“But…”
“Do you truly think those two men will challenge me over how I deal with my woman?”
His woman. She liked the sound of that too much. “I thought we were supposed to follow their custom.”
“We are, and we will. But I’ll be happy to point out their idiocy if they’d rather wait and freeze their balls off while you get enough wood for a decent fire.”
He had a point, and he was more familiar with these people than she. “Thank you, Master.”
“We’re alone here, Martise.”
“Thank you, Silhara.”
He nodded his approval and motioned her to follow him. They returned to camp to find Peyan dressing a brace of rabbits for cooking. They soon had a fire going, with the rabbits spitted and roasting over the flame. Mezdar built a small side fire, letting it burn low until the coals glowed. He set a small sheet of metal over the coals and made flat cakes from a grainy mush he’d stirred in a nearby bowl.
Sitting beside Silhara, Martise’s mouth watered. Enjita bread. She’d watched Bendewin make enjita many times in Asher’s kitchens. The servants lined up eagerly, plates in hand when the Kurman woman made her bread.
Silhara leaned closer. “When you drink your tea, place your hand over the cup so that others don’t see you drink.”
“I didn’t see you do that earlier at Neith.”
“Only the women cover their cups.”
Eat last, drink on the sly, don’t speak often. Martise was familiar with some of those strictures in her role as a slave. Being a Kurman woman didn’t seem all that different from what she could tell.
In many ways, their dinner reminded her of the ones at Asher. This one was nothing like the lavish meals Cumbria held for his fellow priests or visiting dignitaries, but she occupied a similar spot. She stayed silent, listened and learned. She might have even gone unnoticed as she had at Asher save for the steady stroke of Silhara’s fingers on the tip of her braid as he conversed, ate and drank tea with his companions. She was grateful they didn’t linger at their meal. The smell of the roasted meat and warm bread had her stomach gnawing on her backbone, and she forced herself to go slowly once she could eat.
Mezdar stoked the fire, and all three men prepared pipes for an evening smoke. She hid a yawn behind her hand and huddled in her shawl. Despite the fire’s warmth, the air had grown chilly. Silhara, at ease in the Kurmans’ company didn’t look up from packing his pipe bowl.
“Find your bed, Martise. I’ll be up for some time. This is bandit country, and we’ll each take a watch. Put your blankets with mine. We’ll stay warmer that way. And keep your shoes on. I’ll join you soon.”
She’d grown used to him curled against her in sleep. Even the light snores purred into her ear comforted her, and there was always the possibility that when he awakened, he’d want her beneath him. Or atop him. Martise blushed at the sensual images playing in her mind.
She prepared their bed as he instructed, crawled under the blankets—with her shoes on—and fell asleep. She woke when Silhara slid beneath the blankets and spooned against her. He laid his arm across her waist and wedged his leg between hers through her heavy skirts. His sigh tickled her ear.
“Far better if you were bare, but this will do.”
They rose before dawn. Peyan, who’d taken the last watch, had already brewed tea and reheated the leftover enjita for their breakfast. The sun was just peeping over the horizon when they set off for the Kurman village.
The air grew colder and thinner as they rode through the mountain passes. The sun was high and bright, but Martise wrapped her shawl tightly around her and pressed against Silhara’s back. Gnat kept a steady pace, breathing harder in the thin air. Unlike him, the mountain ponies suffered no effects from the rising elevation and clipped ahead at a swift pace. Patches of snow spilled from embankments onto the rutted paths. A brisk wind moaned a soft dirge as it whipped through the towering evergreens cloaking the mountainside.
Silhara called a sudden halt. Martise peered around his arm, expecting to see some obstacle in their path. The way was clear, with only the Kurmans watching them curiously.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re quaking hard enough to make my teeth rattle.” He moved his leg back and untied one of the packs strapped to the saddle. “Get down.”
She slid off Gnat’s back. Silhara followed and pulled one of their blankets from the packet. “Here. Wrap this around you.”
