The Ippos King (Wraith Kings #3) - Grace Draven Page 0,108
approached the bed and its sleeping occupant. Despite Ulsten's assurances, she set her finger under Serovek's nose, taking comfort in the draft of his breath tumbling over her knuckle. Thanks to the monks' spells, his bruises had faded from purple and red to shadowy blue, and the swelling had subsided. Bits of dried blood still glued his eyelashes to his cheeks, but beneath all that his handsomeness shone through once more.
The thought brought Anhuset up short and she backed away from the bed. Her own breathing stuttered. She stared hard at the margrave. Hard enough and long enough that her eyes began to burn. His features didn't alter under her intense scrutiny. Still handsome, still refined.
As they had always been, at least to human eyes. And now to Anhuset's. She crossed her arms and turned her gaze away, refusing to acknowledge the fear tightening around her chest like a vise. She recalled Brishen's expressions when she caught him watching Ildiko. How they'd changed over time from fascinated revulsion to lustful adoration. In that moment she would have bartered all her possessions for a mirror so that she might gaze upon her own reflection and discover whether or not she wore the same look. The vise wrenched tighter against her ribs.
She turned away but didn't go far, taking up residence once more on the narrow bench. She closed her eyes to ease their dryness and shut out the sight of Serovek, peaceful in his slumber. Her thoughts whirled and her heart raced, but not for long. Sleep she thought impossible to capture crept up on her and soon her pulse slowed and her mind calmed as she leaned her head back against the wall and drifted into slumber.
The squeak of a door hinge brought her instantly awake, dagger ready in her palm as the door eased open, revealing first a bar of light from the lamp-lit corridor beyond, then a silhouette poised at the threshold. The windowless room she shared with Serovek lay in darkness, its lamp guttered out while she napped. It was a darkness she saw well enough in but one that blinded the visitor. She kept her eyes slitted so their telltale luminosity wouldn't betray her position. Likely a monk to deliver sustenance and the water she requested, but she wasn't relaxing her guard.
“Don't just stand there, man,” Serovek said, his deep voice tired and raspy. “Come inside or leave, but shut the damn door.”
Chapter Twelve
So sayeth you. And only you.
Serovek shielded his eyes from the bright bar of light that spread to a wedge as the door opened wider. A second silhouette joined the first, and the two figures merged with the darkness as they entered the room.
A familiar voice brought him more awake. “I thought you done for, my lord.”
He levered himself up on one elbow, bracing for agony that never came. “Erostis. Damn, it's good to hear your voice, man.”
“Same, my lord, but it would be nice to see you too instead of stumbling around this room in the dark.”
His complaint conjured a crackle and the spreading glow of light from one corner of the chamber, revealing Anhuset seated next to a now-lit brazier. Serovek couldn't tell where her gaze rested by sight, but he felt its weight. “Anhuset.”
She offered a brief nod. “Margrave. Welcome back.” She unfolded her tall frame from the bench to help the monk accompanying Erostis place a pitcher and goblets on a nearby table.
Had she watched over him while he slept? The idea warmed him more than the brazier ever could.
Erostis limped to his bedside and Serovek frowned at the sight of his liegeman swathed in bandages on one side of his body from shoulder to hip. He grasped Erostis's forearm and gave it a squeeze. “The gods were kind. I feared you were a dead man.”
“I wondered the same about you.” Erostis scrubbed his face with one hand. “Kind to a point. Klanek took arrows. The monks tried to save him but to no avail.” His face, haggard by injury and convalescence, became even more so with sorrow.
Grief settled on Serovek, a suffocating blanket. He'd lost men before in battles and raids, each death a wound that healed and scarred. He'd buried or burned most of them and delivered the news to the families himself when he could. A grim duty but one he never shirked if he could help it. “The monks have his body here?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“We'll bring him to his family when we return home.”