The chain and lock fell away as the gates swung open on a thin scream. Martise stayed close as Cumbria strode into the courtyard. The bishop ignored the servant, but she smiled shyly and nodded as she passed. He grinned in return.
He overtook the bishop, directing them to the part of the manor still intact. They halted in front of an ornately carved door weathered by the elements. A trickle of nervous sweat slid between her breasts.
She stiffened in self-reproach. Images of her spirit stone in Cumbria’s hand flashed in her mind, and she admonished herself. So far they had seen shadows in the wood, a ruined estate and a mute servant. Nothing truly frightening. But she couldn’t rid herself of the tiny voice that said “They are all ruled by a crow wizard, and soon he will rule you as well.”
To her relief, nothing attacked them when they entered the house. Bursin’s wings, when did you become such a coward? She reddened, shamed by her fright. Braver souls were more suited for this work. Again that inner voice taunted her. But few are as motivated.
They moved from an empty vestibule into a more spacious room suffused in muted sunlight. Martise blinked until her eyes adjusted, then gasped at the sight before her.
Lost beneath a shroud of dust, the main hall’s faded grandeur left her breathless. Blackened timbers soared above her head, their beams crossing in a massive spider's web of support for the lofty ceiling. An enormous fireplace stretched across one wall, the mantel and surround carved into the shapes of mythical beasts entwined in eternal combat. This was once a grand place, far larger than Cumbria’s estate–a place built for kings and their fighting champions.
How low the great had sunk. Brittle rushes snapped beneath their feet. The few pieces of furniture stood gray with dirt, and the tapestries bore moth holes. Light filtered through windows caked in layers of grime, creating a false gloaming. Though the walls still stood, the hall was abandoned as surely as the west wing’s battered ruins.
The servant bent, patting a cushioned stool in a coaxing gesture. A cloud of dust swirled into the air. Cumbria's lip curled in disgust.
"No, I don’t want to sit." He gathered his robes around him and took in his surroundings. "No better than a hovel. Why should have I expected more?"
Martise stared at the bishop, shocked by his rudeness. She glanced at the servant and saw his smile fade to a blank, waiting stare. She knew that look—had used it often with her master.
Cumbria frowned and kicked the stool out of his path. "Well," he snapped. “Get on with it, man. I won’t linger at your master's pleasure. Fetch him!"
The servant shrugged before disappearing into a corridor dimly lit by tallow candles in bent sconces. Their flames flickered as he passed.
Cumbria’s voice resonated with loathing. “An insolent servant to an insolent carrion mage. See what happens when you elevate street filth?”
He touched her arm. “Guard your words and remain silent unless he addresses you, Martise. Silhara is fond of entrapment. He possesses a sharp tongue and has eviscerated more than one hapless opponent in a conversation. You’d be no match.”
Martise lowered her head and hid her smile. Cumbria had chosen her for this endeavor because of her abilities, among them the talents for staying silent and unnoticed. His warning amused her and revealed a hint of his unease in the upcoming meeting. How interesting that a man didn’t always admire his own traits in another.
The mute servant reappeared, followed by a slender shadow silhouetted against the hallway’s weak light. Cumbria stood rigid next to her as their host emerged from the shadows. Martise sucked in a sharp breath, enthralled by her first sight of the Master of Crows.
A living flame in the begrimed room, he burned with a cold, still fire. Long scarlet robes swirled around his ankles like bloodied smoke. Taller than most men and lean, he wore his black hair in a tight braid that fell over his shoulder. The severe style accentuated a sun-burnished face neither handsome nor kind but carved from the same rock strewn across the courtyard. His black eyes and aquiline nose reminded her of those Kurman nomads she’d sometimes seen in the markets, selling their rugs and weaponry. Her belly tightened in dread as he gazed at her and Cumbria with sloe-eyed malevolence.
"I see you didn't get lost. A pity. To what do I owe the honor of your august presence, Your Grace? I expected a Conclave minion. Instead I get the High Bishop himself."
His deep voice grated against her ears, broken and harsh, as if he forced the words from a ruined throat. Contempt laced his greeting, and a scornful half-smile curved his lips.
