When he was done, he refolded the missive and dropped it back on the table. “There's more, mostly groveling praise of little consequence. I won't bother reading that part. I've known you long enough, Pangion, to know you have no more patience for that sort of thing than I do. But what your steward says here.” He tapped the missive with a finger tip. “And the information he has paints a picture a grim picture of a man with aspirations that are… problematic to say the least. What do you say to all of this?”
I'd say you're a blind fool for believing the words of an upstart steward with ambitions far beyond his capabilities instead of looking at years of unswerving loyalty.Instead, Serovek replied with “You're correct, Your Majesty. You've known me a long time, and in that time, I've served your interests faithfully, kept your borders secured and the kingdom of Belawat safe from man and demon alike. My steward'sconcernedmessage consists of crumbs of truth wrapped in a layer of lies, a toxic cake with no substance except its poison.”
He proceeded to relay the events of the trip from the time Anhuset arrived at High Salure to when Ratik arrived with his troop, leaving out the parts about his intimacy with the Kai woman and changing the story line from Anhuset standing next to him on the battlements to her leaving for Saggara the moment they put Megiddo into the monks' safekeeping. He wanted to leave out the part where they visited Haradis but suspected Ogran or Bryzant had already relayed that information to whatever go-between messenger they used to relay information to the king.
Rodan's harsh features didn't change through the narrative or when it ended, nor did his raptor gaze turn friendly. “What happened to your horse?”
The question confirmed for Serovek the wisdom of having Anhuset ride Magas to Saggara. He adopted a pained expression. “Lost in Chamtivos's raid on us. I didn't recover him, nor did the Nazim.”
A flicker of disappointment caught in Rodan's eyes. “A loss. He was a magnificent animal.”
And one that will never be yours, Serovek thought. Even if I don't survive this ludicrous circumstance.
He bowed his head in a supplicating gesture. “May I speak more, Your Highness?” The action must have appealed to the king for he nodded. “If you want absolute proof that my journey to the Jeden Order wasn't to open negotiations for an alliance with Chamtivos, then bring one of the monks to Timsiora to witness in my defense, or better yet, have them bring Chamtivos's head with them. I was the one who took it off his body. I'm content in my role as margrave. I visit the capital only upon your summons, not because I'm enamored with court and its trappings. Belawat already has a king who rules the kingdom with a deft hand.”
“So does High Salure” Rodan replied in a voice gone icy. “All you lack is a crown, and I find it hard to believe that a man of your standing with a powerful and loyal army of your own might remain content to govern a backwater. Especially one so far from the seat of real power. You understand if I'm convinced of your treachery, you will be executed for your crimes.
“I do.” It wasn't Bryzant's letter and machinations he'd have to conquer, but the king's own perceptions of his influence and his ambitions. They, more than some falsely histrionic letter from an unimportant steward, would determine his fate.
Rodan motioned to something behind Serovek, and the rhythmic march of boots grew louder as they neared. Serovek tensed but remained kneeling. “I'll speak to other witnesses over the next few days,” the king said. “I may even wait a little longer with my decision and do as you suggested, summon a Nazim monk or two and have them bring Chamtivos's head. Until then, you are a prisoner of the crown.” He gestured again, and this time the guards behind Serovek hauled him to his feet. “Take him to the Zela. Prison accommodations won't be as fine those in the palace guest wing, but you're a soldier. You've quartered in worse.”
Dismissed without further word, Serovek was escorted from the audience room and greeted by a sea of curious onlookers. This, he thought, would be his fate if he ever wanted to take the throne. Every door opening to a mob like this. He didn't know which was worse, the cell waiting for him in the Zela because the king considered him a traitor, or the cell constructed by the very nature of the kingship he didn't seek. In that moment, and for the first time, he truly pitied Brishen Khaskem.
Chapter Fifteen
Lover of thorns.
Anhuset wasafraid she'd have to sling Erostis over her shoulders the way she had done with Serovek on the island, but he managed to keep up with her as they raced behind the monk leading them to the stables. There they found Magas and the horse she'd ridden on their journey saddled and ready. With only a wince and a short expletive, Erostis swung into the saddle on Anhuset's gelding and guided it into the stable yard, leaving Anhuset and Magas to eye each other.
