The Ippos King (Wraith Kings #3) - Grace Draven Page 0,44
neither young nor old but a man in his prime. He wore the mantle of leadership with ease, though she'd never witnessed tyrannical behavior from him. Most of his men offered him respect that bordered on reverence.
Once she'd believed he was simply a human possessing lusty appetites, martial prowess, and a singular ability to annoy her until she gnashed her teeth. He'd obliterated those assumptions when he dug an arrowhead out of her shoulder and helped save Brishen from his abductors, when he volunteered to fight by the Khaskem's side against the galla, and when he fearlessly handed her his blade to spill his blood on an ancient tor. There were depths to Serovek Pangion deeper than oceans she'd only glimpsed from far shores, so much more than teasing innuendo and damn fine horsemanship.
He struggled with the tragedy of Megiddo's fate, reason not always conquering guilt at having survived the galla when the monk had not. She'd seen it in his expression when he woke from sleep plagued by what she suspected was more than bad dreams and far more dangerous. The ethereal luminescence which Ildiko had seen in Brishen's eye had surfaced in both of Serovek's, along with a horror that faded as he grew more awake. Still, its shadow had lingered in the midnight blue of his gaze, along with the cobalt light that turned his gaze spectral and haloed Megiddo's soulless, ensorceled body.
Did ancient Kai magic still linger in those Wraith kings who'd returned to their human forms after they defeated the hul-galla, trace ribbons of it revived by proximity to Megiddo's body or his sword? And if so, what terrible thing might it visit upon those who'd fought so bravely and emerged triumphant thanks to the sacrifice of one of their own?
The questions whirled in her mind like dust spinners on a hot summer day, along with a yearning to know more about High Salure's margrave, peel back those endless layers that revealed a man she'd grown to admire more and more every day. Admire and crave.
She growled under her breath, tightening her grip on the reins hard enough that her mount slowed from an ambling walk to a near stop. She loosened her grip and tapped the animal's sides. The horse resumed its leisurely pace. Her three companions hadn't noticed or heard her displeasure at acknowledging the weakness of such unfortunate attraction. Serovek Pangion was ugly, irritating, and far too cock-sure of himself, especially regarding his presumed attraction to the opposite sex, including her.
And his hair cascaded through her fingers like silk.
A second growl rumbled in her throat when he glanced over his shoulder at her, gave a quick smirk, and turned back around, as if to signal he'd heard every one of her thoughts and dared her to deny them.
Twilight hadn't yet crawled across the sky, and there was still plenty of light to set up camp when Serovek signaled a stop. Anhuset roused from her light doze for a better look at her surroundings. She recognized the wooded landscape with its mix of still-dormant oaks and firs so dark a green, they etched black silhouettes against the sky. Close by, the Absu tumbled and rushed in a loud whisper. A melancholic pang settled beneath her ribcage. Dead Haradis lay not far from here, less than a day by boat.
Their group split the work between them, building a fire, unloading a few supplies, hunting for supper, taking care of the horses. Erostis returned from his foray into the wood, not with a brace of hares, as she expected, but a line of fish taken from the river. “I'm a better fisherman than hunter,” he said, holding up his prizes with a triumphant smile.
The fish, roasted on spits, accompanied flat bread cooked on a round sheet of metal Ardwin had unloaded from their wagon, all washed down with cups of tepid ale. Nightfall brought a dip in temperature, and the group sat huddled around the fire, wrapped in cloaks. Anhuset stayed farther back to avoid the worst of the light and noticed no one looked directly at the flames.
“You wear an odd expression, Anhuset.” Serovek had abandoned his spot and sat next to her. “What are you thinking?”
Her nostrils flared. He wore the scents of the forest and camp smoke. Earthy scents that made her blood warm and her skin tingle. She quaffed the rest of her ale, wishing for something more bracing like Peleta's Kiss, where the burn would stave off images of what