Master of Crows

  Gurn smiled and patted her on the shoulder then followed Silhara, shutting the door behind him.

  Martise placed her shawl on the chest and sat on the edge of the bed with a dejected sigh. Cael, eyes still glowing red, padded over to her and plopped down on the floor. She leaned down to scratch behind his ears.

  “Bursin’s wings, you smell foul, but I’m glad you’re here.”

  She lay down and counted the cracks in the ceiling. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. Idiot. None to blame for her foolishness save her. Swayed by her treacherous Gift, she’d believed Silhara desired her as she did him. At least he was honest in his rejection, unlike her last lover. That thought didn’t lessen the pain or the humiliation.

  She touched her face, running her fingers over her nose, her mouth, the curve of her chin. She thought of Cumbria. “You chose well. He’d never suspect seduction from a woman like me.” She laughed, the sound bitter in the green half-dark.

  She woke again at dawn, bleary-eyed and sluggish, and rolled out of bed. Cael left her to complete her morning ablutions. When Gurn met her in the kitchen and signed they’d breakfast on the way to Eastern Prime, she barely managed a muttered “Good morning.”

  They found Silhara in the grove hooking Gnat to his traces. The back of the wagon was stacked with crates of oranges, leaving only a small space for a person to sit behind the seat.

  He caught her gaze. The hot blush rising up her neck and face made her cringe. One eyebrow rose, but he didn’t mock her. “When we arrive, you’ll stay with Gurn while I bargain with the merchants.” He patted Gnat and walked around the side of the cart to where she stood. “Don’t wander off alone. We’ll be away from the docks, but whoremasters don’t confine their hunting to the wharves. Don’t assume you’ll be overlooked. I’d notice you, Martise. Others will too.”

  A small flame of hope flickered to life then died as his gaze raked her. “Those clothes are nothing more than rags now. When we’re there, I’ll give you a few coins. You can buy cloth to make yourself something that doesn’t look like the crows have been at it.”

  She curled her hands into fists at his scathing tone. The snide bastard who’d greeted her and Cumbria when they first arrived at Neith had returned in all his full, arrogant glory. Even Gurn paused in loading their meal onto the wagon seat to frown at Silhara.

  She clenched her teeth and forgot all caution. “Is it not better to blend into your surroundings?” She swept a hand toward the manor house.

  Gurn snorted, and Silhara’s eyes narrowed. For one moment a gleam of admiration shown in his gaze. It vanished just as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the familiar mocking smile.

  “I will enjoy returning you to Cumbria. I think the High Bishop will be…surprised by his beloved ward.”

  He said nothing more to her, only ordered Cael back to the house. Gurn helped her onto the wagon seat then took his place beside her as driver. The wagon rocked when Silhara leapt into the back and found a seat in the clear space surrounded by orange crates.

  He draped his arms over his bent knees and leaned his head back against the side boards. A ripple of air surrounded him before disappearing. He closed his eyes, cushioned by a spell that protected him from the wagon’s rough ride. Martise watched him from the corner of her eye. She turned away when he opened one eye and cast a baleful glare on Gurn. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re planning to hit every rut and hole in the road just to vex me.”

  Gurn looked skyward, whistling. Martise, despite her melancholy, hid a chuckle behind her hand.

  They kept to well-traveled paths, following the roads leading to the coast and the sprawling city of Eastern Prime. Gurn pointed out markers of interest. An outcropping of black rock that erupted from the plain in jagged tips, a circle of standing stones with the remnants of a fresh fire pit in its center, the steep, grass-covered slope of Ferrin’s Tor—holy ground where an ancient Conclave gathered and defeated Corruption more than a thousand years earlier. The hill, now peaceful grazing land for sheep, slumbered in the rising heat. Martise suspected no one outside the priesthood remembered the great event that once took place there.

  Gurn pointed north and tapped himself on the chest. A faint homesickness darkened his blue eyes.

  “You grew up in the north?”

  He nodded.

  Interesting. Gurn had been friendly with her from the moment she’d passed through the courtyard gates, but she knew nothing of his past; if he had a family somewhere, how he’d ended up at Neith, even his age.

