She appreciated his support but still cursed her folly. One document made her pause. “This piece says he swallowed the god. I can only think that’s willing possession.”
“It is. Berdikhan believed himself strong enough to not only harness the god long enough for the kings to entrap him, but also to take the god’s power for his own.”
“Become the god and destroy the kings.”
“Yes. But he overestimated his strength in that regard and his cleverness. The kings knew what he intended.”
“Still, they remember him as a hero in these passages, not a traitor. Why?”
Silhara lips curved into a faint smile. “People are less inclined to praise you if they know someone almost made a fool of you.”
Martise met his gaze, impressed. Silhara was an astute observer of human nature. That talent alone made him formidable, even without his magic to strengthen him. She flipped back through the parchment to the last one showing the symbol next to Birdixan’s name. “Did Karduk know anything about this symbol?”
“No.”
She paused to stare at him. Nothing in his demeanor betrayed him. He met her eyes calmly, kept his body turned to hers, wide shoulders relaxed. But her instincts fluttered their disquiet. Silhara was lying. He knew something about that symbol and chose to keep it from her.
She kept her suspicions to herself for the moment. “What will you tell Conclave?”
A subtle shift in his stance signaled his relief when she abandoned the subject of the symbol. “Everything I’ve just told you. As repulsive as we may all view it, I need the priests, and they need me if they want to defeat Corruption.”
Conclave could definitely use Silhara in ritual. Not only was he talented, he was young and physically strong. Magic and strength depended on each other in ritual spells. However, she didn’t believe Conclave trusted him enough to invite him to a god-killing.
“They’ll refuse your help.”
“No, they won’t.”
She helped him stack the parchment together, musing aloud on the ritual. “The strongest priest would have to act as Berdikhan to hold Corruption so the others might destroy him.” She shook her head, puzzled. “Some of the younger bishops are powerful enough to do it, but I know of none willing to martyr themselves.”
Silhara’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t be so sure. There’s always some idiot willing to sacrifice himself for fame and glory. Immortality through martyrdom isn’t all that unusual.”
He placed his hand over hers as she continued to fiddle with the parchment. “Enough for now. I need to write a letter to the Luminary. I’m sure Gurn can keep you occupied until midday?”
The strange disquiet wouldn’t leave her. He held something from her. She heard it in his voice, felt it in the tension of his body next to hers. “Silhara…”
“Later, Martise.”
He swept out of the library, leaving her to trail after him, sick with a sense of dread.
Distracted by thoughts of her conversation with Silhara, she said little to Gurn as she spent the morning helping him with chores. Her stomach continued churning with unease. Silhara hated Conclave, had made no secret of his loathing for the priesthood. If she were honest, she sympathized with his enmity. But what if he wanted to take on the role of Berdikhan? Suds dripped from her hands as she clutched a dirty dish and stared, unseeing, at the soapy water. Silhara’s survival instincts were honed too sharp for him to willingly give his life for such a cause, but he might well succumb to the temptation of vengeance. He might not die for a world, but would he do so for his own hatred?
“Ah, gods,” she murmured. “What are you up to, Silhara?” She’d come to Neith for the purpose of betraying him, to send him to a different death. But that had been when the temptation of her freedom overrode the morality of her soul, and when Silhara of Neith was nothing more than a means to an end. Everything had changed since then. Even if he’d never discovered her Gift or she’d witnessed a hundred traitorous acts on his part, she wouldn’t betray him. Dour and scornful, yet generous and loyal to his own, he’d taken her heart and made her love him. “You must live for me,” she said softly. “Don’t make my sacrifice an empty one.”
She’d talk to him, beg him if necessary if such were his plans. Her hope lay with the priests. Silhara might offer to act as Berdikhan, but the priests weren’t like the northern kings. They didn’t trust the Master of Crows. The idea that they might allow him to participate in the ritual at all was far-fetched. Allowing him to act as the key player was out of the question.
