Tionfa accompanied him to the inner portcullis and gave the signal to have it raised, then lowered again once Serovek walked under it to stand before the outer portcullis. He nodded once to the waiting troop commander who nodded back in recognition of a peaceful surrender of a prisoner. Serovek didn't look back when the outer portcullis struck the ground with a bang and rattle of chains.
Two more soldiers joined their leader, each one reining their mounts on either side of him. One led another saddled horse behind him. The commander dismounted to meet Serovek halfway. He saluted, surprising Serovek with the gesture of respect. “Lord Pangion,” he said. “I'm Captain Ratik. I served at High Salure for a season when I first joined the army.”
A young captain, maybe a dozen years Serovek's junior with a familiar face under his helmet. He searched his memory for a green recruit newly arrived at High Salure and found what he was looking for. “I remember you. Your sister married Lord Canotkin's youngest son.”
Ratik cracked a smile until he remembered his duty and whom he addressed. “She did,” he said in a solemn voice. “Very good memory, my lord.”
One of the things Serovek had learned early in his years as a military leader was the importance of remembering faces, names, and some small personal detail tied to them. These were men who rode into battle together, sometimes died together, and defended each other. They followed the orders of a superior, most of the time unquestioning, and to Serovek's way of thinking they deserved some recognition from that superior that they were more than just a sword or a spear or blood to be spilled in pursuit of an objective. That philosophy had earned him a fierce loyalty among the men who served High Salure. His thoughts turned briefly to the treacherous Ogran. There were exceptions.
At Ratik's gesture, the soldier holding the irons came forward and stopped when Ratik held up his hand a second time. “Give them to me.” Once he held them, he stared at Serovek with a resolute expression, as if he was about to do something unpleasant or against a personal code. “Will I need these?”
Serovek had no intention of trying to escape. There was much more at stake here than his freedom. If that's all it was, he would have sneaked out with Anhuset and Erostis. But the manacles were more than just devices of restraint, they were a symbol, and he had no doubt Rodan expected him to ride to the capital and be presented to his king wearing them. “Probably,” he said.
The captain sighed, nodded, and clapped the manacles on his wrists. “You understand my opinion of this means nothing. I'm doing my duty.”
“As a Beladine margrave, I expect no less from any Beladine soldier.”
Once he was mounted on the borrowed horse, the troop turned as one and galloped back the way they came. Serovek glanced over his shoulder to see Tionfa once more on the battlements, a hand raised in farewell.
Their journey to the capital took four days through mountainous terrain and paths still knee-deep in snow in places. Serovek calculated their travel time against his trek to the Jeden Order and guessed his perfidious steward had sent a message to the king before Serovek was barely past the gates of High Salure. He'd hedged his bets on getting rid of his liege through a murder pact with Chamtivos, and if Serovek survived, then he'd exploit the king's suspicions about Serovek and turn Rodan against him. He hoped once they reached Timsiora, he'd find Bryzant there so he could kill him.
Unlike his imprisonment under Chamtivos, his only hardships were the annoying manacles, the watchful eyes of his escorts at all times of the day and night, and a horse whose trot threatened to shake his teeth loose no matter how much he adjusted his seat to the animal's gait. Ratik and his troop were respectful to him the entire time, some even deferential. He ate what they ate and slept on the ground as they did, huddled in blankets. Sometimes he slept; other times he stared up at the night sky, worried for Anhuset and Erostis, worried about those at High Salure. Had Rodan sent more of his army to wrest control of the fortress from the High Salure troop? Gods forbid there had been any fighting. He prayed not. His reason told him he didn't have to fear for Anhuset or Erostis. Neither was a wilting flower. Still, he hoped they'd made it to Saggara without mishap and Magas with them.
They reached Timsiora at midday when the streets were packed with foot traffic as well as carts and other assorted livestock. The crowds parted for Ratik and his men, and several people who watched them as they passed exclaimed in shock, and even outrage at the sight of Lord Pangion, margrave of High Salure, hero in the galla war, once a Wraith king, manacled and escorted as a prisoner to the palace.
“I don't believe it,” he overheard one man say. “I hear his fortress is finer than the royal palace.”
“I believe it,” another said. “Why stop at governor when you can become king?”
Serovek winced inside at the reactions. This would only make things worse for him. No doubt there was a spy at every corner who'd report back to the king about the crowd's response and fuel Rodan's belief that he had a potential usurper on his hands.
Ratik turned him over to a troop of palace guards. He and his men all bowed from their saddles and saluted. Ratik even offered a sign that Serovek recognized as a blessing of the creator god Yalda. “May the sun
