Her climax was a beautiful, thrashing thing to behold, even if he risked having his nose broken again by one of her knees. When she no longer arched and bucked and growled, he slid up her body, cupping his hands around her face. This kiss was leisurely, deep, luxurious.
“You taste like me,” she said when they paused to take a breath.
“And you taste better than the finest wine.”
“Such a honeyed tongue you have,” she said before clasping him tight in her arms and rolling so that he lay on his back atop the clothes and she sat astride him, perched on his thighs. Her hand wrapped around the base of his cock, sliding up and then down, pausing to capture the drop of semen beading its crown with a fingertip. His hips thrust upward and he gasped. She brought her finger to her lips and licked. “Honeyed tongue, honeyed cock,” she proclaimed.
Bewitched by the sight, Serovek grabbed her hips, steadying himself more than her as she shifted positions just enough and sank down on him again, his cock buried to the hilt inside her. His eyes rolled back no matter how much he tried to keep them trained on Anhuset's face and the ecstasy in her expression.
She rode him hard, harder than any woman he'd had before her. She embraced her pleasure and his, enthusiastic and unapologetic in her appreciation of his prowess and love of his touch. For the first time in his life he made love to a woman he wasn't worried about hurting, a woman whose own strength equaled his, who gave as good as she got and then some, who demanded every last drop of his ardor and kissed him until his lungs were on fire.
She'd told him he wouldn't survive her. Serovek was beginning to think she was right. At least he'd die a very satisfied, contented man. His orgasm didn't wash over him in a gentle rush but slammed into him like a storm wave. He chanted Anhuset's name in his head even as his mouth struggled to emit more than groans and growls as feral sounding as hers had been. He kept thrusting until he was emptied and his bones turned to water. She loomed above him in all her naked majesty, a deity, and he her supplicant beneath her.
It was a very fine place to be.
Erostis never appeared to interrupt their interlude. They finally dressed, which took much longer than needed thanks to several interruptions of kissing and caressing.
“Remind me to send the monks a sizable gift for their monastery once I return to High Salure,” he told her. “Without their considerable healing talents, this...” he gestured to the cavern and also her, “would have never happened.” She gave him a dubious look. “At least not now.”
They gathered their things. Anhuset might have forgotten about the ribbon but Serovek had not. He tucked it into the cuff of his tunic's sleeve. A ribbon but also a treasure beyond price. Just like the woman who'd worn it.
Chapter Thirteen
Now would be a very good time to pray.
Their journey to the monastery had been rife with obstacles, violence and tragedy, its very purpose the grim delivery of a man's living but soulless body into the safekeeping of his fellow monks. Yet Anhuset knew when they all returned home, Serovek and Erostis to High Salure and she to Saggara, she'd hold close the memory of her time with the Jeden Order and with Serovek most of all. He was no longer simply the annoying, intriguing margrave, but her lover now.
She stood on one of the balconies overlooking the Lobak valley, washed in the new green of early spring. Patches of snow still lingered in sheltered places, and her breath hung misty in the brisk morning air. She kept her back to the rising sun and the hood of her cloak pulled far forward to protect her eyes as she surveyed lands bequeathed to and controlled by the Jeden Order.
It looked peaceful, but its appearance was deceptive. This valley remained embroiled in conflict, though she hoped with Chamtivos's death, those who balked at being under Jeden rule and had their lands confiscated for it, might finally come to a truce with the monks. She recalled Karulin's words when he challenged Chamtivos, reminding the warlord that they'd veered from their purpose of fighting for their lands to preying on innocent travelers.
Chamtivos, cruel and ambitious, retained the loyalty of most of his followers through fear or under the guise of pursuing a just cause. Some remained devoted because they could revel in their own brutality under his command. Those had been the ones who beat Serovek so brutally—more for sport than for extracting information from a recalcitrant captive. They were also the ones who volunteered to join Chamtivos's hunt and met a just end.