At midday, Martise and Gurn ate their lunch in the kitchen without Silhara. Shut in the downstairs study since morning, he hadn’t emerged at the tempting fragrance of Gurn’s soup. Gurn loaded a tray with a deep bowl filled with broth, two loaves of bread and a pitcher of wine. Martise, desperate to speak with Silhara once more, quickly volunteered to take the tray to him.
The study door was open partway, allowing strands of light to ripple along the corridor’s dark walls. Martise balanced the tray of food on one shoulder and rapped on the door to announce her presence before crossing the threshold. She saw Silhara, not at the desk writing, but standing near the small window that looked out onto the grove. A dry zephyr wind, smelling of dust and orange blossom, swept inside. It spun through the room, shuffled parchments on the desk with unseen hands and played with Silhara’s dark hair before fading to a gentle sigh.
Martise might have thought nothing of it, save for the welcome warmth it brought. The chamber was icy with a sepulchral chill that reminded her of the Conclave cemetery or worse–those brief moments before a summoner brought forth a demon. Fear scuttled down her spine.
From somewhere in the house’s labyrinth of corridors and rooms, Cael set up a howl loud enough to raise the dead. Silhara remained at the window, ominously still. Martise tried to swallow and found her mouth dry as chaff. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to drop the tray and race for sanctuary. Sweat dotted her upper lip despite the numbing cold pouring through the doorway. She prayed he didn’t know she was there, dreaded what she might see when he finally turned and faced her.
She eased back toward the hall’s shadows one step at a time. Gurn. She had to warn Gurn. Of what, she didn’t know, only that they were all in imminent danger, and the master of Neith had somehow become the greatest threat to their safety.
Her cry echoed down the hall when an invisible force suddenly struck her in the back, shoving her farther into the room. She managed to twist away just in time to keep from shattering her nose against the door’s edge. The tray she carried flew out of her hand, tilting end over end, sending a shower of soup and wine splattering across every surface. Martise pitched forward, staggering until her hip struck the work table. She gripped its edges in an attempt to keep her footing on the now slick floor.
The unseen hand abruptly ceased pushing her forward. Martise ran for the door, terror giving her feet wings. The crack of wood slamming against the frame buffeted her ears. She skidded in a puddle and fell against the door’s carved face. When she turned to face her adversary, Silhara had abandoned his place at the window and walked slowly toward her. Backlit by the sun’s red rays, he was no more than a lithe, sinister shadow.
“We meet again, servant.”
Martise gasped. Sweat ran in rivulets down her ribs despite the brutal cold glazing her skin. He was no longer hoarse. The rasp normally characterizing his speech gave way to a deep timbre as smooth as a silk strangling scarf. Whoever or whatever spoke to her was not Silhara of Neith.
“Silhara?” The question fading on a choked breath as he drew closer, and she got a good look at his features.
Still the hard face she knew and loved, all sharp planes and unforgiving angles, it had taken on a skeletal cast. His prominent cheekbones stood out in high relief, accentuating the sunken hollows beneath his eyes. He looked starved, drained of life and spirit. His eyes made her shrink against the door and edge her way along the wall. The whites of his eyes we
re gone, replaced by a solid black stare from which something inhuman and ancient gazed back at her.
Silhara, or the thing inhabiting his body, looked upon her with unblinking curiosity, much as a viper waiting to strike. Her teeth chattered, and a faint whimper escaped her lips. He cocked his head, nostrils flaring as if to catch the scent of her terror. His actions reminded her of the way Corruption acted when it first entered her room as a white and faceless abomination.
He kept pace with her as she slid along the back wall in a futile attempt to keep distance between them. “He craves you.” Long fingers reached out to skate along her collarbone. She flinched at the touch. “Why? You have no beauty to speak of.” He leaned into her, drawing a deep breath against her neck. “Still, there is something within you—unique, appetizing. Something unafraid.”
Horror nearly blotted out all reason, and she lunged away from him—or tried to, only to be held fast in place. Her Gift, buried within the deep recesses of her soul, twisted and turned in reaction.
The power that had thrust her into the chamber now shackled her to the wall. Her heart thumped against her ribs. Over Silhara’s bent shoulder she glimpsed the window, the orange grove beyond etched in the shadow of a summer sun, and the dull star drawing ever closer on the horizon.
