Master of Crows

  Pipe smoke filled his mouth, acrid now instead of spicy. The arkhi bubbled threateningly in his belly. Berdikhan had used his life-giver wife to try and harness a god and rule a world. History might well repeat itself.

  “What will you tell the priests when you return to Neith?”

  Nothing if he could get away with it, but that was unlikely. As much as both parties might detest the idea, he would need their help, and they his to defeat Corruption. The question was whether he was willing to die for the effort or sacrifice another for the chance to live. He imagined Martise sleeping peacefully in the house behind him, awaiting a lover who contemplated destroying her.

  If Dercima could read his thoughts at the moment, she’d gut him with her eating knife.

  “Your thoughts are grim. This knowledge you have now troubles you greatly. Is it not good to know of a way to defeat the fallen god?”

  “It’s useful knowledge. Now I have to decide what to do with the information.”

  “Do you consider yourself an intelligent man?” Dercima’s dark eyes reflected starlight.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you true?”

  He chuckled at her question. “That depends. True to whom?”

  “Yourself.”

  “Always.” He grew more curious at her line of questioning.

  She rose, and he stood as well. “A man with clear sight into his own soul will always make a wise decision.”

  Silhara touched her arm briefly. “I’m less concerned with wise than I am with beneficial—to me.”

  She wrapped her fingers over his knuckles. “And the woman you brought with you? Is she merely a night’s pleasure or something more?”

  Martise. Spy and lover, servant and keeper of a vast, untapped power, she was once nothing more than a nuisance. Now, she was the linchpin upon which his most fateful choices would be made.

  “She’s more than that, and less.”

  “That isn’t much of an answer, nephew.”

  “And you ask too many questions, aunt.”

  Dercima smiled. “I’m off to bed.” Her breath fogged in front of her. “It’s cold, and I feel it more in my bones these days.” She tapped him on the arm. “Don’t stay out here too long. Others may awaken and see you. I don’t want people asking me why my nephew is an idiot.”

  He smiled and bowed. “Good night, aunt.”

  Her soft chuckle faded as she made her way across the open common area and disappeared into the largest of the stone houses. Silhara stared after her a few moments before returning to the house he shared with Martise.

  She lay as he’d left her, sprawled on her back with one arm flung across the space where he’d sleep. Her hair spread in waves over the fleece, a few strands drifting across her cheeks and down her neck.

  He hadn’t meant to wake her earlier. His conversation with Karduk had left him with trembling hands and a need to see her. While he’d been silent, the scent of pipe smoke had awakened her. Flushed from sleep and the heat of the fire, she’d turned to him with a dreamy gaze. He’d almost looked away and was thankful when she turned over and fell back asleep. He’d fled outside after that.

  His thoughts whirled as he cleaned his pipe and undressed. The fire burned low in the pit, and he stoked the coals enough to bring more warmth in the cooling room. Birdixan of the Helenese chronicles had been no hero, only a man consumed by a need for power who saw a chance at attaining it, no matter the cost. Berdikhan of the Kurmans had traveled north, not for the purpose of helping the mage-kings, but of taking Amunsa’s power for himself. He’d brought one of his wives with him, a life-giver and a sacrifice to his all-consuming avarice. He’d failed in his attempt to both control the god and turn on the kings. And Amunsa had been destroyed.

  Silhara dwelt hard on the last. Berdikhan’s actions, self-seeking though they were, had been the key to the kings’ triumph. A powerful mage, made even stronger by a bide jiana’s sacrifice, had trapped Amunsa long enough for the kings to destroy it. The idea had worked once. It could work again. But at the same price?

  Naked and cold, he crouched next to Martise, admiring the way her usually pale cheeks were rosied by the heat of the nearby fire. He’d once seen her as plain. No longer. In the red-rimmed shadows cast by the low flames, she was more beautiful than anything he’d ever beheld.

  The memory of her voice when she’d summoned him back from the brink of death at Iwehvenn echoed in his mind. “Stay with me.” That plea had called to some inner need, promised a taste of something he’d never experienced. She’d pulled him back from the abyss with the temptation of her affection. He was tempted to repay her with betrayal.

