Master of Crows

  His features tensed as she ran the drying cloth up the inside of her thigh, almost to her cunnus. He tossed his empty teacup aside and reached for her, wrapping a hand around her calf. Martise dropped the cloth and waited. He stood swiftly, resting his hands on her hips.

  She played with the lacings on his tunic. “Do Kurman women bathe their men?”

  Callused hands stroked a path from her hips to her waist, to the outer curve of her breasts. “Sometimes. A man’s consort may choose to do so. The privilege of marriage.” Silhara’s smile was puzzled.

  One of the laces unfurled between her fingers. “I want to bathe you.”

  He lost the smile. “Why?”

  Such a guarded man despite his bluntness. Her heart ached within her chest, even as her body burned with desire. She would grieve him when she left Neith. One fingertip followed the arched bridge of his nose. “Because you are a pleasure to touch, a pleasure to look upon. A man who does this…” She placed his hand on her breast, let him feel the sensitive peak of her nipple. “And this…” She guided that same hand between her legs and opened her thighs so that his fingers slipped into the dampness there.

  Silhara’s eyes closed, and he groaned. Those wondrous fingers worked their own magic on her, sliding into her to stroke and tease. His tongue mimicked his fingers as he tilted her head back and kissed her.

  For several minutes, Martise was lost to his touch before she regained her thoughts and pushed his hand away. Silhara growled in protest but didn’t stop her. They were both short of breath. “I do not ask for much,” she panted.

  His gaze stripped her to her soul. “You ask for everything.” He continued to stare at her, shadows swirling within the depths of his eyes. His shoulders lifted in a deep breath. “As you wish.”

  Euphoria entwined with desire. Martise divested him of his garments, casting them aside with such enthusiasm, he laughed. She paused when he stood nude before her, clothed only in the flickering light of the hearth’s low flame. Burnished skin that paled below the slim waist, wide shoulders and long legs. He was beautiful, and her fingers tingled in eagerness to pay homage to that masculine beauty.

  The remaining water in the cauldron was still warm, and she wet a new cloth. Silhara stood still for her slow ministrations, sucking in an audible breath when the cloth glided between his thighs and passed over his testicles in a light caress. She took her time, reveling in the sight of his skin glistening with water droplets. He swayed on his feet when she soaped him and ran her slick hands down his ribs, the indentation of his spine and his tight buttocks. A pleased sigh escaped him when she curled slippery fingers around his cock and stroked.

  Silhara’s hands curled into fists at his side. His face, flushed by the heat from the fire and the heat Martise ignited in him, was drawn into sharp angles. His voice was a harsh rasp. “Finish soon, or there will be soap on the bed.”

  She laughed softly and trickled water over him to clean away the soap. He was wet and glistening and aroused. Martise dropped the cloth into the cauldron. Her lips fluttered against his chin. “The bed is too far away.”

  His breathing quickened even more as she learned his body with her mouth, lips and tongue playing on his nipples, passing across his stomach, the prominent angle of his hipbone, down to the slim, muscular thighs. Silhara buried his hands in her hair and massaged her scalp with trembling fingers. On her knees before him, Martise met his dark gaze and closed her mouth over the tip of his cock. He was the first to break their stare, throwing his head back to gasp his pleasure when she took him fully, down to the hilt.

  He was endowed as any other man, but fit her mouth as perfectly as he fit within her cunnus, as if made for her and her alone. Martise savored him, the tight skin of his shaft against her tongue, the sensitive ridge running its length. His scent, of soap and musk, filled her nostrils as he thrust gently into her mouth. The muscles in his long thighs quivered beneath her hands, their shaking escalating when she reached under him to caress his bollocks.

  Deep groans poured from him. Following the subtle pressure of his hands on her head, Martise sucked him harder, swirled her tongue faster over his shaft and the head of his cock. She let him almost slip out of her mouth before taking him to the hilt over and over. His throat worked with incoherent noises, and his hands gripped her hair. Two deep pulses along the length of his shaft and he filled her mouth.