  “You’re far from home, Gurn. How long have you served at Neith?”

  He wrapped the reins in one hand and held up the other, showing five fingers first and then three. Eight years. In terms of servitude, eight years wasn’t a long span. How two such different individuals met and managed to live together in relative harmony baffled her. Silhara, often taciturn and unfriendly, wasn’t the type to seek company. Gurn, while helpful and solicitous of Silhara, never exhibited subservient behavior. The two men acted as friends and equals more than master and servant. Were Silhara not snoring lightly behind them, she might be tempted to ask how Gurn came to serve at Neith.

  Gurn glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping mage. Martise did the same. Silhara’s snoring halted, and this time he opened both eyes.

  “Gurn and I shared a prison cell once.” His lips twitched. “For crimes best left undisclosed. I went free with the help of a few threats and well-placed bribes to the local magistrate. Gurn awaited execution. I needed a servant. He needed to live. I bought him from his slaver and set him free. He’s been with me ever since.”

  Stunned by his revelation, Martise stared at him and then at Gurn. The giant winked and flicked the reins to coax Gnat into a faster clip.

  Silhara had saved Gurn, freed him for no other reason than he could. Her thoughts reeled. Every sense of morality, of redemption and fairness, railed within her. How could she sacrifice this man to gain her own freedom? How could she not?

  She sat quietly, lost in thought until Gurn handed her one of the honey cakes he prepared for their breakfast. Though he no longer had a tongue, he could still hum. She recognized the tune from her childhood, a tribal chant Asher’s Kurman cook sang when she kneaded dough. The memory made her smile.

  Bendewin’s sunlit kitchen was much like Gurn’s but swarming with undercooks. Scents of baking bread and bubbling stews, servants arguing or laughing, and above the din, Bendewin’s singsong chanting as she worked.

  Her lids grew heavy. Lulled by the repetitive tune and Gnat’s steady gait, she leaned against Gurn’s arm and dozed.

  A hard lurch woke her, and she straightened. Gurn smiled and patted her on the shoulder before leaping down from the seat.

  “What’s wrong? Why are we stopping?”

  “Because Gurn has had his bollocks knocked around for hours now and needs to piss.” Silhara vaulted onto the vacated seat.

  Less startled by his blunt remark than by his sudden appearance next to her, she flushed. “Oh.”

  “You might want to do the same. We’ll wait for you.”

  She took his advice and clambered down from the wagon seat. When she returned, Silhara still sat in Gurn’s spot. The servant smiled and passed her to crawl into the back of the wagon.

  “Are you intending to grow roots standing there, or are you climbing up?” Silhara gestured impatiently, and she clambered onto the seat. He snapped the reins and clucked at Gnat.

  The silence between them grew awkward, unlike the silence between her and Gurn. Martise perched at the far edge of the seat, keeping a death grip on the hand-hold so she didn’t fall off. Silhara’s gaze mocked her.

  “Is it much farther?” She wanted to ask Gurn if she might join him in the back of the wagon.

  “Another hour or so.” He was far calmer around her than she was around him, especially after last night’s disastrous escapade. “Any more visits from our celestial friend last night?”

  This was something she could
discuss without overheating from another blush. “Thank Bursin, no. And I hope to never have such a visit in my lifetime again. The lich was more than enough.”

  “Corruption is, in some ways, like the lich.

  A lock of hair tore free of her braid and blew across her face. She tucked it behind her ear. “We studied Corruption during my second year at Conclave. The Great Deceiver. A lesser god yoked to the world by its dependence on mankind for ultimate power. It’s written it awaited the rebirth of the avatar, even during its imprisonment.”

  He didn’t show it, but she sensed the sudden tension in his posture. “The avatar has been born numerous times. And died never knowing his or her role in Corruption’s plan.”

  Conclave had always hunted the avatar. Of the many generations that passed since Corruption’s banishment, the priests had located the avatar four times, and dispatched each with merciless efficiency. Any others born as a vessel to the god had escaped the priesthood’s death sentence. None had risen to a fabled seat of power with the god’s help.