  He lifted a skein of her soft hair, letting it fall through his fingers in a cascade of russet waves. “You should have let me die.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  At the first hint of the morning sunlight gilding the tops of Silhara’s orange trees, Martise rose quietly from his bed to dress. Still warmed from his body heat, she inhaled sharply at the sudden shock of cool air on her bare skin. The blankets whispered against her legs as she stretched a thigh over his hip and crawled off the bed. The movement made her wince. He’d had a voracious appetite for her the previous night. He hadn’t hurt her, but his rough attentions left their mark on her hips and a reminder in her muscles.

  She gazed at his outline beneath the blankets. He lay on his stomach, face partially concealed by the crook of his arm. It was still too dark to make out his features. She imagined them pinched and scowling, even in slumber. Since their return from the Kurman village, he’d been a cauldron of quietly bubbling emotion, unleashed only in the dark when she lay beneath him.

  Exhausted from loving her throughout the night, he’d dragged her on top of him and promptly fallen asleep. His rest wasn’t peaceful. Violent dreams made him flail in the bed, and twice Martise narrowly avoided a blow when he lashed out, battling some invisible demon. She considered retreating to her room where she could sleep without being pummeled but abandoned the idea. Whatever dark thoughts plagued the Master of Crows in his nightmares, she wouldn’t leave him alone with them.

  He finally quieted, his stillness interrupted by an occasional muttered curse and the soft rhythm of snoring. Martise had sighed her relief and curled against his side. Sleep didn’t come easily for her. She’d mulled over Silhara’s restlessness, the subtle shift in his behavior since they’d returned to Neith.

  She’d noted the change the morning they packed their gear and said their farewells to the Kurmans. She hadn’t asked what the sarsin discussed with him, and he held his silence on the matter. That silence lasted almost the entire trip back to Neith. Never jovial in the best of moods, he was even more distant. The few times he spoke to remark on their lunch or instruct her on how to set up their camp for the most protection, he’d been remote, barely acknowledging her presence.

  Martise was used to others ignoring her. But not him. His actions might have hurt save for the fact he touched her constantly on the return trip. She rode in front of him, and he kept a tight grip on her as he guided Gnat home. The one night they spent on the open plain, he held watch while she slept. She’d awakened to find him running his thumb and finger over her braid as if it were a strand of prayer beads.

  They’d been back at Neith for a day, and he remained taciturn and distracted. Even when he’d taken her so passionately the previous night, he said little, though his dark eyes burned when he gazed upon her. He slept now, oblivious to her movements. Or so she thought.

  “You needn’t tiptoe. I’m awake.”

  The leine slipped from her fingers at his voice. She bent to retrieve it, wincing again. “Forgive me. I tried to be quiet.”

  “I hurt you.”

  She paused. Had he seen her flinch in the dark? His eyesight was exceptional. He moved sure-footed through Neith’s lightless corridors, but she’d thought it nothing more than a natural grace combined with the familiarity of his domain. Those shrewd black eyes missed very little.

/>   She smiled and shrugged the thin leine over her head. “I didn’t notice at the time. And I probably left a bruise or two on you as well.”

  “Come here.” His voice was no less commanding for its quiet raspiness. Blankets rustled, and he sat up.

  Standing patiently between his splayed knees, Martise studied his austere face in the pallid light slowly filling the room. Dark circles ringed his eyes, revealing a lassitude that went deeper than muscle and bone. His warm fingers tugged at her leine, lifting the hem until her legs were once more exposed to the chilly air. She gasped softly at his touch, the trickle of heat fluttering over her skin as he caressed the bluish marks on her hipbones and inner thighs.

  “I didn’t mean these.”

  Reawakened desire raced through her when he placed a light kiss where thigh curved into hip. “I know.”

  He leaned his forehead into her belly. “Say my name.”