Karulin and the others had stayed behind, and Anhuset wondered if Chamtivos's second had used that time to sway those with him to turn on their leader. In his place, she would have done so. Loyalty given had to be loyalty earned in her opinion, and Chamtivos had forfeited his reputation when he became a brigand instead of a rebel. From what little she'd learned of Karulin himself, she believed his leadership would offer a chance for peaceful coexistence if the monks were smart enough not to kill him first.
Footsteps sounded behind her, quiet ones, especially considering the size of the person to whom they belonged. Anhuset smiled, her heartbeat speeding up in anticipation of Serovek's company.
“I'm surprised to find you still awake, firefly woman,” he said, stopping next to her. Cloaked as she was against the cold, he'd foregone a hood or cap. The sun lit red highlights and silver strands in his dark hair and even in his beard, which had thickened during their stay with the monks. After a sennight with the Order, their bruises were fading.
He noticed the focus of her regard and rubbed one cheek with a sigh. “I'll shave it off soon enough,” he said. “Definitely before the hot weather arrives.” He matched her stare with one of his own. “You prefer me clean-shaven?”
With the rare exception, Kai men didn't wear beards. It was more a cultural preference than a physical limitation as they bore the shadow of a beard when returning from days on patrol. Serovek bearded or clean-shaven, he was striking. Either look suited him, though the beard added years to him and a certain forbidding dignity.
“My preference shouldn't matter,” she said. “It's your face.”
“Your preference will always matter.”
They stood side by side, arms pressed against each other. He'd always seemed to correctly guess her quirks and read her moods. It was uncanny, and in this he remained unfailing. Another lover might have come up behind her, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into the cove of his body. She would have shrugged him off instantly. Serovek did none of those things, understanding in some instinctive fashion that while her devotion ran deep and intense for a loved one, she didn't display her affection in over ways and never in a public setting where others might note it and use it against her later. Some might think her overly cautious. She preferred that to being overly dead. Still, she reveled in his nearness, the heat rolling off his large frame to warm her side this chilly morning.
The monks had given her a room to use at the monastery, a space as spartan and basic as any of the barracks at Saggara. She used it only to store her things. Otherwise, she was with Serovek in his chamber, and while she avoided public displays of affection, private ones were a different matter.
Their intimacy was intense, rough at times, and also lighthearted. Even now, she wore the marks of his passion for her on her skin, and her thighs pleasantly ached from the hard ride he'd given her a couple of hours earlier. He lived up to his reputation as an experienced lover with endless stamina, and he expected her to keep up with him, which she did with great enthusiasm. They'd broken his bed twice, apologizing to the monks each time. Serovek finally told them bedding on the floor would suit them better. They'd both grinned at the smothered guffaws from the Nazim who'd taken away the remains of the broken bed frame.
With him, she learned to unbend, to laugh more easily, though she'd never in herself the beauty he swore she possessed. Her lovers had found her a challenge to conquer, a notch in the belt at having bedded the formidable sha-Anhuset and lived to tell of it. Serovek had found her a challenge as well, though not in the same fashion. The way he looked at
her when they first met was the same way he looked at her now, as if he'd just discovered the most sublime of all the gods' creations. Sometimes it puzzled her; other times it overwhelmed her.
While he might see her as some lovely flower, albeit with razor-sharp thorns, the monks saw a golden opportunity to train with a renowned Kai fighter. Several times now she'd accepted an invitation to spar in the training yard and came away from the bouts exhilarated and sometimes bloodied.
For his part, Serovek spent the hours in conference with the abbot of the order, a man named Tionfa, who'd once been an Ilinfan swordmaster. Anhuset's interest in the monks soared, and at her first meeting with the abbot, she commented on his history and the fact that the Ilinfan brotherhood was well known, even among the Kai.
“Do you still fight, Excellency?” she asked. Tionfa was an elderly monk, old enough to be her father or even Serovek's father. She didn't make the mistake of assuming his age made him any less an adept and dangerous fighter.
