24. Chapter 24 #2
Kord nodded somberly. “And it’s just starting.”
They couldn’t clear the streets fast enough. They piled bodies in the arena and burned them to try to stop the spread of sickness, but they couldn’t stop it.
Jaem still flitted between the Free Cities and the outer reaches of Mercia, soaking up information where he could find it.
Miraculously, he managed to stay free of the fever himself, but he reported disastrous losses everywhere he went.
The Free Cities, Mercia, Aleon, and beyond—no one seemed to have escaped the devastation of the fever.
And in Rael, death kept coming.
They worked to exhaustion. Every day. Every night. Over and over and over.
It became routine—Cyrus retiring to his chamber long after the sun had disappeared and sinking into the bathtub, where the water turned black with the ash of skin and bone.
All he could do was close his eyes and lie there. He was just so tired.
When would it end?
One light in the darkness—Miriel had recovered.
No one who’d taken the blood wine had caught the fever.
Cyrus wasn’t sure how it was working, only that it was, but he simply didn’t have enough blood to give.
And his efforts felt so insignificant. What was saving a few hundred compared to the loss of thousands?
Tens of thousands.
The losses were catastrophic. By the time the fever had run its course, half of Rael was dead. Two months later, they were still finding bodies.
Cyrus stood in his study, leaning over his desk as he stared at the last letter that had come from Gregor.
Japeth had been hit equally hard by the fever, although Gregor spoke of it with little concern.
He was, instead, celebrating the devastation suffered by Aleon, as well as the complete loss of the island trading nation of Tarsus, which Aleon had overtaken earlier that year, effectively cutting the majority of Gregor’s trade.
He seemed to be reveling as though this were a victory.
But Cyrus didn’t care about Aleon or Tarsus. His eyes read over the sentence that had been only a mere mention—yet was the most important of all.
The Mercian queen had been overthrown.
If Cyrus found himself annoyed by Gregor before, it paled in comparison to what he felt now. Gregor offered no details—no indication of timing, no mention of whether she was alive or dead, no information about Mercia’s alliance with the Shadowlands. Nothing.
The worthless piece of shit.
All the absolute fuckery that Gregor filled his letters with before, and now the one thing Cyrus was desperate to know more about…
Nothing.
He assumed the alliance was broken, which meant the Shadow King now stood alone.
But Cyrus wasn’t in a position to act. Anger rippled under his skin.
He’d waited a long time for an opportunity, but now that opportunity was here and he couldn’t take advantage of it.
By the time he built his army up again, the Shadow King would likely have found another way to fortify himself.
He searched his mind for what he might be able to do now, but there was nothing.
A knock sounded at the door, and Orion and Kord stepped in.
“We have a problem,” Orion said.
Cyrus closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose. “What is it?”
“The farmers have brought their grievances to the throne room,” Kord said.
Cyrus turned his head and stared at them. “Why are you both involved with farming grievances?” He looked at Orion. “Especially you.”
“Because it’s about the burn fields, and we’re still burning,” Orion said.
Cyrus sighed. They’d moved the burning of bodies to several fields outside the city.
It had been too much to handle in the arena.
Orion had led most of the work because Kord had been overwhelmed by the collapse of the army, and someone needed to do it.
Orion had taken it over because he could, because Cyrus needed him to, and Cyrus was realizing just how often he did that.
“And Ruth is dead,” Kord added.
Cyrus’s shoulders slumped. He knew about his magistrate. She’d given her blood wine to her daughter, and before Cyrus had found out to be able to give her more, she’d caught the fever. She never recovered.
There weren’t many grievances at the moment, probably because there weren’t many people left to even have a grievance, or perhaps because death put things in perspective. The council had been temporarily managing them when they did arise.
“The council is divided,” Kord told him. “The burning has lessened now, and we can move it back to the arena, but sowing the land that we burned half our people on so soon is disrespectful to the dead and their families.”
“We need to start farming it again,” Orion said.
“Eventually, but not yet,” Kord argued. “Our population isn’t anywhere close to what it was.”
“But we still have refugees fleeing their kingdoms and arriving by the thousands,” Orion countered. “We’ll quickly be there again.”
They both looked at Cyrus.
