The Ippos King (Wraith Kings #3) - Grace Draven Page 0,164

dug into his flank. He abandoned the teasing. “I love you with all that I am and for all the days of our existence, firefly woman.”

Her pointed teeth gleamed white in the growing darkness and her embrace tightened as if she would meld him to her. “Then for gods' sake, man, shut up and prove it.”

Serovek laughed and set about doing just that.

Epilogue

So may it remain.

Anhuset stood atop the berm that encircled Saggara's training yard for its soldiers and watched the sun break the horizon toward dawn. Behind her the manor house and its bailey buzzed with activity and sound as those who'd attended the celebration of sha-Anhuset's marriage to the human margrave of High Salure continued with their revelry into the coming daylight hours, even after the guests of honor had taken their leave. The training yard itself was empty, offering her a quiet place to recall the hours she'd spent there in practice melées, training both newly minted Kai soldiers and veterans alike. Her favorite memories were of the mock combats with Brishen, even the grimmer ones where she'd helped him relearn how to wield ax and sword as a partially blind fighter.

She had no true regrets at leaving Saggara to live at High Salure. She'd miss its rhythm, its silent voice, but that had already begun to change with the influx of displaced Kai from Haradis and Saggara's renewed role as the kingdom's capital. The training yard, though, was still the same. She'd miss it even though she was growing comfortable in the yard at High Salure.

Her marriage to Serovek was a month old, a happy one though she still woke some mornings startled to see the Beladine Stallion sleeping next to her, his features sometimes peaceful in slumber, sometimes scowling as he battled through a dark dream of Megiddo while the ethereal blue light of ancient Kai magic seeped from under his closed eyelids. During those times she'd eased him awake, not with a touch, but with a low-hummed tune she'd learned as a child. He'd still gasp when he woke, but he didn't flail or strike out. She'd envelop him in a tight embrace while he breathed hard and gripped her with desperate hands and shook off the remnants of whatever horrific visions plagued him. He didn't speak about them, and she didn't ask, offering comfort instead with silent affection and the unspoken promise that she'd fight his demons alongside him.

A light footfall she recognized made her glance over her shoulder to see Brishen crest the berm, looking every bit the regal regent of Bast-Haradis. Unlike her, he wore his finery with ease and had smiled earlier that evening when she clawed at the high collar of her formal tunic and complained of having to wear such nonsense.

“This is your wedding celebration,” he said. “You can't show up in hunting leathers or armor, cousin.”

“I don't see why not,” she snapped. “Serovek doesn't care.”

“You have him so bewitched he wouldn't care if you showed up wearing nothing.”

Knowing her new husband, he'd wholeheartedly prefer it. Anhuset had kept the thought to herself.

Brishen came to stand beside her. “I thought I'd find you here.”

She eyed him askance. “And why is that?”

“Because I always thought this was your favorite place in Saggara. The gods know you spent many an hour in this training yard bruising and blooding new and experienced soldiers alike. Me included.”

He wasn't wrong. “I wasn't sure if you'd ever be the same fighter you were before you lost your eye, but you surpassed my expectations. I think you're even better now.” She gave him an approving once-over glance. He'd worn an eye patch this evening in deference to those guests not used to seeing the mutilated socket where his eye had once been.

Brishen offered her a bow in recognition of her praise. “I had motivation and an excellent mentor.” His features sharpened, and his mouth turned down. “You should know I've spoken with Serovek about his visions of Megiddo and the glow of his eyes. I told him I deal with the same. I think the monk is trying to cross worlds to reach us. To seek help. I just don't know how we can give it.”

The grim turn of their conversation didn't surprise her. She'd seen the two men sequester themselves in Brishen's private study for an hour or so the previous day. Both had emerged wearing identical expressions of melancholy, regret, and guilt.

“You have nothing to feel guilty for,” she'd told Serovek after one