31. Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
The sound of metal against metal rang through the air as soldiers practiced their skills on the sparring field. Cyrus stood, leaning against the rail, watching.
But not really watching.
Three weeks. Three weeks had passed since he’d delivered the physical crown to Norah, following him giving it to her in her mind.
And he’d heard nothing from her.
Absolutely nothing.
Maybe she needed more blood…
No , there’d been enough in the last vial for four or five callings.
So why hadn’t she used it?
Perhaps the Shadow commander had discovered her again; perhaps he’d taken it. That was a very practical explanation. He’d done it before. Rage simmered inside him. If that man had taken his blood away from her again, Cyrus would kill him.
It was the only logical thing that could have happened. Cyrus knew the crown was important to her. Norah would have been overjoyed to have it back.
She would have used the blood, because she would have had questions, like how he’d delivered it to her—questions he couldn’t answer.
But still, he wanted her call to him, and every day he waited.
“I’d love to be able to get inside your mind once in a while,” Essandra said as she suddenly appeared beside him.
He snorted. “What is it you want to know?” He’d tell her anything.
“Why you’ve been so quiet lately. What you’re thinking about.”
Well, almost anything.
Cyrus hadn’t told her about the crown. He wasn’t sure why. That was a lie. He knew exactly why. It was because he’d traveled to the stone circle without her. She hadn’t been in her workroom when he went to take the crown to Norah, and so he’d gone alone.
He’d been careful, making sure to break the tether with One before sending the dog to his task. He didn’t think Essandra would care so much about him delivering the crown, but she would care that he’d traveled deep into Mercia to do it, all the way to the channel.
One wasn’t a bird, and Cyrus hadn’t wanted to risk potentially losing the animal. The truth was, he’d become quite fond of the dogs, especially One. He’d gotten as close to the capital isle as he could before sending the hound.
It had been successful, as far as he could tell. Then he’d returned with the animal before anyone had realized he was even gone.
So why hadn’t Norah called him to return?
“I take it you’re not going to tell me,” Essandra said.
Cyrus sighed. Was it really worth hiding? She’d find out eventually. “The Mercian queen hasn’t called to me. She hasn’t used the blood at all.”
“That’s not entirely unusual,” she said. “It seems you’re waiting on her more often than not.”
“But I really expected her to. I gave her her crown back.”
Essandra stiffened. “You did what?”
“I gave her her crown—”
“I heard you.” She gaped at him. “Why would you do that?”
“Because it’s important to her. I wanted her to have it.”
Her eyes darkened slightly as they bore into him. “How did you get it to her?”
“I took it myself,” he confessed. “Had One deliver it across the bridge to her.”
Her mouth fell open. “You traveled to the stone circle without me?”
“I know you find this hard to believe,” he said cheekily, “but I am capable.”
She shook her head, her eyes darkening even more. “Do you know how risky that was? You won’t even let Orion go to Mercia, but you —Rael’s king, enemy of an empire—go completely alone to visit their allied queen that you’re deceiving, and you told no one ?! And for what?”
“Gregor is the enemy of the empire, not me.”
“You’re Gregor’s ally!” she practically yelled. “Whether or not you want to be, whether or not you like him—it doesn’t matter. Gods, Cyrus!”
“Norah deserved to have that crown back,” he said.
She scoffed. “Norah? You’re close enough now to be on a first-name basis?”
The heat of anger lit his skin. “Yes,” he seethed as that anger grew hotter. “ So close. Close enough that she calls me by my dead brother’s name.”
Essandra quieted.
“He’s dead !” he snapped. “And still, it’s all I hear. Alexander. Alexander! Alexander! ”
She said nothing against his growing fury, and slowly, it started to fade. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice to her. She had every reason to be frustrated with him, but he was frustrated too.
“There you go,” he told her. “Now you know what’s in my mind.”
Cyrus left her at the railing and headed back toward the palace.
The dogs trotted off the field to follow.
When he reached the doors, he let himself slow.