“Move the burning back to the arena,” Cyrus told them. “Sow the land.”
Orion gave a stiff bow and left the room.
Kord lingered.
Cyrus sighed. “I’m sorry you disagree.”
“I don’t care about the land, Cyrus. I was only voicing the opposing side of the council.”
“Oh.”
“But there’s something else I wanted to tell you.”
Cyrus waited.
“I’m going to wed Leti.”
Cyrus gaped at him in surprise. He didn’t know why he was surprised. This was what Kord had said he wanted—a life, a proper wife and family.
“I’m not asking for your permission,” Kord said. “I’m telling you because I want you to be there as my friend. As my brother.”
The fact that he would say that… Cyrus’s chest grew tight with emotion. “Of course you don’t need my permission,” he said, “but if you did, I’d gladly give it. Congratulations, brother.”
Kord’s face softened. “Do you really mean that?”
“Yes. And of course I’ll be there.”
Kord glanced down at the floor, then back to Cyrus. “The wedding’s in three weeks.”
“I won’t miss it.”
A smile came to Kord’s lips, and he nodded. Then he turned and left Cyrus to the quiet of his study again.
As the wedding drew closer, so, too, did the excitement around the palace.
Cyrus found himself appreciating the fact that they had something to look forward to after everything that had happened.
Visa in particular carried a broad smile on her face.
After all the pain he’d caused her, Cyrus desperately wanted to see her well and happy, and this wedding seemed to do that.
No doubt she felt she was gaining a sister.
She was close with Essandra, but Everan had shared with Cyrus how she often felt alone.
It would be good to have another woman around.
Cyrus didn’t know Leti well, but she seemed kind, although quiet.
She let Visa drive much of the wedding planning, which Visa loved, as she’d never gotten to have a lavish wedding of her own.
Everyone seemed happy, and that made Cyrus happy.
The day of the wedding, he stood in his chamber in front of the corner mirror.
He pulled at the collar of the heavily embroidered shirt that Visa had selected for him.
He didn’t like things around his neck, but he supposed he could bear it for a short while.
He unfastened the top button. That was a little better.
“There you are!” Visa said from behind him, and he glanced up in the mirror to see her step inside.
“Why do you say it like that?” he asked. “You told me to get ready in my chamber—I’m getting ready in my chamber.”
“Well, you’re never where you’re supposed to be, so I was worried.”
She spun him to face her, looking him over with a critical eye, then reached up and buttoned the top button on his shirt.
He left it this time. She straightened the folds of his collar behind his neck and smoothed over the lines of his vest. Then she pulled his jacket from where it hung—a jacket that had no business being worn in Rael.
She held it for him, and he let her slip it on.
“This is good,” she said with a nod of approval after. “You look good.”
Good. Good.
“Is Essandra going to be there?” he asked.
Her lips hinted at a smile. “Of course she is.”
“Right.” That was stupid. Why wouldn’t she be? But he couldn’t help himself. “Will we be seated near each other?”
Visa paused, and she lifted a brow. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes narrowed. “I might have put you beside each other.”
Cyrus couldn’t help a smile back. “Are you sure I look good?”
Her smile widened more. “Yes. You do.” She patted the fold of his jacket along his chest. “All right,” she said. “I told Leti I would help her finish getting ready. I’ll see you down in the hall. Don’t be late. ”
“I won’t,” he promised.
She smiled again and left the room.
Cyrus looked back at his reflection in the mirror. It was amusing that this was probably the first time he actually looked like a king, and it wasn’t even for any of his kingly duties. It was for Kord. For his brother, he was happy to do it.
He drew a deep breath and turned to head toward the great hall. He’d be slightly early. If he were honest with himself, he was a little excited. And it was nice to be excited about something.
But as he reached for the door, a pain rippled through him, stopping him in his step.
It was like nothing he’d ever felt before.
All the battles.
All the injuries.
This was different.
The next wave of pain dropped him to his knees. He clawed at his chest, but it wasn’t in his chest; it was deeper. It wasn’t a pain of the body but a pain of the soul—a ripping, splitting, breaking of his being.
It was tearing him apart.
A third wave came, and a cry escaped his lips just before he fell into darkness.