Martise regretted coming to Neith. Enslaved for most of her life, she’d grown accustomed to her role, but she never lost the yearning to be a free woman, to control her own life and regain that small part of her spirit locked away in a glittering jewel.
At the time she’d made her accord with Cumbria, her purpose was clear, or so she imagined. A small sob lodged in the back of her throat. Betraying Silhara might have been easy at first. Not now. Even without his knowledge of her Gift, she couldn’t turn him over. She might be nothing more to him than a convenient bed mate while she stayed at Neith, but he was far more to her. The rebellious mage, who refused to wear Conclave’s yoke and lived as an outcast pauper for it, had frightened her, mentored her, defended her and saw her as something more than a pair of useful, obedient hands. When he took her to his bed, he might as well have placed Cumbria’s shackles on her wrists. He’d never know she’d fallen in love with him, and she’d leave Neith never saying it aloud. Her freedom wasn’t worth his death.
A tug on her braid made her look up from staring blindly at the ground. The nanny goat chewed contentedly on the end. Martise yanked the braid away and flipped it over her shoulder. “No you don’t, my girl. You’ve already chewed holes in two of Gurn’s blankets. You’ll not be gnawing on me today.”
The air suddenly warped around her, followed by a blast of cold wind from the solaris wood. Cael barked a warning, and the goat bleated and scampered away to take shelter under one of the bailey’s overhangs.
Martise rose from her stool. “What was that?”
Gurn shrugged, looking surprised but unconcerned.
The door to the stillroom flew open, and Silhara strode out, wiping his hands on a cloth. His dark hair was restrained in a tight queue, giving his eyes a more narrow shape.
He peered past the bailey wall. “We have visitors.” Gurn caught the cloth he tossed him. “Gurn, they’ll have their ponies with them. You’ll need to lead them in.”
Martise wanted to ask who “they” were but held her tongue.
Silhara issued more instructions as he headed for the kitchen. “Set a blanket and whatever pillows you can find out in the courtyard. We’ll eat our midday there.” He crooked a finger at Martise. “Come with me.”
Once in the kitchen he pinned her with a curious gaze. “Can you brew a pot of strong tea?”
“Yes, why?”
“Good. Brew several and bring them outside to where Gurn will set up for lunch.” His eyes narrowed. “What do you know of Kurmanji customs?”
Ah, the identity of their visitors.
“A little. Asher’s cook was a Kurman woman.” She ticked off items on her fingers. “Don’t eat with the left hand; be sure to touch your heart when you thank someone, and if you’re a woman don’t meet a man’s gaze directly unless you want him to know you’re interested.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Good. You’re familiar with the important things. Especially the last. These men who visit know the ways of the plains and coastal folk are different from theirs. But I’d rather be cautious. I don’t fancy another fight just to prove you’re mine. And unlike your Balian, Kurmans are very good with their daggers.”
He left her in the kitchen, and she watched him go, stunned and warmed by his comment.
“You’re mine.”
He might only mean it in the sense she was a servant of his household, and he wouldn’t give her up to an amorous tribesman. Nor did she think any challenge would be issued. She wasn’t Anya. Still, she clung to the hope his possessive statement was more primal than practical. Martise chastised herself for entertaining such thoughts. Whatever he meant, it mattered little.
While Gurn was gone, she managed to brew three large pots of black tea, gather several loaves of bread, salted mutton, cheese, olives and oranges. She used the remaining time to race to her room, wash her face and hands and rebraid her hair.
Gurn met her in the kitchen on his return, and between the two of them, they gathered up the food and drink, along with two large blankets and several dusty cushions. Out in the courtyard, she spotted Silhara talking with two men dressed in the typical Kurman garb of dun-colored trousers and shirt, brightened by colorful beaded vests and pointed-toe shoes. They were shorter than Silhara and stocky, with swarthy-complected faces that sported neatly trimmed beards. The hair and eyes were the same, just as black, and they both had the same prominent noses and cheekbones. If Silhara didn’t have some Kurman in him, she’d eat one of her shoes.
