The writing had helped him hold onto his patience, and except for the confrontation with Bryzant, the anger over his imprisonment. One more day in this cell might be humiliating, but it was also one more day he didn't face the gallows or the chopping block. One more day that he could refine the argument he had prepared in his own defense when he would finally stand before Rodan and whatever tribunal the king called.
And then Anhuset showed up on the other side of the cell bars and destroyed his equanimity in an instant. His patience evaporated, his anger burned hot, and his worry threatened to consume him. For what purpose had she come? And what plan had she hatched? Her enigmatic warning that he not protest or argue whatever it was she said or did had set off every alarm, alarms that rose to deafening volumes inside him when she mentioned the king and marriage. He'd wanted to interrogate her, but their time was short, their audience composed of guards and sorcerer avid in their attention as they listened to them converse. Anhuset had given her warning in bast-Kai in a voice so at odds with her very character, he'd been taken aback at first. All to fool those listening who would assume the conversation between them was merely blandishments exchanged between lovers. They might not have believed the part about the lovers had she not announced it very publicly when she first arrived at Timsiora.
Serovek paused in his pacing and allowed himself a faint smile. How he would have loved to hear her make that declaration and see the faces of those who heard it. His smile faded and he resumed wearing a trench into the floor.
Two days had passed since she visited and no word from her or the king since then. Dame Stalt came to retrieve the last set of parchment from him and shared what she knew.
“There's work being done at the forum,” she said. “It looks like a disturbed hive of bees when you walk past it. Digging, hammering, and cutting. One of the clerks has a brother working there. They've been told to built a wall between the seats and forum floor to go around the entire forum. You'd have to sit four rows up to see anything going on inside the enclosure.”
Serovek pictured what she described. A ribbon of nausea encircled his stomach. Had the king decided his fate without waiting for judgment from the tribunal? And if so, was his execution something more epic than a quick beheading or the slower but ubiquitous hanging?
He thanked the dame for her help, the supplies and the use of the small brazier.
“I will tithe at Yalda's altar in your name, Lord Pangion,” she said. “And pray that he may look favorably on you.”
“I'll take any prayer you can you spare, Madam.” He bowed to her, watching as her stately, narrow figure disappeared from view. Then he began to pace and hadn't stopped since.
He did pause when he caught a glimpse of one of the guards out of the corner of his eye. The man had been slouched against the wall, half asleep at his post. He abruptly straightened, snapping to attention at the sound of footsteps. Serovek recognized the tread's. The Zela's warden.
Serovek's heart jumped a beat at the jangle of keys. He stepped back to the center of the room, waiting while the warden unlocked the cell door and opened it wide. Behind him, the previously slumbering guard kept a steady aim on him with a loaded crossbow.
“It seems your stay with us at the Zela is at an end, Lord Pangion,” the warden announced. “Though you aren't free.” He raised two sets of shackles. “Hands out first, and then we'll deal with your ankles.” He stood to one side as a second guard shackled Serovek's wrists, then looped a connecting chain to the ones encircling his ankles. Even if he thought to try something stupid like running, the irons made it impossible. His normally long stride was reduced by a third and he followed the warden down the hallway, descending the stairwell at a careful shuffle. Guards hemmed him in on all sides. He might be on his way to his death, but he muttered “Thank the gods,” once he stepped outside into cold, open air and morning sunlight.
Grown used to the Zela's gloom, he closed his eyes for a moment, opening them only when one of the guards nudged him toward a cart with planks built for seating on either side. Iron rings were fastened to the side boards and the floor. He stepped into the cart and sat down, watching as his escort attached the chains to two of the rings. A guard sat on either side of him with enough distance to keep out of reach. Two more sat across from him. The warden nodded once to him and then to the cart's driver who gave a sharp whistle. The pair of horses harnessed to the cart lurched forward, and they were on their way to the palace.
Serovek didn't look down or look away from the citizens of Timsiora as they watched the prison wagon roll past. If Rodan thought to humiliate his margrave by parading him down the main avenue in chains, then he would be sorely disappointed. Serovek was a prisoner, but he wasn't guilty of the crimes laid against him. There was no reason to hang his head in shame.
As they rolled closer to the palace, the streets
