The Ippos King (Wraith Kings #3) - Grace Draven Page 0,154
meted out for a crime committed. She was a superior fighter with a martial prowess hard to match, but Serovek was familiar with Rodan's machinations, the way he bent the rules and reinterpreted the laws to suit his purposes. He'd make certain to weight the odds in favor of her opponent, whoever that was.
A low growl emanated from his right. Anhuset's eyes were the palest yellow and her lips had drawn back just enough to expose the points of her teeth. The servant, fearing for his skin more than offending someone, took an obvious step back. If the force of her glare could set fire to things, she would have immolated him on the spot.
An unmistakable note of malicious glee entered Rodan's voice. He was enjoying himself at Serovek's expense. That was obvious to all. “You can't refuse,” he said. “I've accepted on your behalf and her opponent awaits her.” He turned to Anhuset. “Are you ready?” She nodded. “The forum is yours, the weapons there for your use.”
Still reeling and horrified over what just unfolded in front of him, Serovek took a second, closer look at Anhuset. She was armored but unarmed. Breast plate and greaves, pauldrons and vambraces, plackart, and beneath it all, a mail hauberk and padded gambeson. With a helmet tucked under her arm, she was fully harnessed but confoundingly enough, lacking a single weapon—if one didn't count her teeth and claws. He'd only glanced at the forum floor with its covering of sand and its high walls but remembered the weapons rack occupying one part, mostly empty except for a few polearms, a sword or two and a solitary shield.
He reached out as she passed close to him, a pair of soldiers behind her to lead her down to the forum floor. The chain connecting his wrist and leg irons rattled as he grasped her arm. “Don't do this,” he begged her in a low, fervent voice. “Stand down.”
She lowered her head to stare at his shackles before lifting it once more to gaze upon him. Her eyes were no longer like the white heat of twin suns but the pale yellow of a harvest moon. Her mouth softened, and for the span of a breath, she leaned into him. “We live for those we love,” she told him in bast-Kai. “We die for those we love. This is a privilege, Serovek, not a sacrifice.”
She pulled away before he could tighten his grip and pivoted out of his reach. He stared at her departing back, shouting her name inside but silent to all others. She would give them their spectacle in the forum. He refused to give a second as a private performance here. He would toss aside that prideful assertion without a second thought later, willing to play the puppet to any of Rodan's demands.
Every seat in the forum was taken, with more people sitting in the aisles leading to them. Serovek stood adjacent to Rodan's chair, not close enough to reach him and do harm without ending up a pin poppet for his archers, but close enough to hear Rodan's commentary to his queen and his closest advisors, his fawning favorites and his most trusted servants. The few occasions he tried to lure Serovek into an argument or commentary, he received only a “Yes, Your Majesty” or “No, Your Majesty,” or the slightly longer “As you say, Your Majesty.” Giving up after several rounds of coolly abbreviated responses, Rodan ignored him.
When their voices reached a dull roar and many began to chant “Begin! Begin!” Rodan finally rose and stepped to the wall that acted as a balcony. One of his sorcerers placed a shimmering stone in his hand and backed away with a bow. An awning stretched over the king, casting him in shade, but the people still saw him and cheered when he raised both arms for their attention. “People of Timsiora,” he said, his voice a sonorous blast that reached every part of the forum, obviously the work of the enchanted stone he held. “Of Belawat and her territories, a man we all know as brave, heroic, fierce in battle, loyal to me for many long years, has unfortunately been accused of treason against the kingdom and sedition against the crown.”
Another roar went up, this one a mixture of disbelieving boos and disapproving whistles. As before, it faded when the king raised his arm. “Serovek, Lord Pangion of High Salure and one of my most valued margraves stands accused of these