  Martise swallowed down the knot lodged in her throat. Something was horribly wrong. The volatile sorcerer who captured a storm, ridiculed a god and spat in Conclave’s collective face, sat before her, a weary pilgrim seeking succor in her embrace.

  “Silhara.” His hair slipped through her fingers in an inky cascade as she stroked his head. His name slid off her tongue, and she savored the feel. She loved his name, the grace of it in her mouth, the sound of it on her ears. In old Coastal, his name meant Unconquered, and the man who bore the name lived up to it in every sense.

  She cupped his jaw, tilting his face so she could look in his eyes. His cheeks were rough with a day’s growth of beard, and his lips were still swollen from her enthusiastic kisses the night before. He sighed when she ran her thumbs lightly over his cheekbones. “You slept poorly and chased demons in your dreams. What troubles you?”

  A faint smile curved his mouth and was gone. “I don’t have to sleep to chase demons, Martise.” Long fingers drifted gently over the back of her thighs. “You worry over nothing. I’ve had more than my share of bad nights.” He dropped the hem of her leine.

  Not like this. At least not since she’d come to share his bed. He didn’t sleep many hours, but when he did, he slept hard and was as still as death in her arms. Last night was far different, and Martise sensed the sarsin’s words, whatever they were, weighed heavily on Silhara’s thoughts. The warning gleam in his eyes told her not to pursue it further.

  She stood in his loose embrace for several moments, content to simply stroke his hair while he pressed his cheek against her stomach. The clatter of pans and the bang of the bailey door downstairs signaled Gurn’s arrival in the kitchens.

  “I have to go downstairs and help Gurn. He burned his hand on a hot pot yesterday and will be clumsy for a few days with his bandages. Do you need anything from me?” She was reluctant to leave him.

  The folds of her leine muffled his chuckle. “Can you give me salvation?”

  The strange question sent another bolt of dread through her. “No.”

  “Then tea will do.” He pulled away from her, swatting her lightly on the bottom. A grim humor hardened his smile. “I’ll see you and Gurn in the kitchen. And tell him I’ll want a look at that burn.”

  She and Gurn were almost finished with breakfast when Silhara finally made an appearance. Clean-shaven but still haggard, he sat at his customary place and proceeded to drink three pots of tea without saying a word. A sidelong glance from Gurn, and Martise shook her head. Silhara had been pensive in the privacy of his chamber. Now he was dour with storm clouds gathering in his eyes. The oranges sat untouched in their bowl, another oddity. Only once had she seen him forego the ritual of eating his two oranges, and that was due to a stomach still roiling from the effect of Peleta’s Fire.

  “Do you not want the oranges this morning?”

  His black gaze glittered. “Not today.” He looked to Gurn, busy at the hearth stoking the fire. “Gurn, show me your hand.”

  After inspecting the burn and reciting a spell to ease the pain, Silhara pronounced the wound on the mend. He was rewrapping it when Martise interrupted him.

  “You can use me to heal him, can’t you?” She caught Gurn’s puzzled expression.

  “No.”

  Stunned, she stared at him wide-eyed. He lied outright. They both knew the combination of her Gift and his skill could heal Gurn’s hand. Why would he not help his most trusted servant?

  “But…”

  “Martise!” His voice, ruined by the garroting, managed to boom in the kitchen. “You forget yourself. I said no.”

  Outrage at his surprising callous treatment toward Gurn almost overrode twenty-two years of servitude. She clenched her teeth against the words rushing to her lips and finally bit out “Forgive me, Master.”

  Her lungs burned with the need to shout at him. Martise kept her gaze firmly on the floor, assuming the long-standing posture of servant to master. The kitchen’s quiet pounded in her ears, tense and humming with a silent anger. She jumped when Silhara suddenly grasped her arm and yanked her toward the door leading to the great hall.

  “The library. Now.”

  He hauled her up the stairs and down the hall, his grip unyielding on her wrist. Martise hurried to keep up with his long strides. The library door banged against the opposite wall and Silhara thrust her inside. A cold fire flickered in his gaze as he slammed the door behind him.

