The Ippos King (Wraith Kings #3) - Grace Draven Page 0,38
first time I've been in such close proximity to him since I turned him over to his brother for safekeeping.”
His anger over Pluro keeping his brother's ensorceled body stashed away in a rundown barn lessened at the memory of the man's explanation for doing so. Nightmares, he'd complained. Horrific nightmares that aged you a decade in a night. If Megiddo's nearness spread night terrors like plague to anyone sleeping nearby, he couldn't so harshly condemn Pluro for exiling his brother away from the house.
Either his musings played across his features, or Anhuset thought as he did at that moment. “We may have rushed to judgment about your vassal's actions. The dream you just woke from had you downing Peleta's Kiss like water. If Pluro Cermak and his household fought such battles in their sleep more than once, he probably couldn't get his brother out of the house fast enough or far enough. And who could blame him?”
Serovek twitched back a corner of the concealing blanket to gaze at Megiddo's peaceful, austere face under the transparent shell of protective sorcery. “He hung on some kind of scaffolding, begging for mercy while the galla flayed the skin from his body in strips no wider than reins. And when they were done, they healed him and started over again.”
It wasn't the sight of such gruesome cruelty that made Serovek's hand shake when he covered Megiddo's face again, but the memory of his voice, the hopelessness in those screams for mercy. The madness.
A sudden thought occurred to him, making him frown. “Has Brishen complained of bad dreams in which the galla and the monk play a part?”
“If he has, he's not shared those complaints with me,” Anhuset replied, her features serene, her voice mild.
Unlike human eyes, which gave away numerous tells in the shift of a gaze or the dilation of pupils, a Kai's eyes gave away very little. He'd discovered through years of careful observation that they actually did possess pupils, but they were the same color as the iris and the sclera: yellow upon yellow upon yellow. They moved and shifted just like a human's eyes, but the monochrome coloration obscured such movement instead of highlighting it. Anhuset's citrine stare didn't reveal anything, but her studied composure did. He knew her well enough now to know she was, by nature, neither serene nor mild. She'd dodged his question with an answer that wasn't a lie but also not quite the truth.
Serovek chose not to push. Sha-Anhuset's devotion to the herceges was absolute. He could do to her what the galla did to Megiddo until the end of time, and he'd not get a word out of her until she chose to share one. Besides, if he were honest, he prayed Brishen slept untroubled in his human wife's arms and what Serovek dealt with now was merely a mind trying to rid itself of poisonous memory.
Pray hard, an inner voice told him.
He turned his attention to his silent companion and gave her a short bow. “I'll not be rolling up in my blanket again, and I doubt you're one to wile away the hours in chit-chat.” He laughed at her derisive huff. “I propose either a round of dicing or sparring. Your choice, though I'll have to go back to the inn for the dice and my waster.”
Those yellow eyes flared bright, and Serovek didn't bother hiding his amusement at the delight overtaking her expression. He might have known that the way to charm Anhuset wasn't with compliments or flowers but the offer to brawl or gamble.
She raised a hand, signaling him to wait before she bent to rummage through her gear. “No need. I have a waster and a silabat with me. The second will work as a waster as well. I also have dice, but I'd much rather spar.”
“Eager for the chance to beat my arse?”
Anhuset presented a wooden practice sword and the silabat, offering both for him to choose his preference. Her half smile briefly revealed the points of her teeth. “Absolutely.”
He took the silabat and saluted her with it.
She questioned his choice with a raised eyebrow. “You know how to use one of those in sparring?”
A few of his men scoffed at stick fighting—until someone with a mastery of the martial form sent them limping and bleeding out of the practice yard. Serovek's own trainer, a grizzled warrior with three fingers on one hand and no mercy in his soul, had taught Serovek how to fight with numerous weapons,