Cumbria’s face froze. The antipathy between the two men swelled in the room, seeping into the walls and floors.
“Still ruler of your squalid little kingdom, Silhara?” Cumbria’s derisive stare raked the servant. “You and your army of one."
Silhara’s rough laughter drifted through the room. "King of Filth, Master of Crows. What will be my title tomorrow, Your Grace? As usual, Conclave can never reach a final decision."
The bishop’s eyes burned. "'Tis a shame they didn't choke the life out of you all those years ago."
In her years of serving Cumbria and the house of Asher, Martise had never seen the patriarch on the edge of losing control. His counsel for silence made more sense now. Even he found it difficult maintaining a level head around the sorcerer.
Silhara’s dark eyes narrowed; his tanned features paled. Cumbria's curious statement had drawn blood.
"'Tis a testimony to the will and longevity of wickedness, Your Grace. It does not go down easily."
Silhara’s hard face suddenly relaxed, and Martise’s instincts buzzed in warning. Mercurial and shrewd, he’d make a deadly adversary. Suddenly the price of her freedom seemed too high, and she wished herself back in the familiar warmth and comfort of the kitchens at home.
Suspicion glittered in that obsidian gaze as he scrutinized her. He addressed Cumbria without looking away from her, and her burgeoning fear of him transformed to instant dislike.
"Never let it be said this emperor cannot be gracious. You have made a long journey. Gurn will bring tea. You can tell me of your trip and the pet you have brought for my entertainment."
CHAPTER THREE
Silhara admired an accomplished liar. He was one himself. The skill was among the few things he could stomach about Cumbria of Asher. So why did the High Bishop of Conclave, a master at fabrication, weave a tale so poorly constructed?
In the comfort of his study his guests drank their tea. The woman, a small, drab creature, perched on the edge of her seat. For an apprentice, she was long in the tooth. Nor did she seem interested in her future teacher. Her gaze traveled the room, resting briefly on the table containing his potions then to the scrolls stacked haphazardly in one corner. Cumbria’s ward? Not likely. This was no poor relation dependent on Asher generosity. Still, Cumbria had selected her as Silhara’s apprentice for a reason, and Silhara never underestimated the wily cleric.
The silence in the room thickened until Cumbria frowned and abandoned any show of enjoying his tea.
“Well? Will she do? You’ve requested an apprentice. I have brought you one. Martise is a good girl, obedient and intelligent. She will serve you well.”
Silhara drummed his fingers on the desk. “I asked for a cleric with a strong back and knowledge of the arcane languages. You bring me your…ward. She has no extended training, no noticeable manifestation of the Gift, no hint of any talent.” He flicked a sharpened quill with thumb and forefinger and watched it roll across a stack of parchment. “My dog is obedient and my servant intelligent. What use will this girl be to me?” He’d expected a spy from Conclave, just not an inept one with no magery.
The bishop stiffened in his chair, “If you wanted a farm hand, you shouldn’t have applied to Conclave,” he snapped. He took a steadying breath. “Martise is a skilled scribe and translator and has the Gift. She was once schooled at Conclave. The mage-finders sense her magic. We have put her in a room crowded with Conclave priests, and the dogs se
ek her first.” He paused, his expression souring. “Despite your reputation as a carrion practitioner, you’re also a sorcerer of renown. The Luminary believes if anyone can make Martise’s Gift manifest, you can.”
Silhara studied his new apprentice. She returned his gaze, her plain features placid. Not likely. He’d deal with a Conclave minion, but not one hand-picked and delivered by his most hated adversary.
“An intriguing puzzle, to be sure, but I have little time for indulging in the vagaries of the Gift’s blessings. I require an apprentice capable of complex translations and simple enchantments that take more of my time than I can now give. Like Conclave, my first priority is defeating Corruption.”
“Is it?” Skepticism peppered Cumbria’s question.
Silhara smirked. He’d wagered with Gurn over whether or not the bishop might reveal his suspicions. “Concerned, Your Grace? Even a carrion mage like me can help in some small way. Or do you represent the entire canonry in your doubts?”
