At least he didn't have Megiddo to worry about any longer, his body anyway. Safely ensconced in the monastery under the protection of his fellow monks, he was no longer at risk from the perils of the road. Safe unless Rodan decided the monks were no longer useful Beladine citizens but heretics to be purged from Beladine society. He paced even faster. Madness, he thought, wasn't born out of fear; it was born out of boredom.
The dame was as good as her word. A clerk arrived at the same time a guard brought food to break his fast—more of the same gruel he'd eaten the night before, only cold. Serovek didn't care and passively submitted to a temporary shackling at the opposite wall while the clerk set up parchment, ink bottles and wells and a generous supply of quills for him to use. Someone else brought a tabletop brazier, and it was the warden himself who looked it over, pronouncing it acceptable. Once only a single guard remained in the cell, he released his prisoner from the shackles.
Serovek wasted no time lighting the brazier to warm his hands. His face felt frozen, and he'd spent an uneasy night shivering in the bed under the woefully thin blankets. If the warden expected him to complain of a lack of pampering, he would be sorely disappointed. The small brazier was a luxury in itself.
He dragged the table and chair to the least drafty part of the chamber and moved the mat under the bed so as not to start a fire from a stray spark. It didn't take long to warm his hands and face, and while the rest of him creaked from the cold, he could write and make the words legible. And thank the gods, he was no longer bored.
Unlike the previous evening, time flew as he wrote, and he had several pages completed and ready for the Archives clerk who arrived to take them. “Dame Stalt will see to it these are copied and the originals sent to King Rodan if requested, margrave,” the clerk assured him before she left. Serovek wondered how much of what he wrote would remain the same in the original Rodan saw. He suspected that even if the king demanded exclusions or significant edits to suit his whims or purpose, the dame would leave the copy as it was and stash it away for safekeeping.
He continued working through the afternoon as the stack of blank parchment and supply of ink steadily diminished with the scratching of his quill. He didn't look up from the current page at the sound of a pair of footsteps pausing outside his cell, expecting the clerk's final return of the day.
“I see they're treating you well, margrave.”
Serovek froze in the middle of a word, quill tip leaving a spreading ink spot where it pressed against the parchment. Bryzant. One of only two people who could make him forget the cold because they made the blood run hot in his veins, and unlike Anhuset who made him run hot with desire, his steward ignited him with fury. He casually laid down the quill, brushed his hands together to wipe off any sand and slowly rose from his chair.
The reason for his current predicament stood on the other side of the cell bars, watching Serovek with a satisfied half smile that tipped toward gloating the closer the margrave came to the barrier between them. Serovek wondered what had incited him to travel to the capital. A hostile environment at High Salure? Worry the king would change his mind if Bryzant wasn't there to spin more lies? Or maybe just satisfaction at witnessing his liege's downfall and execution. All three suppositions had merit.
He hoped his voice sounded much milder than he felt inside. “I wondered if you'd stay at High Salure or come here to fill the king's ear with more poison. Couldn't resist paying me a visit to see what your plan wrought, Bryzant?” He allowed a sneer to creep into his tone and curled his top lip upward to emphasize it. “Or is this some kind of memorial to crushed hopes over the fact that Chamtivos is the one dead instead of me?” The steward's gloating expression melted away, revealing the true emotions he'd managed to hide for so long: Envy, jealousy, ambition. Three things that drove some men, like Chamtivos, to commit heinous acts of familicide, abduction, and torture and others like Bryzant to ally themselves with monsters in order to climb the ladder of power.
The steward glanced briefly at the guard nearby, listening to their conversation. A sly malice veiled his features, at odds with the injured tone he affected. “You were my liege until you turned traitor, Lord Pangion. While I'm crushed by such revelations, it seems only courteous to inquire after your health. Can we not at least converse civilly?”