She had only pulled the blanket over her shoulders when he picked her up and tossed her onto Gnat’s back once more, this time in the front of the flat saddle. She clutched the horse’s mane with one hand and held on to her blanket with the other. Silhara vaulted up behind her, scooted her back against him and took up the reins.
“Better,” he said and whistled to the waiting Kurmans he was ready.
Martise couldn’t agree more. The blanket’s warmth and Silhara’s body heat soaked through her clothing and into her bones. She leaned into his chest. “This is nice.”
An amused rumble vibrated near her ear. “So glad you approve.” His hand slipped under the blanket, wandered over her belly and cupped her breast. Martise sucked in a breath as his fingers teased her nipple through her shawl and tunic. The heat surrounding her turned scorching. “I agree,” he murmured in her ear. “This is nice.”
He stopped his teasing when she squirmed hard enough in the saddle to nearly unseat them both, but left his hand on her breast, content to just hold her. Martise was ready to toss off the blanket and her shawl. Silhara’s touch had left her with a throbbing ache between her thighs. She smiled a little at the feel of him hard against her back. She wasn’t the only one affected by his teasing.
He rubbed the top of her head with his chin. “There will be a feast tonight. Kurmans look for any reason to have a celebration. Visitors to their camp is as good as any. The men eat separate from the women, so you won’t sit with me.
Again, a separation of not only roles but proximity. “Are Kurman women such pariahs among their own people?”
“Don’t be so quick to judge. It may seem that way to an outsider, but Kurman women are well-respected. They own property independent of their husbands. A man’s dower-gift for a new bride is bought from his mother and given to the bride’s mother. She owns the flocks, the carpets, even the houses. The women also elect the sarsin.”
Martise, stunned by his revelations, twisted in the saddle to look at him. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. They own property?” She didn’t bother to hide her envy. What was eating second compared to having something of your own, not tied to either a father or a husband?”
Silhara’s tone was sardonic. “The plains folk could learn something from these mountain savages, wouldn’t you say?”
She faced forward and stared at the Kurmans riding ahead of them. Even the most elevated aristo woman couldn’t lay claim to land or holdings. Ownership always passed to the closest living male relative. Maybe, she thought, it would be a fine thing to be Kurman.
“Who will serve you since we’ll sit separately?”
“If I were a tribesman, one of my wives would serve. Since I’m a guest, one of the matriarchs will. You’re a guest as well. While a matriarch won’t tend you, you aren’t expected to serve in the festivities.”
“I’m more comfortable with attending, not being attended to.”
Lingering amusement colored his voice. “Spoken like a servant born.” His voice was more guarded when he next spoke. “These are my father’s kinsmen.”
Martise stared down at his hands. They held the reins in a tight grip. “I thought they might be. When I first met you, I wondered if you had Kurman blood in your veins. Will he be here?”
“No. He died while my mother still carried me. His people didn’t even know of me until I’d reached my twentieth season. They came to trade at Neith with my mentor. A few saw the resemblance between us, asked the right questions. Hard to miss the Kurman nose and cheekbones.”
>
She ran her thumb across his knuckles. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged against her back. “It was long ago. You don’t miss what you never knew.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, and she dozed at short intervals, wrapped in a cocoon of blanket and Silhara’s swaying warmth. She was awake when they finally entered the outskirts of the Kurman village. Nestled high in the mountains and surrounded by a sheltering stand of pines, the village sprawled across a flat clearing. Black tents sporting bright banners in shades of red and yellow shared space with more permanent dwellings built of rough stone and roofed with woven branches mixed with sun-dried mud. The roofs were unique, built into a dome shape with a hole in a center from which smoke escaped in lazy spirals.
A few sheep milled about the village’s center, and children competed with dogs to see who could chase squawking chickens the fastest. They were accompanied by parental reprimands from colorfully dressed women tending cooking fires or sitting at looms outside their doorways.
Peyan kicked his pony into a trot and alerted the village of their arrival with a loud “Aiyee!”