Cumbria’s voice turned sly. “Surely, the god speaks to you, tempts you with all manner of promises, if only you give the loyalty you refuse Conclave?”
Silhara’s amusement evaporated. If Cumbria knew what dreams plagued his slumber at night, what whispering evil seduced him, even in the light of day, Conclave’s unease would turn to outright witch-hunting.
Martise had remained silent since first entering his domain, offering no hint of her character. If he refused her, it would alarm the priests even more.
“Martise of Asher.” He smiled when she stiffened. “His Grace has spoken for you during this entire meeting. Have you no words? Or did you suffer as my servant and have your tongue cut out?”
He followed her gaze to Gurn. The servant gave her an encouraging nod. Silhara might have considered her easily intimidated, save for that calm demeanor.
“No, sir, I’m no mute. It is rude to speak out of turn, is it not?”
He stilled at her question. Bursin’s wings, what generous god blessed this woman with such a voice? Refined and sensual, it possessed a silky quality, as if she physically caressed him.
The contrast between her dulcet tones and bland appearance startled him. Before she spoke, Martise had faded into her surroundings, forgotten. Now she shone, riveting the attention of anyone within hearing distance. He glanced at Cumbria who treated him to a smug smile.
He didn’t like being caught off guard and lashed out. “Far be it from me that I compromise the deportment of a lady. I wouldn’t tempt a well-trained dog into forgetting the commands of ‘Fetch’ and ‘Sit’.”
Her jaw tightened. She dropped her gaze, but not before he saw the sparks of anger in her eyes. Not so docile as one might first believe, yet his new apprentice exercised admirable control over her emotions. Behavior of a long-time servant. Cumbria had indeed brought him a spy.
He rested his elbows on the desk. Negotiations were at hand. “I will take your ward,” he paused for effect, “for three months, no more. If I cannot find what Gift lies within her, I will send her back to you. I have no interest in feeding an additional mouth any longer than necessary.”
Cumbria frowned. “Six months, and I will pay her keep.”
The coins clinked as he placed a small velvet bag atop a stack of parchment. The girl visibly flinched and blushed to the roots of her hair.
“Four,” Silhara said, “And I keep the entire amount.” He hefted the sack in his palm, ignoring the bishop’s derisive smile.
Cumbria stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. “A bargain is struck then. Four months.” He wasted no time taking his leave, his concern for his ward now a thing of the past.
Martise rose stiffly from her chair and faced Cumbria.
Silhara stood as well and leaned against the edge of his desk. The bishop frowned at his informality. Silhara raised an eyebrow. “You are High Bishop of Conclave. I’ve sworn no allegiance to Conclave, Your Grace. You are nothing more than a mage like me.”
Martise stepped back in alarm at Cumbria’s murderous expression. Thin lines of crimson light coiled around his twitching fingers.
“Never compare yourself to me, crow wizard!” His face was skeletal in the fading light, hatred blackening his gray eyes.
Silhara waited, his hands and arms tingling with defensive magic. Do it, old man, he thought. Give me a reason, so I may blast you into oblivion.
Cumbria took a deep breath and raised his chin in haughty dismissal before turning his back and striding to the door.
Silhara couldn’t resist goading him a final time. “Have you no farewell for your beloved ward, Your Grace?”
The question halted the High Bishop. He returned to Martise, grasped her hand in a courtly gesture and bowed stiffly.
“Good fortune favor you, Martise.”
The statement’s fervor surprised Silhara, but it was Martise’s reaction that fascinated him most.
Her hand jerked in the bishop’s grip, and her thin smile wavered. “A fair moon above you, Mas... Sir.”
Her eyes widened at her blunder, and Cumbria winced. Silhara smirked.
Cumbria glared at him. “I take my leave of you. You will keep Conclave abreast of any changes in the Corruption’s actions? The Luminary feels he can trust you, though I cannot fathom why.”
Silhara shrugged. “My honest face, perhaps?”
The bishop sneered and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Gurn tried following, but Silhara stopped him.
“Don’t bother. He’ll find his way and won’t appreciate your guidance. He is, after all, the High Bishop of Conclave. He can take care of himself.”
