They surrounded the bed, blocking her view. Cuama sat beside her. “These are our healers. They'll examine the margrave, judge the extent of his injuries, and decide how they might help him.”
“I'm not leaving,” she reiterated.
He offered a brief smile. “None of us want to brawl in an effort to show you the door. You're welcome to stay as long as you don't interrupt or interfere.”
“I make no promises,” she said. If she thought they were harming Serovek in any way, she'd damn well interrupt and interfere.
Two hours later, and the healers were deep in their invocations. Serovek had been stripped of his clothes, and another monk had delivered basic physicking supplies including bandages, hot water, drying cloths and small pots of salves. Anhuset was glad to see the monks didn't just depend on spellwork to help their patients.
Ulsten and the other monks had been chanting nonstop since they completed an examination of Serovek's injuries and cleaned his skin of dirt and blood. Their hands glided over his body without touching, leaving behind a soft glow that enveloped him and pulsed to the chant's cadence and rhythm.
“How much longer?” she whispered to Cuama who'd stayed with her.
Her companion observed the proceedings for another moment before replying. “Soon. His injuries beneath the skin were worse than those we could see.” Her heart stuttered at this new revelation. “My brothers are focusing all their power on healing those. When they're done, his lordship will still look ragged, and he'll still ache, but his bones will be knitted, and if Faltik the One deems it so, any bleeding inside will be staunched.” He shook his head, wonder creeping into his voice. “The margrave must be very strong. To fight with such prowess while so wounded is impressive.”
The dull ache of regret beat under Anhuset's breastbone at his words. Serovek was strong, exceptionally so, but he wasn't invincible. Her own faith in him and his ability to hide how badly he was hurt had enabled him to fool her into thinking otherwise. She shouldn't have agreed to the plan of using him as bait, no matter how effective it had been; shouldn't have left him to fend for himself or succumbed to a moment of weakness and kiss him until her knees turned to water and her blood to a molten river where desire overwhelmed caution and sense.
Were he awake and heard her thoughts, he'd scoff. She knew it in her bones. Still, it was difficult seeing him like this, vulnerable yet somehow still undiminished. Anhuset thanked both fortune and any gods paying attention, including this Faltik the One, for the monks' timely arrival on the island.
The chanting finally halted, trailing off to a heavy silence. Everyone in the room stared at the margrave as the glow around him pulsed once before fading away. He looked unchanged to her, still bruised and battered, but his breathing was no longer labored, and his chest rose and fell in an even rhythm. He looked like a man sleeping off the effects of too much drink and a hard night of brawling in a rough tavern.
Ulsten approached her. He wore the serene expression of a religious devotee and the sword of a soldier. “Don't be alarmed if he doesn't wake for a few hours. Sleep is his kindest friend right now and a better healer than any spell.”
“He's out of danger then?” Anhuset battled back a surge of euphoria as well as a wide grin. No need to make everyone in the room jumpy.
The monk nodded. “You may remain here with him if you wish. Someone will bring tea and food for you. The room next to this one will be yours and ready when you wish to rest.” He pointed to the scabbed cut on her arm, visible through the slash in her sleeve. “We can heal that.” He touched his own face to mark where her bruises were on her features. “Those too if you wish.”
She declined the offer. Human magic wasn't Kai magic in her opinion, and she was wary of it. Besides, her injuries were minor and nothing a poultice couldn't cure. “If you can send more water and cloth along with the food and leave the salves, I can take care of them myself.”
Once the monks left, she approached the bed and its sleeping occupant. Despite Ulsten's assurances, she set her finger under Serovek's nose, taking comfort in the draft of his breath tumbling over her knuckle. Thanks to the monks' spells, his bruises had faded from purple and red to shadowy blue, and the swelling had subsided. Bits of dried blood still glued his eyelashes to his cheeks, but beneath all that his handsomeness shone through once more.
