The queen had addressed him by the title given to the five who'd fought the galla. “How do you know me?” he asked. “Did you and yours serve under my banner?” The Kai dead had followed Brishen while the human dead had answered to Serovek, Andras, Gaeres and Megiddo.
Again, only a voice in his mind answered. “We serve no one. All of the dead heard the summons of a son of the Old blood.”
This time the ghostly throng behind her spoke aloud, repeating in hollow unison ancient Kai words once uttered by Brishen's eidolon on Saruna Tor.
“Rise and come forth, ye sleepers and ye wanderers. Come forth and prepare for war. Rise. Rise.”
“Oh fuck.” Anhuset's face had gone the color of a dead fish. “All my wealth for a sword and shield right now.”
Serovek shuddered hard enough that he would have fallen to his knees had the vines not held him upright. Those words had seeded more than a few of his nightmares, always preceding grotesque images of Megiddo tortured by the galla. He shoved aside the guilt and abiding horror to concentrate on the queen.
“We wished only to cross to the other side as a faster way to the Lobak valley,” he said. “We've no interest in exploring your city, only passing through it.”
She shook her head. “The dead and the damned already reside in Tineroth, Wraith king. There's no welcome for you and yours here.” The spectral queen smiled a sad, bitter smile. It faded, and behind her the court of phantoms sighed, the sound like the last gasp of the dying. “We've come to warn you. The guardian of Tineroth waits at the gate. Those who enter, don't leave. Go back the way you came.”
He was about to reassure her that was exactly what he intended when Anhuset pulled on her bonds in an attempt to free one arm. “Margrave, look to the far battlement right of the gate.” Serovek did as she instructed, spotting a lone figure perched like a raptor on the battlement's narrow ledge. “Whoever that is,” Anhuset continued. “They aren't a ghost.”
She was right. The wind howling up from the ravine whipped the figure's pale hair around their head, partially hiding their face. They were too far away for Serovek to make out any specific features, but the dull gleam of sunlight on steel told him the watcher wore armor, and the pole arm casually tucked into the crook of their elbow spoke of a warrior's ease with weaponry.
Like the bridge and the city it led to, something about that distant figure raised internal alarms, even if the phantom queen's words hadn't already done so.
“We can't stop you from entering Tineroth,” she said, her voice no longer strong in his mind but more of a resonance heard in a deep well. “But you, like others before you, will die there if you do.”
Serovek was no stranger to war, against the living, the dead, and the demonic, but a shorter path to the monastery wasn't worth risking their lives more than necessary, and his instincts told him the guardian the queen warned him about was more than a solitary warrior with a sharp blade.
She gestured with a pellucid hand, and the vines fell away from his and Anhuset's legs, retreating with a loud hiss as serpentine as their movements. “Your choice,” the queen said. “Farewell.” Her form faded, the last bits of mist shredded by the wind. The crowd of ghosts accompanying her lost shape and definition, melting into the obscuring fog that rolled back toward the city before enveloping it entirely in a gray shroud.
Serovek no longer saw the guardian, though he was sure they still watched him and Anhuset with malevolent intent.
Anhuset strode to where her knife lay on the deck, no longer covered by the vines. “What did the ghosts say? I could tell the one was speaking to you in your thoughts.”
“Turn back and live or go forward and die,” he replied. “I'll give you and the others details once we're off this bridge and back on the road.”
She wiped a hand across her sweating brow, no longer scowling now that she had her blade back. “I was hoping you'd say that. I'd rather face Chamtivos than keep company with ghosts and whoever watched us from the battlement.” A quick look back over her shoulder toward the mist wall. “Not a ghost,” she said. “But I think someone or some thing I'd not want to cross if I didn't have to.”
Her remark put to rest any hesitation he might have harbored about taking the long way through contested territory. It spoke volumes that the fierce Anhuset wasn't keen on journeying into the eerily silent city the queen called Tineroth.