“I don't have chats with treacherous lickspittles like you,” Serovek scoffed, scoring a hard hit with his contempt as Bryzant's nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. “All those years of faithful service and you were merely biding your time, making your plans, for what? Becoming margrave yourself?” Serovek snorted. “What do you know of governance or even battle?” He didn't give Bryzant a chance to answer. “Maybe, like Ogran, you were motivated by monetary gain. You're the youngest son of a lesser nobleman. Without holdings or inheritance. A generous reward from the king would buy the first and take care of the second. Blood money always helps a belly crawler stand.”
“So high and mighty, even locked in here,” Bryzant snarled, abandoning his woeful demeanor and forgetting the watchful guard. “The Beladine people might have hailed you and that pathetic monk as heroes, but you'll not die a hero's death or be remembered as such.”
Serovek had held onto his fraying temper, taking pleasure at the small cuts he delivered against his erstwhile steward. That grip slipped the moment Bryzant insulted Megiddo, a man whose boots Bryzant wasn't fit to lick. Too intent on their conversation to notice how Serovek gradually moved closer and closer to him, Bryzant gasped when Serovek suddenly shoved his hands through the gaps between the bars, grabbed the other man's tunic and yanked him forward to slam his face against unforgiving metal.
The spaces were too narrow for Serovek to get his hands through past his wrists, otherwise he would have snapped Bryzant's neck. A part of him not submerged in white-hot fury recognized that restriction was likely a good thing. He didn't need murder added to his charges. It didn't stop him from smashing Bryzant's face ever harder against the bars where he mewled and struggled in his captor's grip.
“Be grateful for the bars, little man,” Serovek said, bringing his own face against them so Bryzant could see the promise of retribution in his eyes.
It took the nearby guard and two more to finally pry Bryzant from Serovek's grip and only then after a hard rap with a sword pommel across one of Serovek's hands. He retreated from the cell door while the guards dragged Bryzant out of grabbing distance. The steward shook them off to straighten his clothes. His cheek was red with an imprint of the bars, and his glare bore a hatred fueled by the same envy and ambition that made him betray Serovek in the first place. “I'm glad I came to Timsiora,” he said between stuttered breaths. “Your death will be sweet to watch, and I will celebrate when it's done.”
Serovek gave a humorless laugh. “Do you think me the only one who'd avenge an unjust death? Enjoy your triumph while you can, Bryzant, for you'll soon see a shadow lurking in every corner and behind every tree, wondering which one of them might be an assassin with your name carved on their blade.”
Bryzant paled.
There were no vengeful assassins waiting to exact vengeance against Serovek's enemies, at least none that he knew of. It was a bluff, pure conjecture, but the steward didn't need to know that, and Serovek capitalized on the other's man fear of him and his jealousy. Judging by Bryzant's reaction, he believed every word. With a snarled epithet hurled Serovek's way, he strode away, watched by the three guards whose scornful expressions likely mirrored their prisoner's.
The guard originally assigned to the watch approached the cell, making sure not to make the mistake Bryzant had, though Serovek would have been happy to assure him he had nothing to worry about. “I'll have to tell the warden what happened, Lord Pangion. He might restrict your visitors.”
Serovek cursed inwardly, regretting his momentary loss of temper. “I'm more than willing to apologize to the warden and swear on my family's name that what happened won't happen again.”
The following mornin
g brought not a clerk but Dame Stalt herself once more. She handed him new parchment, trading with him for the completed pages. “Word about Timsiora is there are already people lined up in the king's receiving chamber waiting for an audience with him to give character testimony in your favor.”
Serovek flinched. “I don't know if that's a good or bad thing.” Popularity had its pitfalls. This was one of them.
Dame Stalt nodded. “I wondered as well.” She lowered her voice. “King Rodan is threatened by your popularity among the Beladine military as well as its civilian population.
“I have no interest in raising a rebel army,” he said.
She flipped through the pages, sending an occasional glance at the nearby guard. “Let's hope His Majesty believes you and those who want to testify on your behalf.”
