The Ippos King (Wraith Kings #3) - Grace Draven Page 0,139
closer to him, Bryzant gasped when Serovek suddenly shoved his hands through the gaps between the bars, grabbed the other man's tunic and yanked him forward to slam his face against unforgiving metal.
The spaces were too narrow for Serovek to get his hands through past his wrists, otherwise he would have snapped Bryzant's neck. A part of him not submerged in white-hot fury recognized that restriction was likely a good thing. He didn't need murder added to his charges. It didn't stop him from smashing Bryzant's face ever harder against the bars where he mewled and struggled in his captor's grip.
“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's sha. 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