She snorted. “Either you think me more bloodthirsty than I am or more skilled than I am. Remember, margrave, he was once an Ilinfan swordmaster, and we're only sparring. Maybe you should ask him to show me mercy.”
“A swordmaster old enough to be your father.” He held up a hand to forestall her argument. “I know age isn't the limitation many foolishly assume. I've seen enough grandfathers wipe the floor with an upstart pup with more brawn than sense. It happened to me when I was younger and had my arse handed to me by a man more than twice my age at the time. But you're a Kai. He'll have a challenge on his hands.”
“So will I.” Like him, she'd seen an older, more experienced warrior take down a younger, stronger, more foolish one. She looked forward to this sparring session. “You worry for nothing,” she said, slipping her hand into his where they were hidden by the folds of their cloaks.
“The monks obviously know we're intimate,” he said. “And there's no one else here but us, them, and Erostis who, by the way, recently informed me he'd won a bet with another liegeman regarding our relationship.” Her eyebrows snapped together in a scowl. “You're a soldier, Anhuset,” he said with a half smile. “You know soldiers wager on anything and everything.” Her disapproving “hmpf” only widened his smile. “As I was saying, all here know we're lovers. No one will care or use it against us if I kiss your hand.”
That was true, and she surprised him when she lifted their clasped hands and kissed each of his knuckles. His gaze rested on her, a soft, living thing, and caressed her as lovingly as his hands. Those deep-water blue eyes blazed from within, brightened by the fire she'd kindled there. “Or if I kiss yours,” she said and winked at him.
She would miss this banter when they left. She couldn't help but wonder what might happen when they parted company and returned to their respective homes. Until now, her lovers had been brief connections without commitment or even interest beyond a night or a week. Anhuset refused to lie to herself. She wanted much more than a week with the margrave of High Salure.
He'd punched through every barrier she put in front of him, broken down every wall. It was hard to remember she once thought him ugly. He still annoyed her at times, usually right before he made her laugh. Her respect for him equaled that which she had for Brishen, a near impossible feat by her standards. He was good company in or out of bed, and the hours she'd spent with him during this journey, and especially in the monastery, had flown by. Never in her life had she imagined she'd fall in love with a brash human with his strange, laughing blue eyes and stout heart. She closed her eyes against the terror of that realization.
A distant thunder rumbled, not above them but below. Serovek's voice held a wary note. “That can't be good.”
Anhuset opened her eyes to the sight of a large company of armored cavalry riding toward them, easily numbering a hundred or more. They galloped across the valley's flat expanse, carrying with them a flag sporting a gryphon devouring a snake. The banner of the kingdom of Belawat. She glanced at Serovek. “Why isn't this good?
“Because a visit from the Beladine army never is. Those are King Rodan's troops, and a company that size isn't here for a social or diplomatic visit.”
His response was punctuated by the sound of bells, either rung as a signal or a warning. It was soon followed by running feet as monks raced down the corridor behind them.
He backed away from the balcony. Anhuset followed. They joined the crowd of monks running the length of the hallway to disappear down the stairwells. Some were fully armored, others partially so. All carried weapons. This indeed was not a social visit.
The outer portcullis at the single entry gate to the monastery slammed down with a bang. The inner portcullis followed. Anhuset glimpsed it all as she sped by slotted windows and murder holes on her way to her chamber.
The monks had recovered most of her armament when they dismantled Chamtivos's camp and took his followers prisoner. As many times as she'd donned her gear by herself, she didn't need a squire or page to help her and was soon dressed in full harness with her sword strapped to her hip. Serovek met her in the hallway, likewise attired.
“Why do you think they've come?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Who knows? But relations between the Jeden Order and King Rodan have always been delicate, and Rodan is an mercurial sort. It may well be he woke up one morning recently, decided the Nazim were indeed heretics and sent his army to arrest them.”
Disbelief made her sputter. “A hundred men? Trying to arrest a near equal number of fighting monks who can wield magic and protected in a fortress like this? That doesn't make any sense.”
His grim expression turned even grimmer. “No, it doesn't.”
Before he could say anything else, the abbot himself came striding toward them, bedecked in armor as well, an arming sword belted on either side of his hips. Anhuset had no doubt his skill with both was unmatched by any of Rodan's soldiers fast approaching the monastery.
He addressed Serovek first. “If they've come for the Order, don't linger. Your horses are waiting in the stables. Someone is saddling them as we speak. There's a rear gate big enough for a pony cart to get through and leads directly into the woods. No one can see it from the path leading to the main gate. You'll be gone before the fighting starts.”
“You have our sword arms if you wish them,” Serovek said.
