She never got the chance. The crowd moved as a single wave, carrying Serovek and his men away from her on a crest toward the palace’s entrance from which Brishen and Ildiko emerged. The prince regent and his wife greeted their guest first with formal vows, then more affectionate clasps of forearms and embraces. Brishen clapped Serovek on the back, ushering him inside. Just before they disappeared from view, the margrave glanced over his shoulder and unerringly found Anhuset among the milling crowd. A quick tip of his head and another of those teasing smiles told her he’d known she was there all along.
Before the supper gathering that evening, she stood in her small bedroom in the main barracks and glared at the chest holding the garb she kept in reserve for more formal occasions. Were it strictly to her preference, she’d attend tonight’s feast wearing her usual everyday clothing of homespun and leather in muted colors of brown, gray, and black. Fashion never interested her, and she was far more inclined to admire the temper of a well-made sword than the cut of a finely sewn tunic or the sparkle of a necklace.
The lone candle in the room provided just enough light to illuminate the delicate embroidery on the fold of emerald green fabric in the chest. Anhuset reached inside and pulled it out, shaking the cloth so that it unfurled into one of the court tunics she’d worn on those rare occasions when she’d been summoned to make an appearance before her uncle, King Djedor.
She shrugged. It would do as well as anything else in the chest, and at least she didn’t have to tolerate the contemptuous stares of a herd of useless Kai aristocracy or the malevolent scrutiny of Queen Secmis. The galla had almost wrecked the Kai kingdom, and many had died in the onslaught, but Anhuset didn’t grieve the deaths of the old court, especially its monarchs. She had watched in silent triumph as Brishen, as a Wraith king, destroyed his mother, the queen, once and for all. Good riddance.
After a hasty sponge bath and a futile attempt at taming her hair into something a little more elaborate than a simple plait or queue, she dressed and finally paused to stare at herself in the cloudy mirror she’d bought from an itinerant trader years earlier. She’d ceded the battle to tame her hair and left it loose except for a pair of tiny braids at her temples. The tunic’s color emphasized the silver of her hair, the garment’s cut, her height. A wide leather belt, replete with buckles and metal rings from which to tie sheaths and carry weaponry, circled her waist. Protocol and civility demanded she leave her sword behind in favor of carrying two daggers. Plain black trousers and ankle boots favored by the Kai completed the ensemble.
Anhuset smoothed a hand down the tunic, chasing away non-existent wrinkles. This was as good as it would get. She was no court lady, nor was she a great beauty, and gatherings like these were ordeals to be suffered rather than enjoyed. She attended to please her cousin, nothing more. Still, she fiddled with the tiny braids and adjusted the belt before giving her reflection a dour smile. “Just Anhuset,” she said. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
The bailey was sparsely populated as she made her way to the manor house and the great hall where Brishen planned to host the supper in Serovek’s honor. To avoid being formally announced by the steward, Mesumenes, she skirted the main entrance in favor of the one that took her through the kitchens and down a set of corridors, exchanging quick greetings with servants as they hurried back and forth between the kitchens and the hall. A familiar voice calling her name brought her to an abrupt halt.
“Why the hurry, sha-Anhuset?”
Ignoring the flutters dancing within her ribcage, she schooled her features into an impassive mask before pivoting to face Serovek. She bowed. “Margrave,” she said, congratulating herself on the blandness of her tone.
He strolled closer, his steps light on the stone floor despite the boots he wore. He raised a palm in question. “What? Not Serovek? Or even Lord Pangion?” Laugh lines crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. “We each shared an end of the same sword once.”
At his reference to the time she stabbed him, her back went so stiff, it audibly cracked. The amusement that often graced his features when he spoke to her disappeared at her reaction, and a line creased the space between his black eyebrows as he met her slitted gaze.
“Your humor leaves much to be desired,” she growled before turning her back on him and striding away. The weight of his stunned silence followed her the entire length of the corridor.
Supper lasted an eternity. Brishen had invited a few of his ministers, those whose enclaves bordered the Beladine lands Serovek governed. The discussions at the tables, carried out in Common tongue for the benefit of their guests, revolved around the coming spring planting on either side of the border, reassurances from both Brishen and Serovek that no galla had been seen, the ever-present dangers of those who raided across both territories, stealing livestock or food stores, what neighbors battled over water rights to a particular stream or a communal well. There were inquiries into the infant queen’s health and that of Ildiko, who had stepped into the role of motherhood. No one spoke of abandoned Haradis or the fact the Kai still reeled from the sudden and unexplained loss of magic for every male old enough to grow his first beard or female who’d had her first bleed.
The first was still a raw wound, the