Before she left, the dame tilted her head to the side and once more regarded him with her all-seeing gaze. “I've read much of what you've written so far. You write very favorably of the Khaskem's sha. She sounds both formidable and admirable.” A tiny smile hovered around the old woman's mouth, and her gaze turned knowing.
Serovek wasn't moved to disavow any assumptions she made. He wouldn't verify or expand on them either. “She is.”
That smile widened a little more. “Should you live but lose High Salure, come to the Archives, Lord Pangion. We might have work for you there.” She surprised a laugh from him with the quick wink she bestowed on him before she left.
It might have been better if the warden had restricted visitors, he thought later in the day. Hand cramping from the feverish pace he'd set for himself recording the details of the trip to the monastery, he paused to rest and fell asleep on the bed, huddled under the covers. A guard banging on the bars jolted him awake. “Another visitor, margrave.”
Serovek peered at the figure standing on the other side of the cell bars and blinked twice to make sure he wasn't seeing things. “Gaeres?”
Of all the people he would guess might come to see him, a fellow Wraith king wasn't one of them. The Quereci chieftain's son had ridden away with his entourage once they escorted Serovek and Megiddo to High Salure. As isolated as the Quereci were, Serovek wasn't sure he and would ever cross paths again, and if they did, it would be by chance on the summer plains when the nomadic clans grazed their herds of sheep and goats and horses across his territories. He never imagined facing Gaeres here in the heart of the Beladine kingdom.
Gaeres didn't smile. His dark gaze passed over the bars and his features, hawkish and severe, tightened with disapproval. “Serovek,” he said in the clear, precise voice Serovek remembered. “I'd hoped to see you again one day but not like this.”
Serovek left the bed and walked to the bars. He shoved one hand through, watching askance as his guard tensed. “What are you doing in Timsiora?”
Gaeres clasped Serovek's hand with both of his. “There's an apothecary here well known for creating cures that actually work.” His austere face turned even more so. “Many in our camp have been struck with a sickness. The old and the young are of course the first to succumb. I heard the news of your imprisonment when I arrived and couldn't believe it. I had to see for myself.”
Serovek frowned at the news. For the Quereci's sake, he hoped it wasn't plague. For everyone's sake, he hoped it wasn't plague. “What did you tell the gate guards to let you in?”
“The truth. I'm a chief of the Quereci.” He finally smiled. “The clan matriarchs decided that my feats as a Wraith king earned me the right to be named a chieftain.”
Serovek chuckled. “Quereci women expect a great deal of their men, don't they? It's good to see you, friend.”
Gaeres's rare smile faded. “You as well but not in these circumstances. What happened to put you in the Zela?”
“It's a long story,” Serovek said. “One I'm writing now for the king's chroniclers. You'll be able to read it when it's done if you wish to visit the Archives one day. For now, though, I think you have more important things to attend to if there's sickness among the clans.”
“I'm told I can present myself at the palace as a witness for you. I'll be glad to do so. As a Wraith king, I know firsthand your honor and courage.”
Of those who might appear before the king to offer their support of Serovek, he couldn't think of anyone more detrimental than a fellow Wraith king, except maybe Brishen himself—a Wraith king and the Kai regent. “I appreciate the gesture, but you're better off making yourself scarce here in the capital. Get what you need from your apothecary and go home. King Rodan isn't too fond of Wraith kings at the moment, and you may end up sharing this cell with me if you present yourself to his court with the purpose of defending me.”
Gaeres's frown was fierce. “Are you certain? I'll take the risk.”
Serovek nodded vigorously. “Very certain. Your duty is first and foremost to your people who obviously need you right now.” If the young chieftain insisted, he'd have to abandon civility and demand Gaeres to stop helping. Fortunately, the other man didn't press and gave silent acquiescence with a nod.
Exhaling a relieved sigh, Serovek turned their conversation to something a little lighter. “Have you married?” He'd been astounded to learn the lengths Gaeres would go to for the chance at gaining a wife from among his clansmen. Quereci women must be exceptional if a man was willing to fight a demon horde just to increase his chances of impressing one the clanswomen enough to consider becoming his bride.