The thought brought Anhuset up short and she backed away from the bed. Her own breathing stuttered. She stared hard at the margrave. Hard enough and long enough that her eyes began to burn. His features didn't alter under her intense scrutiny. Still handsome, still refined.
As they had always been, at least to human eyes. And now to Anhuset's. She crossed her arms and turned her gaze away, refusing to acknowledge the fear tightening around her chest like a vise. She recalled Brishen's expressions when she caught him watching Ildiko. How they'd changed over time from fascinated revulsion to lustful adoration. In that moment she would have bartered all her possessions for a mirror so that she might gaze upon her own reflection and discover whether or not she wore the same look. The vise wrenched tighter against her ribs.
She turned away but didn't go far, taking up residence once more on the narrow bench. She closed her eyes to ease their dryness and shut out the sight of Serovek, peaceful in his slumber. Her thoughts whirled and her heart raced, but not for long. Sleep she thought impossible to capture crept up on her and soon her pulse slowed and her mind calmed as she leaned her head back against the wall and drifted into slumber.
The squeak of a door hinge brought her instantly awake, dagger ready in her palm as the door eased open, revealing first a bar of light from the lamp-lit corridor beyond, then a silhouette poised at the threshold. The windowless room she shared with Serovek lay in darkness, its lamp guttered out while she napped. It was a darkness she saw well enough in but one that blinded the visitor. She kept her eyes slitted so their telltale luminosity wouldn't betray her position. Likely a monk to deliver sustenance and the water she requested, but she wasn't relaxing her guard.
“Don't just stand there, man,” Serovek said, his deep voice tired and raspy. “Come inside or leave, but shut the damn door.”
Chapter Twelve
So sayeth you. And only you.
Serovek shielded his eyes from the bright bar of light that spread to a wedge as the door opened wider. A second silhouette joined the first, and the two figures merged with the darkness as they entered the room.
A familiar voice brought him more awake. “I thought you done for, my lord.”
He levered himself up on one elbow, bracing for agony that never came. “Erostis. Damn, it's good to hear your voice, man.”
“Same, my lord, but it would be nice to see you too instead of stumbling around this room in the dark.”
His complaint conjured a crackle and the spreading glow of light from one corner of the chamber, revealing Anhuset seated next to a now-lit brazier. Serovek couldn't tell where her gaze rested by sight, but he felt its weight. “Anhuset.”
She offered a brief nod. “Margrave. Welcome back.” She unfolded her tall frame from the bench to help the monk accompanying Erostis place a pitcher and goblets on a nearby table.
Had she watched over him while he slept? The idea warmed him more than the brazier ever could.
Erostis limped to his bedside and Serovek frowned at the sight of his liegeman swathed in bandages on one side of his body from shoulder to hip. He grasped Erostis's forearm and gave it a squeeze. “The gods were kind. I feared you were a dead man.”
“I wondered the same about you.” Erostis scrubbed his face with one hand. “Kind to a point. Klanek took arrows. The monks tried to save him but to no avail.” His face, haggard by injury and convalescence, became even more so with sorrow.
Grief settled on Serovek, a suffocating blanket. He'd lost men before in battles and raids, each death a wound that healed and scarred. He'd buried or burned most of them and delivered the news to the families himself when he could. A grim duty
but one he never shirked if he could help it. “The monks have his body here?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“We'll bring him to his family when we return home.”
“He was a decent sort, my lord. If you don't mind, I'd like to be the one to tell his wife. We grew up together in the same village. I think it'll be easier if she hears it from me.”
That small bit of knowledge made Klanek's death even sadder. Soldiers serving at High Salure came from all parts of the Beladine kingdom, but most were local, sent from the surrounding towns and villages High Salure protected. Many of them were friends from childhood or even related to each other. Those bonds only strengthened their loyalty to Serovek and High Salure but also made the loss of each man harder to bear. Brother losing brother in battle, friend burying friend.