He smiled at her in a way that told her he predicted what her next question would be. “I still train,” he said. “And teach. Before you leave us, I hope to spar with you. I've heard many things from my brothers about your martial skills.”
She'd thanked him, offering him a low bow. Much to Serovek's amusement, she'd practically skipped out of the chamber.
“I'm still awake,” she told him now, “because the abbot has invited me to train with him in an hour, and I won't miss such an opportunity for the sake of something as silly as sleep.”
He made an odd strangled sound, and she glanced at him to discover a fleeting look of dread cross his features. “Promise me you won't accidentally kill the man. He seems a voice of reason, like your ally in Chamtivos's camp. Between them they may reach a truce and end the fighting in this valley altogether, but they both have to be alive to negotiate.”
She snorted. “Either you think me more bloodthirsty than I am or more skilled than I am. Remember, margrave, he was once an Ilinfan swordmaster, and we're only sparring. Maybe you should ask him to show me mercy.”
“A swordmaster old enough to be your father.” He held up a hand to forestall her argument. “I know age isn't the limitation many foolishly assume. I've seen enough grandfathers wipe the floor with an upstart pup with more brawn than sense. It happened to me when I was younger and had my arse handed to me by a man more than twice my age at the time. But you're a Kai. He'll have a challenge on his hands.”
“So will I.” Like him, she'd seen an older, more experienced warrior take down a younger, stronger, more foolish one. She looked forward to this sparring session. “You worry for nothing,” she said, slipping her hand into his where they were hidden by the folds of their cloaks.
“The monks obviously know we're intimate,” he said. “And there's no one else here but us, them, and Erostis who, by the way, recently informed me he'd won a bet with another liegeman regarding our relationship.” Her eyebrows snapped together in a scowl. “You're a soldier, Anhuset,” he said with a half smile. “You know soldiers wager on anything and everything.” Her disapproving “hmpf” only widened his smile. “As I was saying, all here know we're lovers. No one will care or use it against us if I kiss your hand.”
That was true, and she surprised him when she lifted their clasped hands and kissed each of his knuckles. His gaze rested on her, a soft, living thing, and caressed her as lovingly as his hands. Those deep-water blue eyes blazed from within, brightened by the fire she'd kindled there. “Or if I kiss yours,” she said and winked at him.
She would miss this banter when they left. She couldn't help but wonder what might happen when they parted company and returned to their respective homes. Until now, her lovers had been brief connections without commitment or even interest beyond a night or a week. Anhuset refused to lie to herself. She wanted much more than a week with the margrave of High Salure.
He'd punched through every barrier she put in front of him, broken down every wall. It was hard to remember she once thought him ugly. He still annoyed her at times, usually right before he made her laugh. Her respect for him equaled that which she had for Brishen, a near impossible feat by her standards. He was good company in or out of bed, and the hours she'd spent with him during this journey, and especially in the monastery, had flown by. Never in her life had she imagined she'd fall in love with a brash human with his strange, laughing blue eyes and stout heart. She closed her eyes against the terror of that realization.
A distant thunder rumbled, not above them but below. Serovek's voice held a wary note. “That can't be good.”
Anhuset opened her eyes to the sight of a large company of armored cavalry riding toward them, easily numbering a hundred or more. They galloped across the valley's flat expanse, carrying with them a flag sporting a gryphon devouring a snake. The banner of the kingdom of Belawat. She glanced at Serovek. “Why isn't this good?
“Because a visit from the Beladine army never is. Those are King Rodan's troops, and a company that size isn't here for a social or diplomatic visit.”
His response was punctuated by the sound of bells, either rung as a signal or a warning. It was soon followed by running feet as monks raced down the corridor behind them.
He backed away from the balcony. Anhuset followed. They joined the crowd of monks running the length of the hallway to disappear down the stairwells. Some were fully armored, others partially so. All carried weapons. This indeed was not a social visit.