Gaeres's expression turned more guarded. “No, not yet.”
“Surely you've proven yourself worthy of the privilege of taking a wife? Herding galla is a little more difficult than herding sheep or horses.”
The other man shrugged, his eyes no longer meeting Serovek's. “That isn't the problem. I've just decided to wait for now. When do you stand trial?”
Serovek recognized a feint when he heard one and abandoned his questions to follow Gaeres's new path. “I don't know. I'm sure if and when the king decides to actually have a trial, I'll be the first to know.”
“I pray the gods will be merciful and show the king that you're a loyal subject.”
“You and me both, my friend,” Serovek replied.
They spoke another few moments before Gaeres bid him goodbye. Serovek saluted him. “I wish you good health and to your kinsmen,” he said. “Come to High Salure when this is done. I'll take you hunting.” He wasn't dead yet and wouldn't plan his future as if he was.
The other man nodded, then paused and returned to his spot in front of the cell, much to the guard's disapproval. “Serovek, do you dream of Megiddo?”
Serovek glanced at the guard. So far there was nothing said here that would alarm or offend the king. No secret to be kept if spoken of in the right way. “Yes. Often. You?”
A troubled look, rife with a guilt that Serovek instantly recognized and that made his stomach knot, chased across Gaeres's face. “I think they're visions more than dreams, and I think his soul suffers.”
Did Gaeres's eyes glow the ethereal blue Serovek's did when he awakened from those nightmares? Did he hear Megiddo as if the monk stood beside him, alive and whole? He kept the questions to himself. These were the things that would alarm Rodan. “I think it does too,” he replied, wishing he could say otherwise, tell Gaeres he was wrong.
A terrible sorrow aged Gaeres's face for a moment. “What can be done?
Serovek had worn that same look in a mirror's reflection. “I wish I knew.” And if the gods willed it, he'd live long enough to find out.
Chapter Seventeen
Much of war and little of feminine graces.
Anhuset braced herself to make the last leg of her journey across snow-covered terrain toward the walled city of Timsiora. Behind those walls, a sea of humans with their strange eyes and mollusk skin lived, worked, and traded under the rule of Rodan, King of Belawat. And somewhere in there, Serovek awaited trial. For a moment the breath thinned in her lungs at the enormity of the task before her, the stakes involved, and the likely disaste
r if she failed.
She tapped her heels against her mount's sides, urging it forward, and they picked their way down a gentle slope toward the city where it nestled in a box canyon under a blanket of early spring snow. Heavily bundled against the cold and hooded against the glare of a midday sun, she pulled down the cloth mask protecting the lower half of her face from the cutting wind. Cold air stung her cheeks. She ignored it, used to the bite of old Winter as it clawed for purchase in the high places where Spring had not yet gained a true foothold.
Her primary purpose here was to gain an audience with the king. Giving every resident of Timsiora a clear view of her features guaranteed word of a lone Kai's arrival would travel through the city faster than a brush fire, attracting the king's notice and, hopefully, his curiosity. She shoved back her hood as well, slitting her eyes against the blinding brightness.
Unlike the denizens of High Salure, who were used to seeing the Kai and even teaming up with them on the occasional patrol, the Beladine in Timsiora were no more accustomed to a Kai's appearance than those humans who lived in the Gauri capital of Pricid on the southern coast. Just as she expected, the scant number of guards at the entry gates tripled in an instant once they got a good look at the approaching lone rider.
Anhuset halted in front of the portcullis, keeping a casual pose atop her horse even as a half dozen soldiers spilled out of the wicket adjacent to the gate. They gathered before her to extend a welcome of frowns and drawn bows.
One man stepped forward. “A single Kai?” He leaned to the side, peering around her as if looking for a Kai army to suddenly appear at her back. When none did, he gave her a confused scowl. “Are you lost?”
The Ippos King: Wraith Kings Book Three Page 33
