The insidious inner voice poking a sharp stick at Anhuset continued its harassment Why then? Instead she said aloud “Who chose Deliza's name? You or your wife?”
“I did.” An abiding sorrow filled his voice and darkened the deep blue of his eyes. “It means 'hope' in old temple language.”
There it was, the vulnerability she feared. How long did the living suffer from the loss of the dead they loved? What wreckage did such loss leave behind and was it worth the pain? Did it make her weak for avoiding such attachments and Serovek strong for embracing them? For he was strong, inside and out. He'd proven that strength over and over to her. What did he see when he stared hard into her soul? A warrior tough and unyielding or simply a woman too frightened to care too much?
She tried to imagine him with children. It wasn't hard. A stillness settled over him when she rested her hand on his forearm and gave a gentle squeeze. “I've no doubt you would have made a loving father.”
He gazed at her hand before covering it with his, his callused palm rough on her knuckles. That deep-water gaze lifted to hers. Were she not so wary of his effect on her, she might have fallen into it, succumbing to his allure. “Thank you, Anhuset.”
His gratitude carried the ring of a prayer offered to a beloved deity, and Anhuset felt her face—nay, her entire body—light up at the words. Her heart tripped a beat in double time. Was this how Brishen came to see Ildiko as beautiful instead of hideous? Through glimpses into her soul? Or was it a gradually expanding knowledge of her character that seduced him and made her desirable? Brishen Khaskem had never been weaker than when he fell in love with his wife.
Nor as strong, argued the internal voice.
“No thanks necessary. I only speak the truth,” she told Serovek before rolling onto her back and closing her eyes, too afraid to look any longer upon his face, or worse, have him look upon hers and see past her outward serenity to the turmoil within.
A companionable hush descended between them. Anhuset breathed the sweet smell of pipe smoke as Serovek burned through the bowl of herbs and leaf. She kept her eyes closed, denying the temptation to look at him. Despite her certainty that she'd stay awake through the night, drowsiness claimed her.
“You are truly the most beautiful woman I've ever beheld.”
Perched on the edge of sleep, she wondered if she imagined Serovek's compliment. She didn't bother to open her eyes. “I don't understand why you think so,” she mumbled.
His voice caressed her, body and soul. “And I don't understand why you do not.”
Anhuset drifted off, waking not long after for guard duty, and discovered a blanket tossed over her. Serovek had returned to his pallet while she slept and now lay on his side facing her. Dawn light gilded his hair, bronzing the red highlights there, silvering the gray ones. His black eyelashes fanned against his cheeks. In slumber, he looked younger, the refined angles of his face softened. If he dreamed, it was of something far more pleasant than the tortures of Megiddo.
Not so ugly this morning, the inner voice mocked.
“Shut up,” she said aloud and tossed off the blanket to stand and stretch. Klanek waved to her from his place by the fire pit. He'd taken the previous watch and now stoked the fire in preparation for an early breakfast.
Serovek neither looked nor acted any differently than he had days or months before, yet that day Anhuset found it difficult not to stare at him. Maybe it was seeing him surrounded by ghosts and holding silent conversations with spectral queens or hearing him recall his wife and daughter with a far-away voice of affectionate memory.
He hadn't changed, but something profound in her had. She'd once thought him a brave but shallow man, arrogant at times, with a peculiar gift of annoying her like no one else could. Except for his courage and her annoyance, she'd been so very wrong about him.
She took up her usual spot as rear guard of their small caravan, with Erostis riding beside her. They weren't long on the road when Serovek trotted back to them and bade Erostis to trade places with him.
“I have a question for you,” he said as Magas settled into a leisurely walk that matched her mount's.
Her alarm bells sounded. He'd knocked her sideways on the ghostly bridge when he asked up front if she'd lost her magic. She hadn't lied when she confirmed his suspicions with a single word, but she would do so if he wanted to know more. That Brishen had stripped all but the youngest of the Kai of their birthright wasn't her secret to tell, but it was hers to protect, no matter the cost. “I don't promise to answer it,” she replied.
Fortunately, he chose not to pursue the subject. “You say you haven't married because you're gameza, but the purity of a blood line is typically only important to noble families scrabbling for power and status. Their offspring are pawns. Even as gameza, you hold a great deal of influence with the Khaskem. You're his sha, even more trusted than his closest counselors. Was there no lover who tempted you into a permanent bonding?”
She nearly wilted in the saddle from relief. An easy question with an easy answer and no need for lies. “No, not a single one,” she said cheerfully. “I can barely stand their company after a few nights, much less years or a lifetime. I'd make a terrible wife.”
He laughed. “You say that with such passion.”
“It's the truth.” One truth, at least. No Kai had ever remotely tempted her to make such a commitment. Her heart remained her own, her devotion reserved for Brishen, and