The outer portcullis at the single entry gate to the monastery slammed down with a bang. The inner portcullis followed. Anhuset glimpsed it all as she sped by slotted windows and murder holes on her way to her chamber.
The monks had recovered most of her armament when they dismantled Chamtivos's camp and took his followers prisoner. As many times as she'd donned her gear by herself, she didn't need a squire or page to help her and was soon dressed in full harness with her sword strapped to her hip. Serovek met her in the hallway, likewise attired.
“Why do you think they've come?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Who knows? But relations between the Jeden Order and King Rodan have always been delicate, and Rodan is an mercurial sort. It may well be he woke up one morning recently, decided the Nazim were indeed heretics and sent his army to arrest them.”
Disbelief made her sputter. “A hundred men? Trying to arrest a near equal number of fighting monks who can wield magic and protected in a fortress like this? That doesn't make any sense.”
His grim expression turned even grimmer. “No, it doesn't.”
Before he could say anything else, the abbot himself came striding toward them, bedecked in armor as well, an arming sword belted on either side of his hips. Anhuset had no doubt his skill with both was unmatched by any of Rodan's soldiers fast approaching the monastery.
He addressed Serovek first. “If they've come for the Order, don't linger. Your horses are waiting in the stables. Someone is saddling them as we speak. There's a rear gate big enough for a pony cart to get through and leads directly into the woods. No one can see it from the path leading to the main gate. You'll be gone before the fighting starts.”
“You have our sword arms if you wish them,” Serovek said. “We'll stand with you.” Anhuset nodded her agreement.
Tionfa's wry smile belied the resolute flatness in his gaze. “You know as well as I do that the margrave of High Salure cannot fight with the Jeden Order against his own king.” He turned to Anhuset. “And you are an ambassador for the Khaskem. Joining us would be seen as a declaration of war by Bast-Haradis.”
Serovek's shoulders drooped. “I'd hoped you might say something different, but I'm not surprised.”
“You knew you'd have to remain neutral.”
Serovek nodded. “Allow us to stay long enough to learn what they want.”
The abbot nodded. “So be it. Come with me. You can stand out of sight near one of the battlements and hear both parties.”
Anhuset stayed next to Serovek as t
hey followed the abbot and a contingent of monks up three flights of stairs and onto the monastery's roof with its high, crenelated walls. The Beladine troops had crossed the bridge and paused outside the gate, their armor and weapons flashing in the bright morning sun. Their commander nudged his horse forward. The creak of wood as bows were drawn sounded loud in the tense silence.
Tionfa kept his profile to the company below as he showed himself at the battlement's edge. He carried a shield to duck behind in case of arrow fire.
“Pray some idiot archer doesn't lose his grip on the string and fire off an arrow,” Anhuset muttered to Serovek.
“Now would be a very good time to pray,” he replied.
The troop's leader gazed up at Tionfa. “Abbot Tionfa, we haven't come to fight.”
“By the look of you, you haven't come to have tea either,” Tionfa said. “What business does the Royal Beladine have with the Jeden Order?”
“We come on command of King Rodan for Serovek Pangion, margrave of High Salure.” There was a short, gravid pause. “He is under arrest.”
Tionfa glanced briefly at Serovek, who'd gone pale and scowling. “On what charge?”
Anhuset's unease exploded into outright fury when the troop captain replied.
“Treason against the kingdom. Sedition against the crown.”
Chapter Fourteen
A romance unlike any other.
Serovek heard the words as if from a far distance. Treason. Sedition. Words that were the antithesis of everything that his life was define as a faithful military governor to the Beladine kingdom. He'd never much cared for the wily old king, and he'd exercised his leadership of High Salure in ways His Majesty might not approve, such as his friendship with Brishen Khaskem, but he'd never been disloyal to his country or his king.
The Ippos King: Wraith Kings Book Three Page 28