The shadow cast by the broken walls offered a wide expanse of cool shade. Gurn laid out the blankets and set the cushions near each other while Martise placed the food in the center and sliced the bread. She watched Silhara with the Kurmans from the corner of her eye. She recognized the older of the men as one she’d seen Silhara talking to in Eastern Prime’s market.
He levered a wrapped parcel off his shoulder and set it on the ground. Carefully pulling back the cloth that bound it, he lifted a crossbow and handed it to Silhara. From her vantage point, Martise saw it was a finely made weapon. Silhara must have ordered one from market to replace the one he lost at Iwehvenn. Likely paid for with the bishop’s money. She smiled at the idea.
Snatches of conversation floated to her on the breeze as she waited with Gurn by the blankets. Bendewin, Asher’s cook, had taught her some Kurmanji. More guttural than the clipped plains speech, Kurmanji was a difficult language to learn and had never been put into script. The two Kurmans spoke with a mix of rapid-fire words and flamboyant hand gestures. Obviously fluent, Silhara answered them with ease.
He broke away from their little knot, carrying the crossbow with him. Gurn eyed it with an admiring gaze.
Silhara handed the bow to the servant. “Beautiful work, isn’t it? When you’re through serving, take it to my chambers. I‘ll test-fire it later. And bring down the huqqah.” His features sobered. “Martise, Gurn will serve the men. You serve me and me alone. And look me in the eye. They’ll know you’re my concubine as well as a servant.”
“As you wish, but I don’t think they’ll notice…” She stopped, surprising herself. She’d never argued with him or questioned his instruction before. A quick glance confirmed he was as surprised as she.
“Well, well,” he said, but didn’t admonish her. “Rank in a Kurman tribe is based on the number of sheep you own, the wives you have and the children you’ve sired. Younger men have to work hard to gain a Kurman wife. Some prefer to pursue one outside the tribe.”
He stepped closer but didn’t touch her. Their visitors observed their interaction with interest. “Don’t underestimate your presence, Martise,” he said in a low voice. “You may have been faceless at Asher. You aren’t at Neith. If at all possible, try not to speak.”
He returned to the men and led them back to the shaded place she and Gurn had prepared for their meal. They sat in a semi-circle against the cushions and broke bread between them. Martise followed Kurman protocol, not meeting anyone’s eyes save Silhara’s. She hovered at his side, pouring tea and filling his plate. She was in her element and had done this very thing for Cumbria dozens of times. Only now, she wasn’t ignored. The Kurmans watched her as she attended their host, and the younger of the men tried to catch her eye.
Martise pretended not to understand when he remarked on her to Silhara.
“Your woman serves you well. She wasn’t here the last time we traded at Neith.”
Silhara popped an olive into his mouth and chewed before answering. “Martise came to Neith in the beginning of summer. Sent by Conclave.”
A surprised silence met his statement before the older Kurman spoke. “You are at peace with the priests then?”
Silhara gave a short laugh. “I am never at peace with the priests. However, we’ve agreed to work together to rid the land of the god. Martise helps me with that. And other things.” He ran his fingers lightly over her calf and handed her his cup for a refill. Both men nodded in recognition of his silent claim. The older one spoke again.
/> “The Brecken Falls still cascade with blood. They are rank with the smell of rotting fish. People are frightened.”
Martise could only imagine the horrific scene he described. Even if the non-Gifted couldn’t see its star, Corruption was making itself known throughout the far lands.
Silhara’s fingers caressed hers as she handed him his full teacup. “It will only grow worse. There are plagues as well, and fertile fields have gone suddenly fallow.”
Quiet reigned as the three men ate and quaffed the black tea. Again the older Kurman spoke. “The sarsin has extended an invitation for you to visit him. He has something for you that might help you in your quest to vanquish the god.”
Silhara’s eyebrows rose in interest. “I’m honored by his invitation. It’s been too long since Karduk and I have shared a smoke.”