Corruption had taken him, possessed the man whose ambitions and desires coincided with the will of the fallen god. Martise wanted to vomit. Her notions of slavery had been burned to ash more than once here at Neith. But this trumped them all. She had never known this form of bondage, singular and nightmarish. Her voice, thin and unsteady, begged for mercy. “Please. Release him. He won’t serve you willingly.”
The god laughed softly in her ear, the dulcet tones raising the fine hairs at her nape. “I disagree. Silhara of Neith is willful and stubborn, but he is also ambitious. All those things he wishes for—power, respect, control—I can give him. He knows this. In time, he shall turn fully to me.”
Martise did her best to melt into the stone wall against her back as Silhara straightened. His gaunt face filled her vision once more. The intense, passionate lover who had arched beneath her caressing hands the night before was gone, overwhelmed by an evil whose smile never reached the dead black eyes. He swept a hand down his body. “As you can see, he is nearly mine already.”
Revulsion curdled the food in her stomach. “Your price for such rewards is too high.”
“Not for him. He will have dominion over the world through me, wealth and immortality. And I will have the greatest avatar ever born, stronger than those before him. One who will lead my armies and conquer all before me.”
Martise’s terror mingled with shock. Bursin’s wings! Silhara, the reborn avatar. And he knew. Surely, he knew. Tears of despair and rage made her vision swim. A lesser man might well serve Corruption, but not the Master of Crows. A man who refused to bow to Conclave would not submit as puppet to a god.
Her lip curled as she stared into the god’s dead eyes. This was no creature worthy of deification, only a parasite with no greater wish than to yoke a world to serve its petty whims.
“You’re mistaken.” She found some small measure of strength in the renewed steadiness in her voice. “He will not surrender to you. You’ve fed his temptation and turned him for a moment, but it won’t last.” She met the dark, reptilian gaze unflinchingly. “Release him. You are false and unworthy of either worship or Silhara’s servitude.”
A flicker of something—uncertainty, doubt—chased a whirl of shadows in Silhara’s possessed gaze. He lashed out, fingers curving around her throat as he straight-armed her off the floor. There wasn’t even time to scream. She dangled in midair, choking and clawing at the hand slowly crushing the breath out of her.
He was preternaturally strong, holding her aloft with ease, oblivious to her nails digging bloodied furrows into his hand. Her feet kicked in a desperate bid to find some purchase as black spots danced in her vision. Her struggles were rewarded when her foot connected with something soft. Silhara’s calculating expression never changed. The force of her blow, which should have brought him to his knees, had no effect, filled as he was with the god’s power.
He tightened his hold slowly, his mouth curving into another brittle, calculating smile. “You will have the honor of being my first condemned heretic.”
Her vision grayed. Her air-starved lungs burned in her chest. Somewhere, in the fading threads of her consciousness, she heard the sound of running feet, the frantic barking of a dog. The wall behind her vibrated as the door shook on its hinges from a relentless pounding. Gurn and Cael come to save them both. Too late, her mind whispered. Too late.
“Please,” she prayed in choked silence. “Help me.”
A god didn’t answer, but her Gift did. Released from her control, it surged out of her, bathing her and Silhara in amber light. A powerful wrench snapped her head against the wall as Silhara lost his grip. Invisible hands lifted him off his feet and slammed him across the room. He crashed into the desk, hard enough to overturn it.
Martise hit the floor in a gasping, gagging heap. She struggled to take one, two precious gulps of air before rolling to her back. The ceiling spun above her in a shimmering sea, and the pounding at the door was a monstrous heartbeat in her ears. She turned on her side and saw Silhara.
Slumped against the overturned desk, he looked like a broken doll. His head was lowered, shoulders sagging as if Corruption had suddenly cut the strings that held him a prisoner puppet. Blood streaked from his nose and down his mouth. Drops splashed on his hands, mingling with the blood seeping from the wounds she’d gouged into his skin.