Gurn shrugged and pointed at Martise, who stared longingly at the door. Silhara strolled around the desk, skirting the chairs and a pile of scrolls, until he stood in front of the girl. She met his eyes, her features serene.
Clearly, Cumbria had not chosen her as a means of seducing him into revealing some heresy. No beauty by the kindest standard, she reminded him of a peahen, lackluster and brown. Her clothing was good quality but ill-fitting, as if borrowed, and hung on her small body like empty grain sacks. Wisps of dull russet hair framed a pale face. Her eyes were interesting–the color of new copper and framed by dark lashes, but they didn’t save her looks. Overall, she was a drab creature, one who went unnoticed and unremarked in a crowd.
Her voice was another matter. Capable of lulling wyverns to sleep and calling men to worship, it bewitched him. The striking disparity between her voice and plain features was intriguing. Did her Gift lie somewhere in the sultry cadence of her words? As soon as he questioned it, he abandoned the notion. Such a talent was too obvious. Martise of Asher—ward, servant, informant—possessed the Gift. What made her magic manifest, no one knew–yet.
“Why are you here?”
“You asked for me, Master.”
A coiling heat wrapped around his body, and he fought closing his eyes in the sheer pleasure of hearing those melodic tones.
“Master. That address comes to you easily, as if you have used it your entire life.”
His point struck home. A hint of unease drifted across her face before falling behind that passive mask.
“Would you prefer something else?”
“No.” He signaled to Gurn. “No need to invoke impropriety here.”
He opened the door. “Gurn will see you to your chambers. You’ll have your supper there.”
What a shame if he were forced to murder her to protect himself. The world would be a lesser place deprived of such a stunning voice. A long-suffering look settled over her face, as if she tolerated him through sheer force of will. He frowned.
“Take your rest early tonight. We rise with the sun. You’ll start earning your keep, and I’ll introduce you to Cael. I am curious what you will think of our other denizen here. He ignored Gurn’s disapproving scowl. “Good evening.”
He closed the door and made his way through the shadowed passages that took him deeper into the manor. A stairway, twin to the
exposed and shattered one in the west wing, wound upward into darkness. Silhara climbed, surefooted, and gestured once. Witchfire lit the torches and sent shadows scuttling across the walls toward his chambers.
His door swung open on squeaking hinges. Gurn had left the window to the balcony open. A cool evening wind swirled inside and relieved the day’s oppressive heat. The bed was made, the pitcher on the bedside table refilled, the huqqah prepared for his evening smoke. Silhara lived sparingly, but was grateful for the mute servant. The man was worth more than all of Neith.
He shrugged out of the stifling scarlet robes, leaving on the simple white shirt and dark trousers he favored.
A pair of tongs lay on his worktable, and he used them to stir the glowing coals in the brazier near the cold hearth. Tiny sparks flew upward as he selected a coal sliver for the huqqah bowl.
Soon, the heady scent of matal tobacco and citrus filled his nostrils. The water bowl’s rhythmic bubbling and the whisper of wind through the trees outside were the only disturbances to the room’s hush. Smoke swirled in spectral patterns around his head while he stared out the window and drew on the pipe.
The view from his bedroom was vastly different from the one greeting the rare visitor to Neith. Rows of orange trees, heavy with ripened fruit, cut the land in neat tracks, stretching to the confines of a stone fence. Lethal enchantments protected the grove from intruders. More than once he and Gurn had recovered and buried a hapless thief who’d scaled the walls and met his death.
Beyond the grove, the flat plain flowed into an endless twilight, and Corruption’s star brightened as the sky darkened.
Bluish smoke streamed from Silhara’s mouth as he indulged in the matal and studied the horizon. Though the god drew no closer across the southern borders, he sensed its nearness, an invisible gaze avaricious and feral.
He caught a flicker of movement in the grove. A ghostly shape glided in the dark, vanishing and reappearing as it sped toward the house. A droning sound accompanied the specter, like the swarm of locusts. Silhara dropped the huqqah hose and strode to the balcony for a better view. The hairs at his nape rose.