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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.