Martise tried not to gape at him. Silhara, the hermit, had never before shown any pleasure in visiting with anyone, at Neith or anywhere else. Yet his voice was warm with genuine pleasure, even eagerness, at the idea of visiting this Karduk.
“You can accompany us home today.” The Kurman glanced at Martise. “Bring your woman if you wish, or Karduk will be pleased to offer you one of his concubines for a night or two.”
She prayed her face didn’t betray her thoughts. Silhara was not hers, and despite this little play for the benefit for the Kurmans, she wasn’t his. Still, she hoped he wouldn’t leave her behind and find succor with one of his host’s women.
He didn’t reply either way to the suggestion. “Today is good. I’ll have my servant ready supplies and load my horse.”
They drank the last of the tea and shared a smoke from Silhara’s huqqah. Seated behind Silhara, Martise gave silent thanks when they finished their smoke and he offered to give them a tour of the grove and show them samples of his perfumes. Her stomach rumbled. She was starved. Gurn’s smile revealed he’d heard her belly’s protest.
Just before the three men left for the stillroom, Silhara turned to her. “How much of that did you understand? He asked softly”
“Most of it. I’ll help Gurn with the packing.” She wouldn’t ask if he’d take her. She had some pride.
“Leave Gurn to it. I’ll tell him what’s needed. Pack for yourself, and bring something warm. It’s cold in the Dramorins, even in the height of summer.”
Martise struggled to suppress the pleased smile threatening to curve her lips. “It won’t take me long. I can still help Gurn.”
His gaze touched on her hair, her eyes and her mouth. “You are very good at assuming a role with very little instruction. I think you were more Kurman than some Kurman women at our meal.” A shrewd gleam entered his eyes. “Mezdar and Peyan approved of your attentions to me, and I suspect Peyan may offer me dower-price for you.”
A cold tendril of dread circled Martise’s spine. She didn’t know which of the men was Mezdar or Peyan, and she didn’t care. She stared at Silhara, trying to discern his expression. He could be ruthless when he wanted and showed no hesitation in exercising that trait. But to try and sell her? He couldn’t do it if he wanted, but to stop him, she’d have to reveal her bondage to Cumbria.
Amusement softened his hard features. He ran a finger down her neck. She tilted her head in an unconscious invitation for him to do more. He smiled. “You obviously think more poorly of me than Gurn does.” His touch left hot trails on her skin. “You’re not mine to sell, Martise. And even if you were… well, let’s just say I have no need of sheep or carpets.”
He stepped back abruptly, and Martise stopped short of reaching out to bring him back to her. “Go. You’ve much to do before we leave.”
Flustered by his caress and the words he almost said, Martise bowed formally and turned away to help Gurn clean up the remnants of lunch. She took a few minutes in the kitchen to eat before running upstairs.
She was curious about the Kurmans. A semi-nomadic people, they lived most of the year in the high passes of the Dramorin Mountains, descending down to the plains to trade during harvest season and when the weather grew too harsh in the mountain passes. Asher’s cook had been an exiled Kurman woman, though her outcast status never seemed to bother her. She’d kept those customs that benefited her and discarded those that didn’t. Martise had her to thank for teaching her some of the language.
She folded and stuffed her heaviest tunic and skirts in her satchel, along with her shawl and woolen stockings she hadn’t worn since her first day at Neith. She wished for a heavier wrap and hoped Gurn would pack plenty of blankets.
An odd silence broke her concentration. The endless jabber and screeching of the crows perched in the orange trees had become such a regular facet of life at Neith, she no longer noticed the noise. Now she noticed its absence. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through her open window, and she shielded her eyes from the glare with her hand. At first glance, the grove looked as it did any other day, green and full and basking in the heat. A second closer look, and Martise’s heart leapt into her throat.
The ground ran red with blood. Scarlet rivers flowed down the trunks of the orange trees and pooled at their bases. Meandering streams trickled in curving patterns over the earth, drawing macabre patterns that widened and stretched to the house. It looked as if a massacre had taken place in the grove.