As a single entity, the entire village surged forward to greet them. Gnat stood patiently as many hands patted his neck and traced his withers. Silhara dismounted and helped Martise down. He was patted too, and amidst the excited chatter, she heard the word “kurr” several times, an endearment she recognized for “son.”
Like Peyan and Mezdar, the Kurmans were swarthy-complected, darker than Silhara but with the same black hair and eyes. Their faces were broader and the eyes more almond-shaped. Many had the same aquiline nose as his and the same prominent cheekbones, but not his height. Silhara towered over the tallest villager in the crowd.
The women wore similar vests as the men, but their shirts were brighter, and their skirts draped in an array of azure, saffron and scarlet. Their dark hair was arranged in intricate braids and decorated with painted beads. All eyes suddenly focused on her.
Unused to so much attention, she blushed and gave a clumsy bow. At least she didn’t stutter her Kurmanji greeting. “A fair moon above you. I am honored to break bread.”
More chatter followed her greeting, along with a few admiring “ooohs.” One young girl in the crowd exclaimed, “Such a beautiful voice! Do you sing?”
Silhara blanched. Martise tried not to laugh at his horrified expression. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t sing well at all.”
A round of disappointed protests echoed from the crowd, and Silhara gave an audible sigh of relief. He grinned at the indignant frown she shot him.
They were escorted into the heart of the village by the entire population. There was much excited talk about a welcome celebration that night and calls for Silhara to give them news of the plains. A sudden hush descended on the villagers, and the crowd parted.
A stately figure approached them. Garbed much like the other Kurman men in embroidered vest and dun trousers, he stood out amongst the crowd. His tall hat added height to his diminutive frame and sported a ruby the size of a robin’s egg. Life and sun had carved fissures into a dusky face half-obscured by a white beard that touched his knees. Martise was struck by his presence, the quiet power and authority.
Silhara met him half way and bowed low with his hands clasped together as if in prayer. “I am honored, Sarsin.”
The sarsin harrumphed. His dark eyes crinkled at the corner, and his mouth, almost hidden by the beard, turned up in a smile. “Good to have you here, kurr.” He glanced at Martise. “You’ve brought your woman?”
“I have. She serves me well and is fine comfort on a cold night.”
Martise stiffened. She’d done more for Silhara than act as tea pourer and bed warmer. Just as quickly she relaxed. Bendewin had sometimes mentioned the high value placed on a Kurman wife who tended her mate and pleased him between the sheets. While Martise judged her worth by her learning, in Kurman eyes Silhara had just paid her a high compliment.
The two men clasped hands, and the sarsin led him away from the crowd. Silhara spoke to Martise over his shoulder. “Go with the women. They’ll show you the village and take you to the house we’ll share. I’ll see you later this evening.”
Martise watched him go, nervous but determined to make a good impression on his kinsmen. She stood within a circle of women and children who asked her numerous questions. The Kurmanji flew so fast, she had to ask them to repeat themselves. At a lull in the conversation, a Kurman woman with white-streaked hair pushed her way to the front of the crowd.
“That’s enough for now. They’ve traveled far and will want to rest and bathe.” She looked at Martise who nodded enthusiastically.
The dwelling the woman led her to was one of the large stone houses in the village. Martise followed her inside and was instantly awash in warmth. The house was a single large room, lit by the fire dancing merrily in a pit in the center of the floor. Rugs covered the floor, providing soft footing. Rows of jars and chests were pushed against the walls, and several sheep skins made up a bed. Smoke from the fire rose to the ceiling and disappeared through the hole that allowed a column of sunlight to filter down. She stepped over numerous pillows and walked past strings of garlic and dried peppers hung from the rafters.
Her escort pointed at the fire. She spoke in accented Plains instead of Kurmanji. “Someone will return with tea and water for a bath. Have you eaten?”
“Not yet.”