  “Your Gift is a danger to everyone here, Martise. If Gurn knows of your particular talent, my willingness to remain silent about it means nothing. Conclave will do whatever it has to in order to get the information it wants.” He paced in front of her. “I can withstand any seer-bonding a Conclave priest might subject me to. They’ll learn nothing and may well kill us both for the effort. Gurn, however, isn’t Gifted and doesn’t have the means to resist a bonding. Do you think if they can’t interrogate the master, they won’t interrogate the servant? Being mute will not guard all his secrets. And where will you be if they learn of yours?”

  Her face heated. All this time living with Silhara and Gurn, she should have realized Silhara would have good reason to let his servant and friend suffer his wound. “I’m sorry, Silhara.”

  His expression softened. “No need to apologize. I don’t fault you for your compassion, only your indiscretion.” He walked to the table where her notes were neatly stacked next to the old pages they rescued from Iwehvenn. “If Conclave were to seer-bond with Gurn, it would be to glean information about me, not you. But if they discover some hint of your talent in his memories, they’ll pursue it.” The look he gave her from the corner of his eye was amused. “You have no reason to suspect Conclave the way I do. I’d wonder at your caution if you did.”

  Martise’s shoulders sagged in relief. “I’m more concerned about Gurn. I’d never deliberately hurt him.”

  “I know.”

  Ancient parchment crackled under his fingers as he flipped them gently over and stared at the writing. “The Helenese make heroes of those who would make them fools.”

  She came to stand beside him, bemused by his cryptic remark. The Helenese script was burned on the back of her eyelids by now. She’d read the documents dozens of times, searching for something more in the story of Amunsa that might be applied to defeating Corruption. “I don’t know that these papers have helped. The ancient Conclave who first exiled Corruption used a very similar ritual, but it wasn’t enough to kill him. Maybe the kings were able to destroy Amunsa because he wasn’t as strong.”

  Silhara’s next statement surprised Martise. “Without these papers, Karduk’s information would be useless.” He smiled faintly at her wide-eyed stare. “When the Kurman were greater in number and more powerful, they were ruled by a single sarsin. One who claimed his place through fratricide instead of election.”

  Martise waited, intrigued. She knew little of Kurman history but found it fascinating, even without its ties to the Helenese documents. Silhara continued.

  “The sarsin was powerful and united the tribes for a short time under his rule. He was al
so a sorcerer, as skilled as any Conclave bishop in the ways of magery and unafraid to invoke the dark arcana. But such gifts weren’t enough. He sought more through any means, sent spies far and wide to find the secrets of other peoples. He even sacrificed two of his consorts and a half dozen of his children to gain more power.”

  “Gods.” She shuddered at the thought of such monstrous acts.

  Silhara flipped more of the parchment, stopping at the last page describing Amunsa’s death. A long finger traced the mysterious symbol next to Birdixan’s name. “That was his goal. To be a god. He was no different from the lich of Iwehvenn except he was moved by a craving to rule a world. The soul eater was moved by a fear of death and embraced something far worse.”

  “Then why would he help the northern kings defeat Amunsa?”

  “There was nothing left for him. The tribes rose against him, banishing him and his remaining wives from Kurman territory. They had no place to go but north. The one thing he’d sought most of his life he found in exile and by accident.”

  Martise rubbed the chills on her arms. “The Kurman should have killed him instead of exiling him.”

  Silhara gave a dark, humorless chuckle. “You’re not alone in your opinion. His name was Berdikhan, and he fooled the kings into thinking he was a pilgrim traveler, a man of great power who sought their good will by helping them destroy Amunsa.”

  Martise gasped and snatched the stack of parchment from Silhara. She shifted through the pages and laid out those with Birdixan’s name mentioned. “Berdikhan. Birdixan. I missed it. The Helenese have no equivalent for the hard sound in his name. For example, Cumbria would be written as 'Xumbria.' I should have seen it.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t see how. You can flounder your way through a sentence when speaking Kurmanji, but how would you know to make such a connection? The Kurmans have never put their language in script. You had nothing to compare.”