The Ippos King (Wraith Kings #3) - Grace Draven Page 0,77
the galla were defeated, but the redoubt's permanent population was still twice the size it was before Haradis's destruction, with fewer Kai leaving and more coming in now that the queen regnant was in residence.
“He'd benefit from having several shas,” she said. “I spend more time breaking up fights over who gets what parcel of land or grain ration than I do riding patrol.”
“It'll calm down in time,” Serovek assured her. “Especially under Brishen's regency. He would have made an exceptional monarch. He'll make an exceptional regent for young Tarawin.” He studied her as he always did before asking questions that made her squirm. “Do you miss things the way they were before the galla?”
Her magic had never been much to speak of, but it was an essential part of her, and now it was gone forever, leaving behind a wound that would never heal. “We all do. The galla changed everything.” She attempted to turn the topic back on him. “And you? When did your dreams of Megiddo start?”
The narrow-eyed look he gave her told her she'd been less than subtle. “Not long after I left him with his brother. At first, I thought it was simply guilt. Even when you know the decision made—the sacrifice given—was the only choice, your soul will still shout down your mind.”
He'd given her insight into the guilt burdening him over Megiddo's fate, a burden that seemed to grow heavier every day. Unwarranted, unfair, especially with such bent reasoning. “Megiddo wasn't given. He was taken. And he was the one who severed the Gauri exile's hand to free himself. If anyone gave the monk to the galla, it was the monk.” She answered his silent questioning gaze. “Brishen told me and the hercegesé what happened.”
Serovek sighed, turning his face up to the sun with closed eyes. “So many lives lost and still no one knows what brought the demon horde down upon the world. I suppose we'll never know.” He glanced at her, as if sensing the weight of her consideration. “What?”
Layer upon layer, this man. Like the forging of a blade under a swordsmith's hammer. Folded steel and the fire of suffering. He was strong inside and out, with the ability to bend and not break, draw blood, and still gleam in the light. “I don't think I've ever seen you truly melancholy until now. Cheerful, ruthless, cold-blooded, horrified even. But not this.”
“Didn't you? These days I find myself more maudlin than I like.” This time his smile was wry. “An unfortunate weakness arising with my advancing age.”
She huffed. “You can't use the excuse of dotage. You're a man in his prime. Besides, it isn't a weakness to feel sadness. Whoever boasts they haven't been touched by sorrow or tragedy is lying. We grieve because we still remember what it is to feel.” And why she did her best not to feel too much.
“Wise words. Practical ones too. What do you grieve for, Anhuset?”
“Those things whose burdens are easier borne if I don't speak of them.” She wasn't ready to bare her soul to him. Even knowing he'd pass no judgment on her, it felt trivial somehow to reveal her own lesser desolations when his experiences had been so much worse than hers.
“One day,” he said softly, “you'll trust me enough to gift me with a glimpse into that guarded heart of yours.”
She surprised herself, and possibly Serovek, by staying quiet instead of denying his statement. To her relief, he didn't push for more from her.
While they remained wary as they traveled along drover paths snaking through the contested territories, most of the trip remained uneventful. They still shared the nighttime guard duty so that at least three of them were awake and rested at all times.
Only one thing caused them all to draw swords and push the wagon team to a faster pace. Two leagues out from the entrance pass to the Lobak valley, they traveled through marshland, riding over a rutted road partially submerged in spots by water lapping sluggishly across its surface. It was an ordinary road through an ordinary wetland except for the slender poles embedded in the ground at regular intervals that ran the road's length on either side.
Carved with arcane symbols that glowed dully in the gray light of an overcast day, the poles were attached to each other by shimmering bands of the same luminescence to create a border that hummed a wordless tune.
Anhuset had halted her horse at a splash in the water, the