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“As he should. As King Rodan should have done. It would have saved countless lives and himself a lot of grief had he done the same.” He shrugged. “Instead, he strung Chamtivos along with bait and false promises for who knows what reason, then gifted the entire valley, including those holdings, to the Jeden Order, believing the monks would be defenders of the territory for the crown instead of contenders for it as Chamtivos would.”
“But are they not considered heretics?”
Some of the more zealous Beladine, strict in their orthodoxy, often called upon the king to outlaw the Nazim monks and proclaim all their orders as heretical, including the Jeden Order. Such cries fell on deaf ears, especially when the warrior monks proved themselves so useful in furthering the king's interests.
The wagon had rolled farther ahead of them while he and Anhuset chatted, their horses content to amble along while their riders were distracted. Serovek tapped Magas's sides with his heels to close the gap between him and the transport. He replied to her question once they caught up to the other two who were now close enough to hear their conversation.
“To the devout among us, they are heretics, but the king isn't a religious man. His philosophy has always been pay the crown tax, tithe your soldiers and vassals to his army in times of conflict, and remember your place. You're free to worship as you please as long as it doesn't threaten his rule.”
Her expression turned inscrutable, her mouth becoming pinched. “It's well known among some that the king of Belawat will do what he believes is necessary to hold the throne.”
Had Serovek not been directly involved in Brishen's rescue from Beladine raiders who'd tortured the Kai prince and would have killed him, he might not have caught the oblique accusation in Anhuset's comment. She and others, himself included, suspected King Rodan had a hand in the two attempts on Brishen's life and that of his Gauri bride. He glanced at Erostis and Klanek, looking for any indication that one of them had heard what she implied. Both only looked mildly bored.
Unlike them, Anhuset didn't look bored at all. Tall in the saddle, she sat tense, waiting for his reply. He could almost feel the heat of her rising anger at the memory of what the raiders had done to her cousin. While there was no solid proof of his involvement, she obviously laid the blame for Brishen's torture and disfigurement at King Rodan's feet.
“He's always been a wily sovereign,” Serovek said, careful with his choice of words and eager to turn the focus back to the warlord. “Letting Chamtivos live was one of his few mistakes, and one I doubt he'll ever make again. Were it not for the monks' fighting ability and help from Ilinfan swordmasters, he'd still control the Lobak valley. They wrested most of it from him, and he's gone into hiding, though he remains a boil on Rodan's arse.”
His mention of the Ilinfan swordmasters acted like an incantation, instantly diverting her attention away from Rodan's ruthless machinations to something she embraced with fervor: sword fighting.
“We in Bast-Haradis know of your fabled swordsmen,” she said, a touch of admiration in her voice. “I've always wanted to spar with an Ilinfan swordmaster.”
“The monks are indebted to them,” he said. “They're the pride of the Beladine kingdom, though the king barely tolerates them.” Rodan tread a thin line with the various factions in his kingdom from religious orders with impressive martial skills to renowned swordsmen whose true loyalty most believed lay with their brotherhood and their leader they called the Ghan.
“Possible threat to the precious throne?” Once more her voice had taken on that studied neutral tone.
He approved of her caution. “There are always threats to the throne.”
Slouched casually on the wagon's driver seat with the reins held loose in his fingers, Klanek joined their conversation. “I got to see an Ilinfan swordmaster fight once. Some years ago during Delyalda at the capital.” He grinned. “Beat the shit out of the king's champion, then refused to be the replacement when it was offered to him.”
Anhuset nudged her horse closer to the front of the wagon. “Did he live up the reputation of swordmaster?”
The driver snorted. “And then some. It was an exhibition match, but we all wondered about that when it was over. Alreed, the champion then, was spitting blood, tongue, teeth and was half dead by the time the king called the match. The swordsman never said a word, never strutted about. Just bowed to the king, said something to his patron Lord Uhlfrida, and left the arena.”
“A man who knows the worth of his skill doesn't need to brag of it or seek praise for it,” Serovek said.
Anhuset nodded. “Fighting such a warrior would be a privilege.”
Klanek echoed aloud Serovek's silent reply. “If you lived to tell of it.”
That night they camped not far off the main road. As Serovek promised, Erostis worked culinary magic over the fire to turn the humble but much-loathed potato into a delectable dish that had his mouth watering for a plate piled high with the vegetable.
Anhuset's nostrils flared as Erostis handed her a plate to pass to Klanek. She held it for a moment, eyeing the golden-brown cuts of potato with their crispy edges and generous sprinkling of salt and herbs. Her eyebrows slowly climbed as she stared at the plate, then Erostis, then the plate again. “This is the same maggot potato thing?”
He preened, delighted by her obvious amazement. “It's all in the technique, madam. I can make your shoes taste delicious given enough time and spices.”
Serovek hid a smile as Klanek gazed longingly at the plate Anhuset held. “If you don't mind passing that over,sha, before it gets cold, I'd appreciate it.” Serovek noted the driver dared not reach for the plate. Smart man.
She reluctantly gave up the plate, nostrils still flared to catch the smell of herbs and smoke infused into the potatoes. Serovek motioned to Erostis to fill another plate as Klanek took his from Anhuset, his gaze hard on her clawed hands as if he feared she'd change her mind and snatch his supper back from him, taking his arm with it.
“Care to brave the roasted maggot? It won't try to kill you like scarpatine.” Serovek couldn't resist teasing her. “Or if you don't wish to take so big a risk, I'll be happy to share a few pieces of mine with you.” He raised his plate in offer.
Her glare might have set him on fire had it stayed on him longer, but the helping of supper Erostis handed her proved a more powerful distraction. All three men watched as she brought the plate up to her nose, indulging in a long inhalation before spearing a potato chunk with one claw and popping it into her mouth. As she chewed, her lamplight eyes widened and rounded.
“This can't be the same disgusting heap of dirt-tasting mush I had to swallow at the Khaskem's wedding dinner,” she declared once she swallowed. She speared another piece, this time eyeing it with a speculative look.
Her audience's laughter coaxed a smile from her, much to Serovek's delight. “One and the same,” he said. “Erostis's boast wasn't an empty one. He's a good cook.”
“Why do you think I'm here?” the soldier added, giving Anhuset a wink. “It isn't because the margrave thinks I'm pretty to look at.”