He sighed. “I think I met her once. We fetched Klanek to ride with us while we retrieved stolen cattle. She was chasing him around the chicken coop with a rolling pin or maybe it was a cleaver.” He smiled at the memory of the ridiculous scene
Erostis grinned, blinking hard to hide tears. “That's Lederza all right. Klanek probably ate the pie or pastry she'd made and was saving for supper.”
Both men chuckled, and Serovek caught the faintest chuff of amusement from the corner of the room where Anhuset stood listening. He suspected she'd like Lederza, should the two ever meet.
“If that's your wish, I'm happy to oblige,” he told Erostis. “News like that is always better coming from a friend, though if you wish for me to accompany you, I will.”
He wasn't surprised or offended when the other man declined. As margrave and ruler in his own right of the Beladine hinterlands bordering Bast-Haradis, he was treated with the same deference by the people living there. Klanek's wife would accept his condolences with a stiff, dry-eyed formality and die a little inside with every word he spoke. With Erostis, she could embrace that grief and weep on the shoulder of someone she knew in that awful moment.
The door opened once more, and this time he saw in detail a monk enter, bearing a tray containing covered platters wafting the delectable scent of food to his nostrils. His belly rumbled a greeting. The newest visiting monk scowled at Erostis.
“You're not supposed to be out of bed, Erostis. This is the second time I'll have to chase you back to your room.”
Erostis returned the scowl. “If I have to lay in that bed any longer, I'll grow roots.” He emphasized his frustration by stretching his arm in a sweeping gesture and yelped in pain for the effort.
The monk's expression lacked any sympathy, though he was gentle in helping Erostis lower his arm. “I believe I've proven my point.” He ushered him to the door pausing to ask Serovek “By your leave, Lord Pangion?”
Serovek waved a hand to send them off. He'd winced when Erostis extend his bandaged arm, imagining a tear in the stitched wounds and the scream of torn muscle barely beginning to heal. “Get your rest, man!” he called out as the determined monk nudged Erostis into the hallway. “We'll talk again when we're both feeling better.”
Erostis waved and disappeared with his escort. The second monk soon followed, closing the door behind him. The room's light dimmed to a tenebrous murk with only the crackling brazier and Anhuset's glowing yellow gaze to relieve it.
She circled the table where the dishes the monks brought had been set. The scents filling the room made Serovek's mouth water, and he chuckled at Anhuset's wary inspection of the offerings. “I don't think any of it's still alive, Anhuset, and I doubt the Nazim feast on scarpatine pie the way the Kai do.”
“True,” she agreed, cautiously lifting the towel off one plate with the tips of her claws, nostrils flared to catch any warning odors. “But there might be one of those vile potato maggot things lying in wait under these cloths.”
He grinned, his joy at finding her here, at bantering with her, at still being alive to do so, chased back his sorrow over Klanek's death. The fact he wasn't in pain helped as well. “I'm happy to eat your share if there is.”
“No one can accuse you of lacking heroism,” she said wryly and continued with her inspection.
“And here I thought I had to kill a warlord to garner your admiration.”
She glanced askance at him, her firefly gaze a dance of golden luminescence that darkened and lightened according to her emotions and even the play of light made by the brazier. “It helps,” she said. “Though I find human suppers more challenging adversaries.”
He laughed outright, surprised that it only brought a deeper ache to his fatigued body instead of the sharp agony he expected. The monks must have worked their magic on him while he was unconscious. Had Anhuset stayed and kept watch while they did? He hoped so. “I'm glad you're here, Anhuset.”
She gifted him with another hint of a smile. “Likewise, margrave.”
Considering her natural reserve and prickly nature, her response was akin to a declaration of love. His heartbeat sped up at the notion. While he was tempted to tease her, he thought better of it. He might not be completely bedridden, but neither was he a picture of nimble prowess. In this small chamber, he was at her mercy. Provoking a hornet promised a nasty sting.
She rearranged plates, putting a few back on the tray and filling the two tankards from the pitcher. “Ale,” she told him. “Unless you'd prefer water.”
“Ale every time,” he said as she brought the tray to the bed.
“Do you need help sitting up?”