  Martise drank him, tasting salt on the back of her tongue. She continued to suck, draining him until his softened cock slipped out of her mouth and his knees buckled. He collapsed in front of her, head lowered, gasping harder than a winded horse. He moved enough to rest his forehead on her shoulder. Residual shudders shook him. Martise ran her hands through his silky hair, dampened at the temples with sweat.

  “Did I please you?”

  Silhara raised his head slowly to stare at her. High color flagged his cheekbones. His pupils swallowed the lighter black of his eyes. “Please me? You’ve vanquished me.”

  He staggered to his feet and pulled her with him to the bed. They stretched out on the soft skins. “You’ll keep me warm,” he said and brought her down on top of him. Martise stretched over his body, running her toes along his calves and spreading her thighs to nestle his cock against her cunnus. She wanted him. Her thighs were slick with the want, but she could wait. He was spent from her attentions, and it was a pleasure to lie with him, kissing the strong column of his throat and tasting his mouth on hers. His tongue circled hers in languid play, teeth nipping gently at her bottom lip.

  “You’re wet for me,” he murmured against her mouth.

  “How can I not be?” She flicked the corner of his mouth with her tongue. “You are beautiful to touch and taste.” She was undiminished by her honest passion for him. He was her lover, and she desired him above all things.

  A soft thrust against her cunnus let her know her words affected him. He rolled her onto her back and crouched over her. “I’ve a taste for you as well, and time enough to indulge.”

  He took her as she’d taken him, using his lips and tongue to drive her to madness. She came apart in his arms, keening his name as she clawed his shoulders and clamped her legs against his ribs. The throbbing between her legs didn’t subside when he rose above her, turned her on her stomach and raised her to her hands and knees. He said nothing, only spread her thighs with his knees and gripped the back of her neck with one hand.

  Martise moaned, arching her back in encouragement. He mounted her in silence, his stiff cock plunging into her until he was hard against her. She reveled in the sensation—a fullness, a stretching as his cock pumped in and out of her. Inner muscles gripped him, attempting to hold him within her, and Silhara growled. His grip tightened on her neck, and he thrust faster within her, deeper until Martise thought she might feel him on the back of her throat. Stripped of courtship and the rituals of men and women, this was a claiming, a male’s primal possession of a willing female.

  A last thrust, and he groaned his triumph. A stream of heat pulsed deep within her. The hand holding the back of her neck loosened, slid over her shoulder in a slow caress. Silhara maneuvered them carefully to their sides, maintaining the intimate connection as he curved against her. His heart beat strong at her back.

  “If we weren’t the guests of honor, we wouldn’t attend tonight’s festivities.” His words were staccato while he caught his breath.

  Martise, content to lie there and enjoy the feel of him in and around her, agreed. “I’d be very happy to stay like this and let them celebrate without us. But they will want us there. Especially you.”

  Silhara ran his hand over the curve of her hip to cup her breast. He nuzzled the top of her head. “There’ll be food and good company, ale thick enough to strain between your teeth and much dancing. They’ll wonder why I can do nothing more than crawl on my hands and knees. You’ve drained the life out of me.

  Martise chuckled. “As much noise as we both made, I doubt they’ll question why you won’t be leaping
around the village fire.”

  He laughed and patted her on the hip before rolling away. A gush of wet warmth bathed her thighs when he slipped out of her, and she thanked him when he tossed her one of the dry cloths. By the time one of the Kurman came to summon them for the celebration, they were dressed, and Martise had just finished braiding Silhara’s hair.

  The village gathered around two large fires, the men at one, the women at another. Silhara nodded once to her before being shepherded off by the men. The women willingly took her into their fold. Martise was glad she knew some Kurman and soon joined the conversations that inevitably centered on men, children and village gossip. New to her was the talk of properties and the speculations of politics. Because Kurman women owned land and housing and elected the village sarsin, such things were discussed amongst them. Martise was fascinated and envious.