The woman moved around the room, straightening the blankets on the bed and checking the contents of some of the jars. She returned to Martise and appraised her with that same measuring gaze. “I am Dercima, Karduk’s fourth consort. My brother was Silhara’s father.”
Martise hid her surprise with another bow. “I’m Martise of Asher.” She paused. How did she introduce herself? Silhara had already called her his woman, but that was more a claim than an official title. She settled on something applicable to the moment. “I serve Neith.”
Dercima’s gaze was shrewd, and though no taller than Martise, she still managed to look down the length of her nose at her. Martise immediately recognized the expression. “You aren’t what I’d expect from my nephew.”
How many times had she heard similar words in her life? “I surprise people sometimes.”
Dercima’s somber features relaxed with a hint of amusement. “I suspect you surprised him.” She straightened a pillow before walking to the door. “Rest for now. Silhara will return later. My husband will want to talk with him, and Karduk can be long-winded.”
“Does Silhara look like his father?”
Her question made Dercima pause. She turned back. Firelight reflected in her still gaze. “Yes, but Silhara’s eyes are far older than Terlan’s ever were. He’s a harder man, a darker one. You embrace shadow.” She crouched and swept out of the short doorway before Martise could ask her more.
She wasn’t left alone for long. Three young women knocked and entered the house carrying supplies for a bath, a plate heaped with food, a sturdy cauldron of water and a tea kettle. Martise murmured her thanks as they left. Alone in the house, she set the tea and cauldron to heat and helped herself to the food. There were no Kurman here to reprimand her for eating before Silhara returned.
The food was a hash of ground lamb, lentils and peppers. She used the flat enjita bread as a spoon and drank half the kettle of tea to cool the spicy fire of the peppers on her tongue. Afterward, she tested the cauldron’s water, undid her braid and stripped for a quick bath. Outside, the brisk air smelled of snow, but inside the house it was warm, and Martise took her time in soaping and rinsing the dust of the road off her body.
“To be greeted by such a sight each time I walk in a house.”
She spied Silhara at the entrance, an admiring gleam in his dark eyes. Martise lowered her arms to her side and gave him an unobstructed view of her body.
“Raised in a brothel, I’d think such a sight common for you.”
He approached her slowly, his gaze caressing her as he drew clo
se. “True.” He drew a delicate pattern over her bare breasts and midriff. “But you aren’t common, even if you do only have two breasts.”
He coaxed a chuckle out of her, even as he heated her blood with his nearness and his touch. “You’ve spoken with the sarsin?” She gasped and arched when he bent, took her nipple in his mouth and suckled. Martise buried her wet hands in his hair and moaned, uncaring that she was likely soaking the front of his tunic.
Silhara placed a last kiss on the tip of her nipple before stepping away. Light from the fire emphasized the color on his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes blazed. “For now. It’s more a formal greeting than anything. He’ll want to talk again tonight. Karduk is long-winded.”
She giggled. “That’s what your aunt said.”
“You’ve spoken with Dercima? Now there is a woman to challenge a god. She is the fourth of six consorts, and the most powerful in Karduk’s household. She rules them all.”
He spoke of her with fondness and great respect. Martise liked seeing this side of him, a man free of the usual scorn. She dropped the wet cloth on the edge of the cauldron and reached for another to dry herself off. Silhara took the cloth from her.
“No. Finish your bath.”
“But there’s food…”
One black eyebrow arched. “And I’ll eat it while you bathe.”
The look he slanted her seduced her, and she answered his unspoken challenge. In the privacy of the Kurman house, she was not servant, nor was he master. It pleased him simply to watch her. It pleased her to have him do so.
The rest of her bath was slow and languorous. Silhara sat cross-legged against one of the cushions and ate the rest of the food on the plate. She hid her grin when, too distracted by following the path of the wash cloth over her hip, he almost put his hand in the fire instead of on the tea kettle’s handle. She was plain Martise, but in those moments she felt more beautiful and sensual than all the Anyas in the world. She reveled in the decadence of tempting him. He was the sarsin here and she the consort performing for his pleasure.