“Now isn't the time to play the spoiled princess, Magas,” she said. “I'd leave you behind for convenience's sake and take a more agreeable horse, but your master has asked me to do otherwise. Don't make me regret agreeing to his request.”
Whether it was the tone of her voice or even if the stallion actually understood what she said, Anhuset could only guess, but Magas snorted once and stepped forward of his own accord to wait for her to mount, docile as a sheep. Anhuset swung into the saddle and followed Erostis into the stableyard.
The monk who led them there stood closest to Erostis. “Have you heard of the old trader way?”
She shook her head, but Erostis nodded. “I have. All the caravans used it before they built the bridges across the river to reach the valley. It takes twice as long to get anywhere.” His scowl matched Anhuset's.
“Only if you're pulling a wagon,” the monk argued. “Go that way. You won't cross Rodan's troops. They came here from the main route and will return that way to head north for the better mountain passes.”
That was good enough for Anhuset. “Let's go.”
The back gate the abbot described was actually a tunnel carved through the hillside into which the monastery was built. It looked even older and more mysterious than the monastery itself, its rock walls lit from within by an unknown luminescence. Strange murals and sigils decorated its ceiling. Whoever had carved out the tunnel expected a great deal of traffic to pass through it at one time. The passage was wide and the ceiling high, with a dry floor on which the horses' hooves clopped dully with every step. It went farther than she anticipated, and they moved slower than she wanted, but they dare not risk laming a horse that had lost its footing on the rock floor. A sheer wall greeted them at the tunnel's end. If not for the faint draft and scent of outside air reaching her nostrils, Anhuset would have thought it was a dead end. They turned almost at the wall, discovering a natural cave with a short ascent onto flat ground.
“How is it no one's discovered this entrance?” Erostis wondered aloud.
He had his answer as soon as his horse set down the first hoof onto the cave's wetter, more uneven floor. A visible ripple of air stirred around him as if he and the gelding had parted a veil and stepped through. From Anhuset's vantage point in the back, they disappeared only to reappear on the other side of the shifting curtain. Magic, she thought. Either the monks' or the Elder race's.
She coaxed Magas through after Erostis, skin prickling with the otherness passing over and around her. Her soul clenched for a moment, grieving the loss of her own meager magic. This sorcery didn't belong to the human monks. It was far older, definitely Elder, much like the remnants the Kai once possessed.
Erostis had paused to watch her pass through the invisible wall. “Look behind you,” he said. She did, staring at what appeared to any who might glance inside or even explore the cave, a wall of ghastly looking vines the color of boiled intestines covered in formidable thorns and twining so thick around each other, they presented an impenetrable barrier to the viewer. “I wouldn't go near that if I'd stepped in here for some shade or shelter from the rain,” he said.
Curious, she reached out to touch one of the vines, expecting her hand to pass through. Instead, the vine's solid mass quivered under her fingers, cold and damp. Even stranger, the thorns closest to her hand extended, like those of a cat's claws. The tip of one grazed the knuckle on her forefinger, drawing blood. “A powerful illusion,” she told Erostis and held up her finger. He whistled and backed the gelding farther away from the wall.
They left the cave, entering directly into the woodland Tionfa had described. The trees grew so tall and close together, they blocked out much of the sun, leaving a stunted undergrowth of lichen and mushrooms to thrive in the encompassing shade and damp. Bars of sunlight still managed to get through, but Anhuset didn't have to raise her cloak to protect her eyes, even with the late morning light pouring down bright and blinding on the treetops.
“We need to find a clearing,” she said, “so we know where the sun sits and can find our way out of here.”
They rode for several moments before finding a place where an ancient oak had finally succumbed to rot and toppled, taking some of the surrounding smaller trees with it. Its demise and fall had created an oblique pathway of light that pierced the woodland's tenebrous world. Anhuset let Erostis stand in its brilliance and look up, his hand at his eyebrows to shield his eyes. “We head that direction,” he told her, pointing north and into an even more shadowed part of the wood.