He was done with ghosts and galla, and his feet craved solid ground. “You boasted you're a fast swimmer.” He gave Anhuset an arch look, grinning a slow grin when she returned it. “But how fast can you run?”
“Faster than you, margrave,” she scoffed.
“Care to wager on that?”
“Any time, any place,” she said and launched into a sprint for the spot where Erostis and Klanek waited.
Serovek raced after her, uncaring if he lost a handful of coin to her, relieved to leave behind the dead and the grim words of their monarch.
“A dark song is your spirit, Wraith king, a hymn of the broken.”
Chapter Eight
Not so ugly this morning.
Anhuset lay on her back looking up at a star-studded sky as she worried a dirty silk ribbon between her thumb and forefinger. She preferred being on guard duty, but she obeyed Serovek's edict that the four of them would take short shifts through the night so they were all mostly rested and alert during the day. No more napping on her horse while they rode through contested territory.
Despite the stains and fraying edges, the ribbon still slid smoothly between her fingers. One of her companions was asleep, the second tending the fire, and Serovek himself taking this round of the watch. None would see her stroking the ribbon.
She'd rescued it from a burial in the mud when the herb bundle it wound around had fallen to the ground by one of the wagon wheels. Arms full of newly purchased supplies, she'd stared at the cluster before nudging it out of the way with one foot. Once she loaded supplies into the wagon, she scooped up the bundle. The trailing ends of the ribbon binding the herbs together had once been a pristine white before the fall in the mud had stained them brown. Serovek's words spoken in affectionate tones as he recalled wife Glaurin and her preference for ribbons echoed in her mind.
“She was proud. Beautiful. Long hair that she wore tied back with silk ribbons.”
She'd stared at the ribbon, finally unwinding it. The ruined herbs went by the wayside and the ribbon into the pouch she kept on her belt. Guard duty had provided her the privacy to fidget with the ribbon, first to try weaving it into her hair under the heaviest locks where no one could see it. Her attempts met with failure, and she'd hurled the ribbon away, only to rescue it from the thorns of a berry bush. Serovek was right. She'd do a much better job of strangling someone with the ribbon than decorating her hair. She was no Glaurin Pangion, proud and lovely. She was sha-Anhuset, proud and fierce.
Since then, she'd kept the ribbon in the pouch until she was alone, using it like prayer beads instead of hair ornament. She didn't pray, but the ribbon's silky feel on her fingertips relaxed her. Tonight she hoped it might lull her into a quick nap.
“Whatever you're worrying between your fingers, Anhuset, it's a wonder your claws haven't shredded it yet.”
A quick sleight of hand and she shoved the ribbon into her tunic sleeve. Serovek, relieved of guard duty by Erostis, approached her, his smile deepening the lines in his face, lending his handsome features an even greater attractiveness. Anhuset lurched upright, the breath trapped in her throat at the horror of that thought.
Serovek's smile slid away. He paused in front of her. “What's wrong? You look like you've just seen a galla.”
She scrambled for some explanation for her action and settled on changing the topic. “Is it my turn for guard duty? I wasn't asleep.” A poor save, and one that made Serovek arch an eyebrow.
“No, you're after Erostis. Remember? Then Klanek after you.”
“Shouldn't you try and get to sleep now that your watch is done?” He saw en
tirely too much. The last thing she wanted was for him to ask to see what she'd just tucked out of sight. The image of his knowing expression made her cringe inside.
“I will soon enough. I saw you were still awake and couldn't resist seeking out your sunny company.” He winked, not waiting for an invitation before sitting beside her.
Not long ago, she would have snarled at him for his teasing, flummoxed by his humor and overt flirting. Now she simply reclined back on her elbows and stretched out her legs. “I've been accused of many character flaws. That one's a first.”
He grinned, the creases etched into his skin at the corners of his eyes fanning wide. “You do make me smile, firefly woman. I'll sorely miss this when our journey is over and we part ways.”