  The night was clear and cold, and her breath swirled in front of her in a cloud, but the food was good, the ale thick as Silhara warned and the dancing wild. She was dizzy from learning the steps and clasping hands with the women as they danced in a wide circle around the fire. She caught glimpses of Silhara, graceful as always as he danced with the men. He met her gaze across the fire, and his eyes smoldered with a look that promised more of their play later in the evening. She wished the night might last forever. Here, in the high mountains, surrounded by a foreign people, she was simply Martise. Not of Asher, but of Neith. The stigma of slavery didn’t exist, and Silhara’s kinsmen accepted her as a woman bound willingly to him.

  By the time the celebration wound down, she was hot in her clothes and tipsy from too much ale. Silhara came to her as she said goodnight to her companions.

  “Karduk wants to talk to me again. He may have something that will help us in defeating Corruption.” His face was somber. “Kurmans take forever to get through a conversation. There’s usually a ritual pipe sharing, more ale, more smoking and even more ale.” He smiled faintly. “I’ll be lucky to see our bed by dawn. You go back and get some sleep. We leave tomorrow, and I want one of us rested.”

  Martise wanted to touch him, but there were too many watching, and Kurmans didn’t show public affection except to their children. She settled for bowing instead. “I’ll be waiting.”

  She watched him leave before finding her way to their house. She banked the coals in the fire pit, shed her clothes and crawled beneath the blankets Silhara had tossed aside earlier. She was asleep in moments.

  A strong scent of tobacco roused her from a deep slumber. Martise, groggy from sleep and the residual effects of too much ale, rolled to her side. Silhara’s tall form was silhouetted in firelight as he sat near her, smoking a pipe.

  “You’re back,” she said. “What hour is it?”

  Embers in the pipe crackled as he drew in a mouth full of smoke. She made out only the sharp outline of his features, but his eyes gleamed bestial red in the fire’s glow.

  “The darkest hour. Go back to sleep. I’ll join you soon.”

  Martise frowned, wondering if the ale had truly addled her senses. Silhara’s voice was an echo of Corruption’s, as hollow and cold as a crypt.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “You must be well into your cups. What sober man sits outside in the cold dark while his woman sleeps alone in a warm house?” Dercima stood over him, casting a long shadow across his feet. With the bright moon behind her, Silhara couldn’t see her expression, but her tone was quizzical and faintly mocking. “How much shimiin arkhi have you had tonight?”

  “Not nearly enough.” He patted the ground beside him in invitation. “Care to sit, aunt? Share a pipe?” He held up a skin pouch and a cup. “There’s even enough arkhi here to numb us both.” His voice was barely a rasp, hoarsened by too much smoke and the chaos raging within him.

  Dercima accepted his invitation and plopped down next to him. She nodded her thanks when Silhara passed her his pipe. With the moonlight full on her strong-boned features, he could see the shrewd appraisal in her gaze, even through the haze of smoke she puffed from the pipe. “What troubles you, nephew? I’d expect you to be taking your pleasure between Martise’s thighs right now. Did she bar you from your bed?”

  He drained the arkhi in his cup, no longer wincing at the sour taste, and poured a refill from the skin pouch. Fermented mare’s milk wasn’t Peleta’s Fire, but it would do. “Martise has never denied me.”

  “And if she did?”

  Silhara grinned into his cup. His formidable aunt would strangle him with his own braid if he gave the wrong answer. “I’ve no interest in taking by force what I can purchase or have given to me freely.”

  Smoke swirled in a turbid crown around her head. “Then why are you out here?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  She shrugged. “Karduk is currently occupied with his first consort, so I am free until dawn.”

  He hid his amusement behind another swallow of arkhi. She might be fourth consort to the sarsin, but Silhara suspected Dercima was the one who determined if and when Karduk enjoyed her favors. He traded her the cup for the pipe.

  “I don’t like regrets or remorse,” he said.

  Dercima gave him an arch smile. “And how does this make you different from the rest of us?”

  Unused to his own brand of mockery leveled at him, Silhara’s eyebrows rose. “Are you always so blunt?”

  She chuckled and sipped from the cup. “You didn’t get that trait from your father.” Her gaze held him in place. “Now tell me, what are you doing here? And don’t bother hiding it. Karduk will tell me if I ask.”

  No surprise there. Silhara shrugged. “Thinking of godhood, destruction and sacrifice.”