She sucked in a pained breath and crawled to him, terrified that Corruption still held sway but desperate to reach him. Her sigh of relief scorched her throat when Silhara raised his head and blinked slowly. His eyes, bloodshot and nearly crossed, were human again. Tears dripped from her cheeks, mingling with the blood on his hands. Martise touched his nose, his mouth and kissed his forehead. She tried to speak, to thank more merciful gods that he was whole again, but she was mute, her voice lost from his strangle hold.
Silhara stared at her, dazed. His lips parted. Suddenly, what little color he still retained drained from his skin. His mouth opened in a rictus of pain, and he clutched the place between his legs. Martise backed away when he keeled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, gasping in wordless agony.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Black pain roared through his body, swiping at him with claws that dug deep into his ribs, his skull and especially into his groin and back. Martise’s pinched features swam in his vision. Silhara found it hard to reconcile that the woman who now stroked his sweating face with gentle fingers was the same woman who practically kicked his balls into his throat.
“Get away from me, demon,” he wheezed.
Her shoulders sagged in relief at his reprimand. Tears painted luminous trails on her pallid cheeks, and the red marks left by his fingers circled her neck in a ghastly collar. Still, she’d found the courage to come near him after what he’d just done to her.
The pounding on the door continued until the mage-ward faded. Gurn, wielding his cudgel, and Cael, red-eyed and bristling, burst into the room ready to do battle. The dog crept toward Silhara, teeth bared. Any recognition of his master had fled, and his wide nostrils twitched at Corruption’s scent in the air.
Too injured to dodge a possible attack, Silhara snapped at Gurn. “Get him out of here before he decides to sink his teeth into me.”
Gurn hauled Cael back, careful to stay clear of the snapping jaws as the dog resisted his efforts to toss him out the door. The moment Gurn closed the door on him, Cael set up a howling racket that had Silhara wincing.
Content to lie on his side and let the pain ebb and flow through his body, he stared at Martise. She sat next to him, a mix of fear and compassion in her gaze. Gurn crouched beside him, shaking his head. His big hands were gentle as he prodded Silhara for injuries.
Silhara shr
ugged off his touch. “I’ll be fine in a moment. See to Martise. I just tried to kill her.”
Gurn’s eyes rounded at her disheveled appearance and the darkening bruises on her neck. She gave him a brief smile and tried to speak. The resulting croak made everyone flinch. Gurn clucked in sympathy. He signed he’d return with drinks for them both and something for Silhara to wash away the blood. He rose and offered his hand to help Martise stand. She declined with a quick shake of her head. Silhara’s eyebrows rose when she used the same hand motions as Gurn, who grinned and bowed before leaving the room.
Silhara, as pleased as Gurn, smiled through the residual pain thrumming through his muscles. “You could have demonstrated no greater friendship to him than that. Not even if you saved his life.” She blushed and signed to him that she was very fond of Gurn.
He levered himself into a sitting position and wiped the blood from his nose and mouth with a trembling hand. The metallic taste on the back of his throat made his stomach turn, and he spat on the floor to rid himself of the taste. Martise scooted to sit in front of him and signed an apology.
Silhara grumbled and shielded his groin with one hand. “Who could guess that such a small woman would make so formidable an opponent?” He winced. “I’m lucky you didn’t break a rib or two. Do you often toss your lovers around the room like that?”
Martise tried to laugh and stopped. She rubbed her throat.
Silhara reached out to run a light finger over one of the marks on the side of her neck. “It’s I who should beg your forgiveness. I’ve thieved and murdered in my lifetime and regret little of those actions. But if I’ve destroyed that wondrous voice…”
He’d been harsh with her. Deadly as well. He’d marked her when loving her, and again when he tried to strangle her. Two sides to a tarnished coin. A hard knot settled under his ribs. Her time at Neith was finished. So was Gurn’s. The god’s newest attack and subsequent possession—the worst and longest so far—solidified the decision he’d pondered over the last two days. For their protection, he’d send Martise back to the bishop before her scheduled time and order Gurn to Eastern Prime.