I'll miss it too, she thought. To admit aloud she might miss his company was even worse than accepting it internally. No one, Kai or human, had ever affected her the way this Beladine nobleman did, and it terrified her. She didn't want to like him, and gods forbid she desire him!
She changed the subject once more. “Our history doesn't have a record of a city called Tineroth, at least not that I'm aware of. Not unusual as those ghosts were human, and the Kai have little interest in the affairs of humans unless they affect the Kai.”
“I've never heard of Tineroth either. A city that size reached by a bridge of such grandiose size and design would be well-known by those living in the area and appear on every map, even as ruins. Care to wager that if we returned there tomorrow, both would be gone?”
After the events on the bridge, there'd been no debate over whether or not to journey through the territories plagued by Chamtivos and his band of raiders. It was a dangerous route, but no one wanted to attempt a crossing through the haunted city, not even Erostis or Klanek, who'd only seen some of what occurred on the bridge.
“You already lost our bet over who was fastest across the bridge,” she scoffed. “Are you trying to beggar yourself to me with these bets?”
He chortled. “I have a feeling I'd win this particular wager. That city was no more anchored to earth than the mist covering it.”
She agreed. “And exactly why I won't take that bet.” In other circumstances she might not have beaten him across the ravine. Serovek was a big man, but also a surprisingly fast one. Still, after hearing phantom humans chant ancient bast-Kai in sepulchral voices, she'd practically sprouted wings in her eagerness to get far away from the restless dead.
Serovek left her for a moment, returning from his sleeping spot with his pipe. “Care to join me?” He held up the pipe in offer.
She declined, content to watch him prepare the pipe for smoking. There was something about his actions that soothed her, and she turned on her side to face him.
He had good hands, deft in everything they did, from controlling a horse and wielding a sword to extracting a bodkin point from her shoulder and snapping a man's neck as punishment for the crime of murder. His fingers were straight, with short, clean nails. She'd known the feel of those hands clasped with hers, on her shoulders in a stable after Magas nipped her. What would it be like to have that strong, capable touch on other parts of her body? Did he seduce his lovers with a caress that promised even greater pleasure? The stars above winked back at her but offered no insight or answers.
“What weighty ponderings have painted such a black scowl on your face, Anhuset?” Serovek held the unlit pipe in one hand, his head tilted to one side as he regarded her. The fire limned his face and body in flickering light.
Anhuset would die a thousand deaths before revealing her speculations to him. She asked a question guaranteed to redirect his attention. “Why have you not remarried?”
His eyes widened before narrowing in silent amusement. He unfolded his big frame to stand—all grace and size and hard muscle. “You always manage to surprise me, firefly woman. Give me a moment, and I'll satisfy your curiosity.”
He left a second time, returning from the campfire with his pipe lit. He resumed his seat beside her, drawing on the pipe and exhaling smoke rings before he finally spoke. “Are you making an offer of marriage?” he asked, no hint of teasing in the question.
She sputtered and sat up. “No!” She glared at his widening grin, which stretched even wider when she harrumphed and resumed her lounging position. “You're the worst sort of tease,” she grumbled.
“Oh, my beauty, you have no idea. I hope one day to enlighten you.” He raised a hand in surrender when she opened her mouth to scold him. “No more teasing,” he said. “I promise.”
“You still haven't answered my question. You're a wealthy Beladine nobleman with land and vassals, an army you can field for your king, and a reputation as an outstanding lover that's gone beyond Beladine borders. Even the Kai have heard of your prowess. I've seen for myself how human women vie for your attention.”
The inner voice she wanted so badly to thrash into silence chose that moment to mock her. Not just the human ones. You're beginning to see him with their eyes.
Serovek blew a thin stream of smoke into the air. The cloud swirled upward in fragrant wisps. “Why do I suddenly feel like the fatted hog?”
“Because a rich, unmarried nobleman of any country is a prize to be won as soon as possible.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “You aren't gameza, are you?”
“A bastard?” He shook his head. “No. Even if I were, it wouldn't matter. I'm the lord of a prosperous estate and have the support of King Rodan. I remain unmarried because I choose to.”
