4. Chapter 4
Chapter four
Cyrus sat heavily in the leather wingback chair of his study, alone. He’d even sent the dogs away. The burn in his blood had turned from the fire of fight to the blister of defeat. He let himself slide lower, both in the chair and in his mind.
At first, he’d blamed the assassins.
But this wasn’t their fault.
Cyrus had no one to blame but himself. It hadn’t been enough for him to tell Alexander that he’d killed his queen. He’d wanted him to know as it was happening.
But Alexander wasn’t there.
And this queen—she wasn’t what he’d expected. She wasn’t a helpless victim. She was strong. They’d lost two men before they’d realized just how strong she was.
He sank even lower into the chair, his elbows on the armrests. He tented his hands against his forehead with his eyes closed.
Another attempt would be near impossible.
The element of surprise was gone. The Shadowlands would have increased their guard; Cyrus doubted he’d even be able to enter the kingdom now.
Not to mention that his council was beside themselves— first for casting aside his focus on Serra and taking on such a rash mission; second, for risking Rael; third, for not telling them…
He didn’t even know why he was bothering to number the reasons; there were too many to count.
Without the active compulsion of bloodlust, he saw it now—the irrationality. The madness.
Everan carried the weight of defeat on his shoulders.
He blamed himself for not being able to dissuade Cyrus, but Cyrus alone was to blame.
It had been his idea—he was the only one manic enough to think this effort had been possible, and he’d refused all reason to the contrary.
No one could have stopped him. And Cyrus wished he could say that they should have never gone at all. That was what he should say.
It was the right thing to say.
It was the right thing to believe.
But the truth was, if he had missed this opportunity, he would have hated himself even more than he did now. He should have gone himself. He should have—
He felt the pull of a blood bond, and he bolted upright.
His breath caught, and his chest tightened.
It wasn’t Orion. It wasn’t his men. It wasn’t Jaem.
The Shadow Queen .
It couldn’t be. She’d need his blood, and Alexander wasn’t there.
But the pull…
He should ignore it. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t do anything now anyway.
But it clawed and it scratched at his mind. What if Alexander was there? What if she’d lied?
No—Jaem had confirmed he’d passed through the Free Cities on the way back to Mercia.
What if he’d been wrong?
Cyrus shook his head against the pull. He shouldn’t open himself to it. It would only bring back the madness, potentially fuel it more, given that there was nothing he could do about it.
But the pull, the pull, the pull…
He closed his eyes.
And surrendered to it.
The pathway wasn’t clear. The bond wasn’t strong. It was either a little bit of blood, perhaps diluted, or old blood, or… He wasn’t quite sure. It could be any number of things.
But he found her.
Only, just as he connected, the bond broke, and she disappeared.
He staggered up, his heart racing. For a moment, he questioned if it really had been her.
No, he was certain of it. It was the Shadow Queen.
He also felt the madness returning. He paced the room, trying to push it down.
Even if Alexander was still there, there was nothing Cyrus could do.
Knowing would only make him obsess—take over every thought and every dream.
Make him do something foolish. He’d get his brother, he assured himself, and he’d bring down the Shadowlands eventually, just as he was planning to bring down Serra.
Serra.
He needed to focus on Serra and push Alexander from his mind.
His council had pressed him into making a public address, to share the progress in building their army and assure the people that he had a plan against the slavers’ kingdom.
It had been well received by the masses.
Cyrus had put Kord in charge of the basic-combat regimens, and each arriving refugee ship brought a new wave of men to start training.
It wouldn’t be long before he had a healthy-size army.
But his mind drifted back…
If Alexander was in the Shadowlands…
Cyrus’s heart beat faster.
If Alexander was in the Shadowlands…
He had to find out.
His eyes settled on the iron birdcage in the corner.
Three days it should take a bird to reach the Shadowlands.
It had been only a day and a half, and the bird Cyrus had sent had almost reached the castle. He tried not to push the animal nonstop—it would do him little good if it died of exhaustion before reaching its destination, but it was all Cyrus could think about.
He should have sent two birds. He should have sent them all.
“Cyrus?” Everan prompted.
He looked up to find his council staring back at him from around the table and tried to refocus through the relentless throbbing in his head.
“Is everything all right, Sire?” Fatim asked.
“Of course,” he replied, blinking back the pain behind his eyes. He certainly wasn’t going to tell his council about the bird he’d sent to the Shadowlands. He hadn’t even told Everan and Essandra.
“You’ll meet with the nobles, then?” Turin asked. Turin had joined as his new master of law, after Murius had been killed in the nobles’ first attack.
Cyrus cupped his fist as he leaned forward on his elbows, trying to focus his mind on their conversation.
Three harvest wagons had been taken in another strike by the nobles.
Fortunately, no one had been killed, but the nobles were now formally requesting a meeting.
They’d sent a letter the night prior. The audacity fired his blood.
And he hadn’t forgotten about the pyre that had been lit in his courtyard—a threat against the witches.
His council had been pushing heavily for him to meet with them, as had Kord, but Cyrus hadn’t wanted to commit then. And he didn’t want to commit now.