  Circumstances had changed. Corruption, free of the sorcerous bonds place on it so long ago, sought the avatar with the same zeal as Conclave. The High Bishop suspected Silhara fit the role. Martise had her own suspicions and understood why Cumbria felt as he did. Powerful, outcast and intractable, Silhara bore a deep-seated personal hatred for Cumbria and a more general one for Conclave. He’d made no secret of it. If he was the avatar, then Corruption didn’t have far to search and Conclave had a disaster on its hands.

  “Do you think the avatar is reborn?” She regretted the question when he turned a malevolent stare on her.

  His rough voice softened, quiet menace in each word. “No. Did you find anything in those papers we took to indicate otherwise?”

  She thanked the gods she didn’t have to lie, especially when the mage bore holes into her head with that black gaze. “Nothing beyond more description of the ritual.” Her voice remained even. “The southern king, Birdixan, sacrificed himself to destroy Amunsa. He was the strongest of the mage-kings gathered there. He had a pivotal role.”

  “I’ll look at your notes when we return to Neith.” He frowned and turned his attention back to the road. She swallowed, relieved. “If you translated correctly, those writings are troubling. The southern provinces were barely civilized during that age, and none were ruled by kings. Unless you were taught from books I never saw, Conclave has no record of a Birdixan ruling any of the far lands. Even if they knew nothing of ancient Amunsa and his destruction, there would have been a record of a southern king who met his death in the north”

  They reached Eastern Prime, still trying to decipher the meaning behind the translation of the early Helenese writings. Martise stretched, rubbing at the nagging pain in her lower back. The air smelled of the sea, and she heard the beat of the surf against the shore in the distance.

  Sprawled over the tops of windswept cliffs and scattered down to the harbor, Eastern Prime bustled and stank in the morning sun. Ships of every size and make festooned the water, some moored at the quays, others riding the waves with their sails partially unfurled as they sailed sedately into the bay. Ramshackle huts clung to the cliff face and lined the serpentine alleyways that snaked away from the docks. Temples and mansions of rose marble shone like polished jewels from their perches atop the highest cliffs, surrounded by sculpted gardens and pristine lawns.

  Silhara guided Gnat through the narrow streets with expert ease. People leapt out of their way, intimidated by his grim expression and Gurn’s imposing height as he stood in the back of the wagon. The main road descended gradually toward the shore and dead-ended at an open field covered from boundary to boundary by tents, stalls, and milling crowds.

  Silhara had to shout so Gurn could hear them over the din in the marketplace. “Get down. Take Martise and secure a room at an inn where I won’t have to battle rats to get some sleep. I’ll drive the wagon to Fors’ stall. He’ll be waiting to skive me for this harvest. I’ll meet you in the common area.”

  He dug in the pouch at his waist and passed Gurn a handful of coins. Martise climbed down from the wagon and waited next to Gurn. She hoped the inn he chose had a stable. She could sleep in a protected corner where no one noticed or accosted her.

  As if he read her thoughts, Silhara leaned across the seat. “You’ll share the room with me and Gurn, Martise.”

  Any lingering embarrassment was forgotten, born away by gratitude. Martise grinned at him, uncaring that he drew back from her as if her happiness might be contagious. “Thank you, Master.”

  He frowned. “Don’t leave Gurn’s side. I won’t fight a pack of whoremongers to save one careless woman if you go off on your own.” He slapped the reins against Gnat’s haunches. “And buy some decent cloth.” The wagon rolled past them, wheels creaking as they rolled on the rutted paths toward the market.

  In short order, she and Gurn secured a room, a meal and three pallets for the night. Just as quickly, they returned to the market. By the time they reached the outskirts, Martise was tired, sweaty and thirsty from jogging after Gurn. She promptly forgot such small annoyances amidst the controlled chaos and color of Eastern Prime’s thriving market.

  Everything from grain and weaponry to birds and fruit were hawked in the various stalls. One merchant nearly deafened her with his enthusiastic pitch about the exquisiteness of his silks and cottons imported from the Glimmer lands. Colorful parrots squawked in cages hung on poles while food merchants roasted mutton over open pits behind their stalls and sold it by the slice with a stack of warm flatbread. The mouthwatering smell of charred meat mixed with the less pleasant odor of unwashed bodies and fish. Cutpurses flitted like shadow through the crowds along with scrawny, nimble-fingered pickpockets. Beggars shared muddy paths with scantily garbed hourin, each hoping to earn a coin through pity or lust.