Her thoughts whirled, along with her emotions. Confusion over his lack of motivation in expanding power, wealth, and status through an advantageous union, relief that he showed no preference for some Beladine beauty with strange eyes and small square teeth, who could weave ribbons into her hair with the same ease that Anhuset could handle a sword.
“Do you still grieve your wife?” Maybe that was why he chose not to remarry. Loyalty to a dead woman. Anhuset had never known such depth of feeling for a lover. It seemed to her an awful, vulnerable thing.
Serovek regarded her in silence for several moments before answering. “Delving deep tonight, Anhuset.”
“Tell me to stop and I will.” She strove to understand the heart and mind of this man. Melancholy shadowed his former easy humor, a lingering taint left by his time as eidolon, fighting the galla alongside Brishen.
He shrugged. “I've nothing to hide.” Smoke rings floated around them as he drew on the pipe and exhaled. “You never stop mourning those you loved and lost. Glaurin was a good wife. I honor her by remembering her fondly, all those things about her that gladdened my spirit, instead of those which might have annoyed me. She paid me the compliment of being my wife and giving me a daughter.” A half smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “If you're asking if she's the reason I haven't remarried, the answer is no.”
The insidious inner voice poking a sharp stick at Anhuset continued its harassment Why then? Instead she said aloud “Who chose Deliza's name? You or your wife?”
“I did.” An abiding sorrow filled his voice and darkened the deep blue of his eyes. “It means 'hope' in old temple language.”
There it was, the vulnerability she feared. How long did the living suffer from the loss of the dead they loved? What wreckage did such loss leave behind and was it worth the pain? Did it make her weak for avoiding such attachments and Serovek strong for embracing them? For he was strong, inside and out. He'd proven that strength over and over to her. What did he see when he stared hard into her soul? A warrior tough and unyielding or simply a woman too frightened to care too much?
She tried to imagine him with children. It wasn't hard. A stillness settled over him when she rested her hand on his forearm and gave a gentle squeeze. “I've no doubt you would have made a loving father.”
He gazed at her hand before covering it with his, his callused palm rough on her knuckles. That deep-water gaze lifted to hers. Were she not so wary of his effect on her, she might have fallen into it, succumbing to his allure.
“Thank you, Anhuset.”
His gratitude carried the ring of a prayer offered to a beloved deity, and Anhuset felt her face—nay, her entire body—light up at the words. Her heart tripped a beat in double time. Was this how Brishen came to see Ildiko as beautiful instead of hideous? Through glimpses into her soul? Or was it a gradually expanding knowledge of her character that seduced him and made her desirable? Brishen Khaskem had never been weaker than when he fell in love with his wife.
Nor as strong, argued the internal voice.
“No thanks necessary. I only speak the truth,” she told Serovek before rolling onto her back and closing her eyes, too afraid to look any longer upon his face, or worse, have him look upon hers and see past her outward serenity to the turmoil within.
A companionable hush descended between them. Anhuset breathed the sweet smell of pipe smoke as Serovek burned through the bowl of herbs and leaf. She kept her eyes closed, denying the temptation to look at him. Despite her certainty that she'd stay awake through the night, drowsiness claimed her.
“You are truly the most beautiful woman I've ever beheld.”
Perched on the edge of sleep, she wondered if she imagined Serovek's compliment. She didn't bother to open her eyes. “I don't understand why you think so,” she mumbled.
His voice caressed her, body and soul. “And I don't understand why you do not.”
Anhuset drifted off, waking not long after for guard duty, and discovered a blanket tossed over her. Serovek had returned to his pallet while she slept and now lay on his side facing her. Dawn light gilded his hair, bronzing the red highlights there, silvering the gray ones. His black eyelashes fanned against his cheeks. In slumber, he looked younger, the refined angles of his face softened. If he dreamed, it was of something far more pleasant than the tortures of Megiddo.
The Ippos King: Wraith Kings Book Three Page 18