His shoulders ached. His legs were heavy.
His arms were heavy. The air was heavy. He was tired, but the exhaustion that afflicted him couldn’t be cured by sleep.
He stepped into a side hall and rested his weight against the wall. One nuzzled his hand, and he gave the dog a gentle scratch behind the ears. The animal leaned into his touch, and Cyrus couldn’t help a small smile. Then he sighed. He’d go back and smooth things with Essandra.
As he rocked off the wall, a pull came, and he froze.
His blood called to him, and his pulse quickened.
But it wasn’t Norah.
He pushed his mind down the bond under the cover of a veil.
Darkness surrounded him.
And he knew exactly where he was.
Cyrus took care not to reveal himself as he looked into the mind of the Shadow King.
How was Cyrus in his mind? How had the Shadow King gotten the blood? Had Norah given it to him? Cyrus shook off the latter idea. No. She wouldn’t have done that. The Shadow King had to have taken it from her, like the commander had.
“ Show yourself! ” the Shadow King snarled at him. Blood trailed between his fingers from where he’d poured it across his palm.
Cyrus felt his own snarl rise in his throat, but he kept silent. Watching.
“ Show yourself, coward! ” the king challenged again. He pushed a smear up his arm, as if more blood would make Cyrus come. Then he let out another snarl and smeared a strip across his chest. “ Where are you? ” he raged.
Cyrus had no intention of revealing himself, but it hit him suddenly that he had a rare opportunity—an opportunity that would be gone when the king wiped off his blood.
He moved quickly. Only memories were here—not future plans, not intentions—but memories could be helpful nonetheless, if he focused.
It was easy to find himself overwhelmed by the number of them.
Through various images he passed, through sights of the Shadow castle, of marching armies, of older battles.
He paused at the Mercian queen’s capture—a sight he hadn’t found in Norah’s mind, because she hadn’t seen it in its entirety .
The Shadow King lined the Mercian soldiers up and forced them to their knees with their hands bound behind their backs.
Then he watched as his commander slit their throats one by one.
It wasn’t unlike the executions Cyrus had done of Pyro’s soldiers, and of the nobles of Rael, but Mercia wasn’t Rael.
They weren’t guilty of the same crimes Rael had been.
Norah’s mind was filled with memories of the Shadow King and his commander, but none like this. Even though this man was different from the one who’d ruled before, different from the man who had sold Cyrus into slavery, he was still the same. Norah might not see his nature, but Cyrus did.
And then Cyrus found what he was looking for: army records, as remembered by the king—numbers, provisions, weapons, maps—and they were good. This king was well informed.
The Shadow army was smaller than he’d thought. Just under sixty thousand. Fear always made things larger than they were, and the Shadow King certainly knew how to use fear.
But Cyrus wasn’t afraid of this man.
The king raged more for Cyrus to show himself, but Cyrus ignored him and flashed through more memories, pushing himself faster. He didn’t have much time. But one memory made him pause.
Another of Norah.
He watched through the Shadow King’s eyes as he stripped her from her dress and laid her on a bed in the Shadow castle. Slow. Gentle. This was how the king was with her. This was the side that Norah saw.
But this wasn’t who this man was.
Cyrus flipped through more memories, still searching for anything else useful. And he slowed again as he came upon the devastation of Mercia.
It hit him.
Hard.
He’d known about the coup and that Norah had re-won the throne, but he hadn’t seen the aftermath, not like this. The dead were piled high, and nearly everything that wasn’t stone had been burned.
He didn’t know why it affected him. In his anger over the years, he’d fantasized about Mercia falling. So he didn’t know why it hurt so much to see it.
His eyes shifted to a long line of soldiers with their hands bound—not Mercians but clearly the forces that were defeated to win back the Mercian throne, hired swords. They were led by the Shadowmen to cages on carts and shoved inside.
Cyrus knew these cages.
Slave cages. His blood ran cold. Yes—this was a different man from the previous Shadow King, but he was still the same.
And Cyrus would kill him.