  Gurn kept a firm grip on her arm. Martise hoped he knew their end destination because she was soon lost, unable to see or navigate a way to the market’s boundaries. Luckily, his size cleared a path wherever they went, and they soon emerged into a quieter part of the market.

  The giant grinned at her and signed “Thank the gods!” He mimicked the act of drinking from a flask.

  Parched from the long trip and just happy to stand in a spot where the crowd didn’t crush her, Martise accepted his offer with gusto. “Oh yes. Anything, Gurn. I have a mouth full of sand.”

  He led her to a canopied stall selling melons and fruit drinks. The vendor recognized Gurn and welcomed him with a smile. “Gurn, I wondered what happened to you. I expected to see you last week.” He winked at Martise and bowed.

  She took the lead from Gurn. “Might we purchase two of your drinks?”

  The merchant jumped to fulfill their order, crushing the melon in a bowl until it resembled nothing more than a pink slurry. He added honey and wine to the concoction and poured it into wooden goblets. Sweet and refreshing, the beverage cooled her parched throat.

  As Gurn led her back toward the chaos of the market’s central hub, she caught a brief glimpse of scarlet robes. The crowd parted just enough for her to see Silhara standing at the edge of a stall that sold brightly colored silks, stacks of woven carpets and crossbows. Engrossed in conversation with two men, he didn’t notice her. Kurman tribesmen, from their clothing and stance. Black-haired and shorter than the coastal peoples, they wore the full trousers, vests and pointed shoes typical of the mountain nomads. Too far away to hear their conversation, she watched them conversed with Silhara in a mix of dramatic hand motions and sharp exclamations.

  She lost sight of them when Gurn pulled her through the throng toward another stall displaying crocks and jars of various sizes. He released her once they were inside the booth and motioned to the merchant. Martise stood by and watched, fascinated, as Gurn haggled in a combination of hand signals, grunts and verbal prompts from the seller.

  A tap on her shoulder made her jump. She whirled, nearly colliding with the person standing so close t
o her.

  “Martise! We meet again.”

  If the ground suddenly opened up at her feet, she would have stepped willingly into the chasm. The man smiling at her was breathtaking, handsome enough to stop women and men in their tracks for a second look. Thick blond hair grazed his muscular shoulders. The eyes gazing back at her were heavily lashed—bluer than a mountain lake and shallower than a rain puddle. He had a sculpted face of unlined perfection, as if the deities who created him chose one moment to bless a human with godlike beauty.

  Eight years earlier, he’d been a dream come to life, a surprising gift to a young woman whose station and appearance barred her from the chance at such things as love and the companionship of a mate. But dreams faded before reality. She’d aged since then, grown wiser and discovered the vain, hollow man behind the stunning visage.

  “Hello, Balian.”

  Her cool greeting became a squeak when he lifted her and crushed her in an enthusiastic embrace. Still reeling from the unexpected clasp, she squeaked again when Gurn almost broke both of Balian’s arms wresting her from him.

  Flustered by the sudden attack, Balian mouthed a foul insult, then paled when he got a good look at Martise’s rescuer. “Ah, forgive me. I didn’t realize you were here with your man.”

  She was tempted to let his assumption stand. Faced with Gurn’s obvious protective stance and warning glare, Balian would make short work of reacquainting himself with her and disappear into the crowd. Handsome, yes. Brave, no.

  Still, curiosity trumped practicality. The man who’d introduced her to the carnal pleasures of the flesh and spouted lies of faith and adoration in her ear had not risen much from his original station. Once a stable hand at Asher, Balian had big dreams of setting out and making his fortune. His clothing, as worn as hers, revealed he hadn’t succeeded in that quest.

  “Gurn is a friend.” She touched the giant’s arm. “It’s all right, Gurn. I know him.”

  Gurn hesitated, then slowly backed away, just enough to give her privacy but still close enough defend her if necessary.