He tucked his chin and pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes, briefly closing them. He checked on the bird again.
It was almost to the Shadow castle.
His pulse quickened. He needed to leave—he needed to find somewhere private, somewhere he could focus.
He stood abruptly.
“Sire?” Turin pushed.
“Fine,” he said quickly. “Arrange it.”
Kord straightened in his chair. “Really?”
“I said do it,” he snapped back, sharper than he’d intended. He settled himself. “Set it up,” he said, cooler this time. He pushed his chair back. “If that’s all, there’s something I need to tend to.”
The councilmen nodded, perhaps not wanting to push their good fortune, and he turned and strode from the council room.
“Cyrus?” Essandra caught him in the hall.
He paused and looked back.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “Do you need help with something?”
He shook his head. “No, we’ll talk later.”
“Cyrus—”
“I’m fine,” he assured her. Then he quickly made his way to his chamber.
As soon as the door closed behind him, he dropped to his knees and sat back on his heels, closing his eyes and letting his mind race the pathway.
The bird had reached the castle and sat perched on top of the tower. The animal was weak, its vision blurry, and the connection was fading in and out. The bond would break soon, if the bird didn’t break first.
He pushed it off the tower, willing the small animal to carry itself on exhausted wings through the outdoor open galleries that ran the walls of the castle. Under the high-arched walkways, it flew from window to window, with Cyrus searching for any sign of Alexander through its eyes.
He found nothing. A deep ache pierced his mind, but he pushed through it.
Through a colonnaded forecourt, across an expansive garden, and down another covered walkway, he flew. Up, up. Window after window after window.
Until moonspun hair caught his eye.
The Shadow Queen.
He let the bird pause and rest on the railing of the outside balcony. He recognized this room—where he’d tried to kill her only days ago.
She sat across a settee, a cup of steaming drink in her hand. A book lay open in her lap, but she wasn’t reading it. There was someone else in the room, just out of view—a maid, perhaps—but the queen paid them no mind, and neither did he.
Her eyes were blank as she stared through the window.
Blank as they looked at the sky.
Blank as they landed on him.
She straightened. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear her.
Then she stood abruptly.
A sinking feeling pitted his stomach, but he barely had time to form a thought before she flung her teacup at him. The windowpane shattered, and the bird took flight.
Cyrus’s connection broke. He threw his mind back into the chaos of the Aether, searching desperately, but the pathway wasn’t there. He wasn’t sure if it was the bird or just the bond.
Either way, it was gone.
Cyrus opened his eyes. He was once again in his chamber, hunched forward and panting. Sweat beaded his brow and trickled down his temple. He breathed heavily on his knees.
Until his heart slowed. Until his breaths quieted.
Then he rose to his feet. He swayed slightly before catching himself. Pain throbbed in his head, but he ignored it. Wiping his face roughly with his hand, he lumbered toward the sideboard where a pitcher of water and a chalice sat. He drank straight from the pitcher.
His control was slipping. He could feel it. Slipping right through his fingers.
What was he doing? He needed to get back on track, he needed to rebuild Rael and bring down Serra.
He needed to meet with the nobles, like he’d committed.
Nobles who were just like Pyro.
Nobles who had killed Essandra’s witches.
Nobles who threatened her still.
Fire rippled under his skin. And that control he was so desperately trying to hold on to slipped a little bit more.
All around him was darkness.
Not the natural darkness of night—a darkness with weight. It pressed into him from every side. Cold. Merciless.
And there was something in the darkness.
Fear surged through him. His body screamed to run. And he tried—
Blind. Breathless. But he couldn’t.
The darkness wrapped around him. Desperately, he pushed himself harder, but it tightened. And tightened more. Binding him. He fought against it. He couldn’t move, and he struggled harder.
A scream ripped from his lips. “No! Please!”
But it wasn’t his voice that cried out.
It was hers.
Essandra.
Drenched in sweat, Cyrus snapped up in his bed, his lungs heaving. The dream clung to him—still vivid, still visceral.
Another nightmare.
He threw off his sheet and tore down the hall, not thinking, just moving, the dogs at his heels. He needed to be sure…
When he reached her door, Aaron was there.
The guard straightened as Cyrus approached, holding up a calming hand. “She’s all right,” he said quickly. “She just opened the door a moment ago. Asked for water. I’ve sent a man to fetch it.”
Cyrus’s eyes moved to the closed door. His racing heart slowed. He wanted to knock, wanted to see her. But she wouldn’t like that. She didn’t want comfort. She wanted control. She wanted power against what was after her.
She hadn’t said a name in the nightmare, but she didn’t need to. He already knew who haunted her.
Soroya—the high witch of the coven Essandra had escaped.
The dogs whined at his side. Cyrus put a hand on One’s head, calming himself as well.
Essandra was safe. There was nothing he needed to do. Nothing he could do. At least, not right now. He sighed, giving a short nod to Aaron. Then he turned and padded quietly back to his chamber, carrying the weight of her fear with him.