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Anhuset couldn't think of any place in this entire city she'd rather not spend an evening than under the king's roof. “I consider it an honor, Your Majesty, but I'm an unexpected visitor and don't wish to rob one of your courtiers of space. I have a place to stay just outside the city, though I would ask a boon of you.” She didn't lie. That space was a narrow tent pitched in the conifer forest covering the canyon walls surrounding Timsiora.
“What is that?” he asked, the slight narrowing of his eyes warning her, he was tiring of this meeting as much as she was.
“That I may see Lord Pangion.”
The narrowed eyes went to slits for a moment, reminding her of a feral cat. He stared at her, then shrugged. “One visit. On the other side of the bars, and accompanied by guards and at least one of my sorcerers.” He still believed the Kai possessed their magic and was taking precautions. Anhuset had no intention of enlightening him.
She bowed low. “Of course, and you have my thanks.” Excitement bubbled inside her, anticipation and no small relief. Soon she'd be gone from here, and while she'd never before delighted in a visit to a prison, she'd engaged in many firsts today. One more made no difference, except in this case, she'd see a man whose face and touch had haunted her dreams since she left him in a monastery, prepared to give himself over to royal troops as a prisoner.
“A messenger will find you when you have my answer,” Rodan said and dismissed her from his presence with an abrupt shooing motion.
His guards wasted no time escorting her out, though it was they who jogged to keep up with her as she left. The flock of courtiers were still outside, their faces avid. Word of what she'd said at the gate had obviously reached to all corners as many in the crowd wore smirking expressions, even horrified ones. Anhuset ignored them all, striding through their midst and threatening to stride over them if they didn't get out of her way.
Droginin was waiting for her outside the castle. Anhuset hadn't expected to see him again. “I've volunteered to take you to the Zela, sha-Anhuset. It's the prison here in Timsiora and where the margrave is currently kept.”
Once at the prison, he spoke with the guards there and was met by the warden, a refined-looking man whose appearance seemed at odds with his grim profession and even grimmer surroundings. Droginin offered to keep an eye on her horse while she was inside. “I'll take you back to the city gates once you're through here,” he said.
Anhuset studied him before offering a closed-lip smile. “So you're to be my nanny while I'm in Timsiora, captain?”
He gave a small laugh. “I prefer to think of it as your escort. So you don't get lost here in our beautiful capital.”
There was no obvious sarcasm in his words, but she heard it just the same. Escort, nanny, whatever one might want to call his role, he'd been assigned to keep an eye on her while she was here, an unwanted and unexpected guest that everyone was sure would cause trouble during her stay.
The warden greeted her with a half bow and a knowing glance. “It seems the Beladine Stallion casts his seed far afield. I wouldn't have believed it if you weren't standing in front me.” She stared back at him, unmoved by either anger or amusement at his lewd banter. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Come. This way.”
They passed through a small antechamber into a narrow hallway that led into a labyrinth of other dark, narrow hallways. The Zela looked enormous and imposing on the outside but suffocatingly cramped on the inside. She welcomed the gloom but guessed for humans who sought sunlight, those imprisoned here found the Zela a sepulchral place and chillier than any tomb.
The warden led her up flights of stairs until they reached the topmost floor. Here the hallways were only a little wider and the cells on either side spaced in a staggered fashion so that the occupants couldn't see each other across the way. As they moved farther down the corridor, the warden called out, “Margrave, you have a visitor most eager to see you.”
A swarm of butterflies erupted into flight in Anhuset's belly. Worry. Anticipation so fierce she almost shook with it. Her ears strained to ear a voice but no one replied. The warden halted at one cell door, a latticework of metal with openings large enough to see through but too small to do more than put a hand through the spaces. She spotted a shadowy figure seated at a table, limned in the meager light of a small brazier. The scratching noise of a quill on parchment was the only sound.
“You have a short time only and will be watched.” He tipped his chin toward the small audience behind her and she glanced over her shoulder. She'd known they were there. Footfalls growing in number as they climbed the stairwells and traversed the hallway. Four guards in armor and one man in robes decorated in sigils. The sorcerer Rodan sent to counter any magic she might try to wield in helping Serovek escape. His presence was superfluous now, and the thought sent a melancholy twinge through her.
The warden banged on the cell door. “Margrave, do you want to chat or should I send her away?”
Serovek straightened in his chair and finally stood to stroll toward the door. He halted abruptly and a muscle tic jolted across his cheek once, twice even as the rest of his face froze. “Sha-Anhuset.”
“Margrave,” she replied in an equally cool voice. Those butterflies spun in a whirlwind through her ribcage. He looked uninjured if a little haggard around the edges. Still handsome in the way humans defined handsomeness and handsome to her in the way her heart dictated she see him. She slid her fingers through the openings in the bars, the metal freezing in her grip.
“I'll leave you to it then,” the warden said. “Say what you need to. I need to retrieve something from my desk. When I return, you leave.” He paused to say something to the group clustered within hearing distance before disappearing down the hall.
Serovek's demeanor didn't change though he nearly broke her fingers in his grasp. His voice was low, no longer indifferent. “What are you doing here, firefly woman? Does Brishen know?”
Obviously a refrain she'd hear often while in Timsiora. When had Brishen exchanged the role of her liege for that of her parent? She sighed. “He knows.” For the first time since she arrived she was in the presence of one who wouldn't flee in alarm at the sight of her toothy grin. “I'm here to make you the subject of idle gossip in every tavern, brothel and court gathering in Timsiora,” she teased.
The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened with his answering smile. “You've never done things by half measure, though I can't guess what you did to make me even more a target for gossip mongers than I already am.”
While her public declaration to and sundry that she and the margrave of High Salure were lovers had been done for a specific purpose, she wasn't ashamed that others knew. She didn't know how Serovek might feel about it. “I announced at the entry gate that I was your lover and had come to visit you. I'm afraid I've diminished you in the eyes of your countrymen.”
Sincere confusion and puzzlement settled over his face. “How would such an announcement, a true and glorious one I might add, diminish me?” She must have made an odd noise because his eyebrows crashed together. “What's wrong?”
If she weren't made of hardier stuff, her knees might have buckled. No practiced charm or seductive quip would ever equal in power what he just said to her. It was a punch to the gut in the best way. “Nothing,” she said. “Now that I'm here.” She twined her fingers hard with his, careful to keep her claws from digging into the backs of his hands. “I've come to tell you the return trip to Saggara was mostly uneventful. I met up with our friend Ogran on the road.”
Those deep-water blue eyes went nearly black for a moment. “And how is our friend?” he said in a tight voice.
“Taking up worm farming when we parted ways.” The flit of a smile across his mouth told her he understood her allusion to Ogran's death. “We didn't speak long. My horse was tired, and we were both eager to get home.” She didn't mention Magas's name, knowing word would get back to the king who, according to Serovek, coveted the stallion.
He stroked her knuckles with his thumbs. “You were always patient with your steeds,” he teased.
