Cyrus demanded.
“I’m trying,” the old healer said.
“I’m so sorry,” Essandra said through her cries.
“Stop saying that,” Cyrus told her. He was out of breath now, his sole focus on Essandra. “You don’t need to be sorry. It’s all right. You’ll be all right.”
Tears still streaked her face. “I don’t want to lose it.”
“You’re not going to lose it.”
But Teron paused, his face grave.
And Cyrus realized. They already had. He shook his head, stopping the old man from saying the words. “Heal her,” he said between his teeth.
Teron leaned forward again, reaching out, and put his hand on Essandra’s stomach.
Slowly, her body relaxed, save only the tremble of her sobs.
As the old healer finished, he pulled back and gave Cyrus a small nod. “She’ll be all right,” he said. “But she should rest now.”
“Thank you,” Cyrus told him.
Teron left the bath chamber and Cyrus brushed Essandra’s hair from her face. “Let’s get you to the bed,” he told her.
Visa grabbed some towels and draped them around Essandra as Cyrus helped her stand. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bed.
Climbing in beside her, he pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. He placed gentle kisses on her eyelids as her tears still came.
“Rest, my love,” he whispered.
He’d thought he’d do anything to keep from having a child. Now he’d do anything to get it back.