He shook his head and lifted himself into a sitting position, once more bracing for a pain that never came. “The monks must have extraordinary healing powers. I shouldn't feel this good right now.” He offered her a short bow. “Then again, maybe it's the company.”
She sighed and set the tray carefully on his lap. “You're obviously feeling better judging by your incessant teasing.”
“I think you missed it.”
“And I think you should be quiet and eat.” She shoved a spoon and hand cloth at him. He was grateful she left the eating knife on the tray.
“Will you join me?” Sharing a meal while in bed with Anhuset was a fantasy whose current reality wasn't quite how he'd imagined it, but he'd take what he could get and be glad of it.
She sat across from him, legs folded under her to fit on the bed's narrow confines. There were no maggot potatoes or even the pan-fried ones she actually liked, but she shared the dishes with him, picking through heaps of roasted grains, eggs boiled in spiced tea, and fish baked in salt. He watched her from beneath his lashes, hiding his amusement at the various expressions that chased across her face: surprised delight, mild disapproval, but none of the outright revulsion he'd expected.
She glanced up once to catch him regarding her. As if she heard his thoughts, she shrugged and said “I'm growing used to how humans cook.”
He took a swallow of ale to smother his laughter at the faintly horrified note in her voice. Never before had he known so fearsome a martyr.
While he wanted to savor this time with her and speak only of pleasant things or tease her until she threatened to stab with his eating knife, he needed to know what happened on the island and how they'd ended up with an escort of Nazim monks to the monastery he feared they'd never reach alive. Most of all, he needed to know Megiddo's whereabouts.
She reassured him of that one first. “He's safe, the spell protecting his body intact. The monks have placed him in a special chamber reserved just for him. They say you can see for yourself when you feel up to it.”
All the tension locking his muscles with dread over Megiddo's fate bled away. There was nothing he could for now about the monk's tortured spirit, but he'd accomplished what he'd set out to do: return him to the arms of his order. Serovek's success had come with help and at a steep price, and while he couldn't resurrect Klanek and restore him to his widow, he'd make certain she wasn't left destitute.
“What about Chamtivos's men? The ones who stayed in the camp as well as those who hunted us?”
When she relayed the
events on the island and told him of the monks' arrival and how they learned of their predicament, he exhaled a long sigh. “Be it luck, fate, or a god's intervention, the monks' timing couldn't have been more fortunate. Erostis wouldn't have survived and who knows how we might have fared if we even made it off the island alive.”
“The Nazim would say it was the mercy of Faltik the One that had them find Erostis at the right time.” She shredded a roasted chicken wing with her claws before spearing the slivers of meat and popping them into her mouth.
Serovek raised his tankard in a toast. “I'm happy to credit whoever was responsible and pay tribute, whether they be the One, the Two, or the Three.”
“Careful,” she said. “You're a wounded man convalescing in a monastery populated by warrior monks who might think you just committed blasphemy against their god.”
“I'm not afraid.” He tapped his drink against hers. “I have you to protect me. A woman who can take down a pack of raiders by herself… these monks are no match for sha-Anhuset.”
Her lids lowered and one of her eyebrows slide upward as she leveled a disbelieving look on him. “You might be handsome but your flirtation skills need work.”
Serovek froze with his drink halfway to his mouth. He inhaled to point out what she'd just said, afraid he'd misheard her. She realized her slip before he could speak, and her yellow eyes narrowed to slits. Lavender flags of color painted her cheekbones and the claws on one hand tapped a warning staccato beat on the tray's wooden bottom. “Is it really worth it to you to say it, margrave?”
They stared each other down for several moments before Serovek sighed and cheerfully said “Yes, Anhuset. Yes, it is. I always knew you thought me handsome. About time you admitted it.”
Those slender white eyebrows crashed downward, and the tray made a screeching noise where she dragged her claws across the surface. “Do you always court death?” she asked, a growl underlying her question
The Ippos King: Wraith Kings Book Three Page 26
