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“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 morning 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'ssha. 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 kingandthe 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.