“Bursin’s wings.” She raced out of the room and nearly ran Gurn down as she tore through the kitchen. “Gurn, is Silhara in the stillroom with the Kurmans?”
She was through the door and halfway across the bailey before he could nod. The stillroom was dim and cool, redolent with the scent of orange flower and the tobacco smoke lingering on the men’s clothing.
Silhara eyed her in surprise. She gave a clumsy bow.
“Martise?” His tone was more concerned than annoyed.
“Master,” she nearly panted. “The grove. You’d best come now.”
She flattened against the doorway as Silhara strode past her, face set in grim lines. The Kurmans stared at each other and then at Silhara’s back in surprise. Martise addressed them in slow Kurmanji, careful not to look at either of them directly.
“If you will follow me, I will take you where the master has gone.”
They followed without question. Outside, Silhara and Gurn stood together, surveying the grove weeping blood. Behind Martise, the Kurmans gasped and chattered in Kurmanji. Silhara turned, arms akimbo. A cold fire burned in his narrowed eyes. He addressed the Kurmans through clenched teeth.
“I look forward to seeing what Karduk has so I may destroy this vermin.”
As they crowded back into the hall, Gurn motioned to Silhara. Silhara slammed the door behind him.
“There’s nothing to do about it. The trees are undamaged. The god is simply making his presence known. He’s frightened off the birds, which isn’t a bad thing in itself. Unfortunately, the smell will draw every predator for miles. I’ll lay a spell over the grove to dampen the scent, but keep Cael inside tonight. I don’t want him fighting every scavenger that manages to scale the walls looking for a carcass. Put the livestock in the great hall. We’ll deal with the mess later.”
He ushered the Kurmans through the kitchen to the stillroom, falling back into the guttural mountain tongue to discuss additional trade for his perfumes. Even with the god ravaging the grove, there were still negotiations to be made.
Martise returned to her room to finish packing. Unnerved by the sight and odor wafting off the grove, she lit a lantern and closed the shutters on her view of the bleeding trees. She returned to the bailey and helped Gurn load Gnat with supplies, including Silhara’s new crossbow. Between the two of them, they were ready by the time Silhara wanted to leave.
The grand avenue’s gloom hemmed them in as they trod the path to Neith’s entrance. Martise sympathized with the Kurmans. Like her, they were uneasy beneath the gnarled canopy of Solaris oaks, and constantly peered into the forest for a better look at the sinuous shapes lurking there. She almost heard Silhara’s faint smile when she and the tribe
smen breathed a collective sigh of relief at the end of the road.
Two sturdy ponies with shaggy coats grazed freely nearby. Mezdar or Peyan—she still didn’t know who was who—whistled, and the ponies trotted to where they waited. Next to Gnat, they looked like toys, and she marveled at how easily they carried grown men through winding mountain paths.
They set off for the Dramorins with Martise riding silent behind Silhara on Gnat. She was content to remain quiet and listen to the men talk. She’d spent much of her life in such a role and learned a great deal. Silhara, grim and distracted by the god’s cryptic message in the grove, became more affable as he chatted with the Kurmans. He was familiar with those they spoke of—who was cousin to whom, who fathered another child, whose parent died of some illness, who married a woman from another tribe.
At dusk, they made camp near the base of the mountains. The younger Kurman disappeared into the brush with his quarrels and crossbow. Martise helped Silhara and the remaining Kurman prepare camp. She gathered wood from the surrounding area, and at one point came upon Silhara hobbling Gnat amidst a patch of tender grass shoots.
“Where did the younger one go?”
Silhara peered into the brush. “Peyan? To hunt. If he doesn’t come back with anything, I’ll try my hand at it, but I suspect we’ll eat well tonight.”
She loaded more sticks onto the pile and gasped when Silhara scooped half the firewood out of her arms.
She tried to snatch it back. “Wait! Don’t the Kurman think gathering wood is woman’s work?”
He snagged two more pieces of wood from her load for good measure. “Martise, bearing children is woman’s work. Gurn and I would be sitting in the dark every night if we waited for some wandering female to pick up sticks for us.”