  He patted her on the back when she choked on her drink. She stared at him with watering eyes and swatted his arm away. “Stop that.”

  “My apologies.” He puffed leisurely on the pipe and met her gaze.

  “Most men ponder what pony they’ll sell, what bride they’ll take or what dice game they’ll join.”

  Silhara tilted his head and stared at the star-filled sky. Corruption’s star had followed him, hovering high above the trees in its halo of sullen light. Above it, within the blanket of twinkling lights, the al Zafira constellation shone bright and mocked him from on high. “I am not most men.”

  “No, you’re not, though I’ve watched you dice with the best of them.” Dercima winked.

  Even when he was at his most melancholy, Dercima could still make him laugh. “If there’s time tomorrow before I leave, I’ll play a game or two. I’m always in need of coin.”

  “You’re avoiding my question, kurr.”

  Yes, he was, and for good reason. The information Karduk had given rubbed a raw spot on his soul. He had choices to make. None of them good. He puffed twice more on the pipe before answering. “I thought Berdikhan was nothing more than a Kurmanji demon.” Dercima sketched a protective sign at his mention of the name.

  “By the time he died, he was. Any Kurman who would sacrifice his wives and children to gain more magic is a demon. The tribes didn’t exile him soon enough. And truth be told, they should have killed him instead.”

  Dercima reached for the pipe. “Why does this bother you? Berdikhan and his foul deeds are almost forgotten by the people. Is this what has brought you outside?”

  Silhara considered how much to tell his aunt. Dercima was close-lipped. And strong-willed. Nothing short of torture would make her talk, and he wasn’t sure she’d do it then. Still, another depended on his discretion, had placed her faith in his promise of secrecy.

  “Martise and I recovered manuscripts from Iwehvenn.”

  Her eyes rounded. “Are you witless? What were you doing in a lich’s hall? And dragging that girl with you?” Dercima stared down her nose in disapproval.

  “Do you want to hear the rest or not?”

  Her mouth thinned but she held her tongue. Silhara watched as her jaw tightened around the pipe stem. He’d be at the sarsin’s door at dawn demanding payment i
f his stubborn aunt broke his favorite pipe between her teeth.

  “I took Martise with me so she could translate. The manuscripts were written in ancient Helenese. I don’t read it. She does.” He finished the cup of arkhi and set it aside. His stomach churned, and he didn’t want what he’d imbibed to curdle anymore than it already had. “We came across several passages describing the death of an ancient god named Amunsa. He was trapped and destroyed by a gathering of northern mage-kings. They were helped by a ‘king of the south.’ A man they called Birdixan.” He used the Helenese pronunciation, elongating the word and putting emphasis on the first syllable.

  “And you think this was Berdikhan?” She sketched her ward in the air once more.

  “I’m sure of it. The far lands had no kings at that time, only chiefs and sarsins. But a sarsin who ruled several tribes like Berdikhan would be seen as a king by the northern lords. And the names are similar enough to note.”

  “So Karduk told you nothing you didn’t already know?” Dercima snorted. “Old windbag. He probably just wanted an excuse for you to visit.”

  Silhara smiled. Dercima might complain about her husband, but he heard affection for him in her voice.

  “I may have discovered it with time and Martise’s help. But time isn’t on our side. Corruption grows stronger. Conclave grows impatient.” And the god breathed its avarice into his dreams almost nightly now. “Karduk showed me I’d missed the obvious.” He sketched the mysterious symbol that appeared next to Berdikhan’s name in the manuscripts. “Zafira.”

  Dercima looked to the sky, and Silhara followed her gaze. They both stared at the constellation, etched in the night’s blackness in a maze pattern of stars bisected by two more paths of stars—a match to the symbol in the Helenese papers.

  “Poor Zafira.” She handed the pipe back to Silhara. “Here. You smoke the last. I’ve had enough.” Her skirt flapped as she dusted her hands on the folds of fabric. “Now there’s a tragic tale. I like to think she loved him and willingly gave him her power. But the lot of a bide jiana has always been one of force, not consent. I suspect Berdikhan sacrificed her the same way he sacrificed his other consorts.”