Martise knew his secret now, and it didn’t matter if she told the world. He’d won his battles against Conclave and ultimately lost the war—and the woman he’d grown to love.
She touched his hand, entwined her fingers with his. He stared down at her chafed knuckles, the pink nails rimmed with his blood. History might see him as a hero, like Berdikhan. None would know he’d martyred himself, not for a world, but for this woman.
He tugged on her hand. “Come closer.”
She hesitated for a brief moment then inched closer until she was almost in his lap.
He caressed her neck. “I can heal these with your help. But we’ll do it now before Gurn returns.
After what her Gift just did to him, he took a risk in asking her to recall her magic. He hoped the near-sentient entity had reacted to Corruption’s presence within him and not to him alone. Martise nodded once and closed her eyes. Within moments the air around her shimmered with amber light. Serpentine tendrils wrapped around his wrists in a lover’s clasp, so different from the combative force that had swatted him across the room earlier. Power, cleansing and redeeming, flowed into his hands and spread throughout his body. The strength of her Gift washed away Corruption’s taint and filled him with Martise’s essence—a steady flame that burned low but strong and enveloped his soul in a soft embrace.
Bewitched by the seductive sensation of living power, Silhara reveled in the deep bonding. Martise sat still before him, her eyelids at half-mast as she met his gaze. His tongue felt thick as he recited a simple healing spell, one that did nothing more than heal a scrape. With her Gift’s power, the spell worked a greater magic. The bruises faded from her skin, and the swelling muscles and tendons beneath his fingers softened.
“Enough,” he said, and withdrew his hands.
Martise breathed deep and closed her eyes once more. The amber light unwound from Silhara’s arms and wrists, undulating away from him to coalesce into a pinpoint of light centered at Martise’s chest. It pulsed twice before disappearing into the fabric of her tunic.
Silhara nodded in approval. She had a good command of her stubborn talent now and suppressed it with less effort. With continued practice, she’d have no difficulty hiding it from the priests so they’d never suspect her Gift had manifested.
Without the comforting force of her power running in his blood, the pain of his injuries returned. He shifted and cursed when that small movement sent a sharp pain through his side. Martise reached for him, but he waved her away.
“Let’s see if that spell did any good for your voice. Try to speak.”
“Thank you,” she said and grinned when the words came out in something more than an incoherent croak. Her voice remained a little hoarse, but no worse than it might sound if she was ill with a cold.
“You sing badly enough as it is,” he teased. “I’d never be redeemed if I made you sound like me.”
Her soft laughter soothed him. She didn’t hate or fear him, even now after he’d almost killed her. Despair threatened to consume him. He would mourn her, even beyond his death. Were circumstances different, he’d fight to keep her, kill Cumbria if necessary to wrest her from him and face the wrath of Conclave for slaughtering their most powerful bishop. But fate played a diabolical joke on him. He would be no better than Berdikhan or even Corruption if he sacrificed his own bide jiana for the chance of living through the god-killing ritual. A scathing anger filled him. He wasn’t noble, only heart-bound, and surely the second was more pathetic than the first. He’d give Martise up freely and destroy himself to save her. What had she once said? The gods laughed. Indeed they did.
He banished his self-recriminations. No need to dwell on what a weak fool he’d become. Martise held out a hand once more when he clambered unsteadily to his feet. Again, he waved her off.
“Don’t. I’ve gained a healthy respect for your feet. As soon as I’m sure you haven’t completely emasculated me, you can help.”
She blushed. “Can’t you heal yourself the same way you healed my throat?”
The idea of her hand, heated by the magic of her Gift, cupping his balls would normally have him erect. Now, with the steady ache in his groin fanning out to his back and down his legs, he found the notion less than appealing.
“Your trust in me is greater than mine in you. As much as I might usually enjoy it, I think it best you keep your hands off my cock for now, Martise.”
His blunt statement took the sting out of his refusal. A small smile flickered across her lips before fading.
“Are you well, Silhara?” Dark memories shadowed her eyes. “The god… your eyes…”
A rising bile, mixed with the remnants of blood, burned the back of his throat. He raised his hands and frowned at their trembling. “Now you know why the star hovers at Neith.”
Martise clasped her hands in front of her. Her white knuckles contrasted with her calm voice. “You’re the avatar reborn.”
“Yes.”
Gurn’s return prevented him from saying more. The servant carried a tray with two steaming cups and a stack of wet towels. He handed one cup to Martise and another to Silhara, along with a towel.
Martise snatched the towel out of Silhara’s hand. “Will you trust me enough to bathe your face? I promise no kicking.”
She set her cup on the floor when he nodded and proceeded to wipe away the blood. The cloth was cool on his cheeks and her touch soothing. Silhara stood passive beneath her ministrations, never looking away as she rubbed smears of dried blood from his nose and chin. The towel hovered at the corner of his mouth. Silhara, attuned to her every breath, bent toward her as she stood on tip-toe and kissed the spot.
“No one should suffer such bondage,” she whispered against his mouth. “I would take this burden if I could.”
Lightning shot through his soul. Such devotion. Martise was a compassionate woman, but this went far beyond sympathy. Did she love him as he did her? See him as something other than the threat Conclave saw? Would she grieve their separation in the same silence? The anguish in her eyes answered his question.
He stroked her temple with his thumb. “That is a debt I cannot and will not repay.” The same thumb pressed against her lips when she tried to argue. “There is always a cost, Martise.
He took the towel from her and gingerly cleaned his hands before giving it back. “Don’t forget your cup. My spell has done most of the work, but I can assure you Gurn’s draught will heal you completely.”
His cup was filled with a tea brewed blacker than ink and sweetened heavily with honey. A simple but effective restorative. Silhara raised the cup in salute to Gurn. The dull pain in his chest grew. He would soon lose Gurn as well, and that hurt almost as much as losing Martise.
Gurn, pleased his patients drank his brews, began cleaning the study. He tried unsuccessfully to shoo Martise away when she set to helping him. Silhara, still too sore to do more than watch, limped to the other side of the overturned desk. Parchment lay scattered across the floor, much of it splattered in ink. He picked up one page, his letter to the Luminary of Conclave. A black stain smeared the bottom of the letter, but it was still readable.
Eminence, I offer you the opportunity to kill me and destroy Corruption in one act. Are you interested?
Silhara, Master of Neith
The letter was dry, grains of sand still trapped on the paper. He shook it off and rolled the parchment into a tight scroll. Gurn motioned to him when he stepped over the puddles of wine and soup and made his way to the door.
“I’m well enough, though I doubt I’ll sire children now.” He smiled slightly at Martise’s blush.
Like Gurn, she wore a worried expression. “Corruption…”
“Will bide its time. I doubt you’ll see it again.” He'd make certain she was back at Asher the next time Corruption paid him a visit.
He paused at the door. “I’ll be in my chambers. When you and Gurn are finished here, one of you bring me a cup of the Fire.”
Martise held
one of Gurn’s towels, now stained with wine. “Will you be all right alone?”
Silhara snorted. “I’m not a child, Martise. I haven’t needed my mother for many years.
He left them in the study and limped to his room. Once inside, he groaned and cupped his groin once more. “Bursin’s wings, woman. I hadn’t thought to die a eunuch.”
For a moment he regretted refusing the offer of her Gift to heal his own aches and pains and settled on a simple spell that numbed the soreness between his legs. His shirt was ruined, blood-stained across the chest and torn in places from Martise’s clawing hands. He stripped it off and tossed it on the bed. His injured hands still shook, lingering signs of the god’s brutal control. Silhara growled and strode out to his balcony. Against the blue sky, Corruption’s star shone a bright white now.
“Pleased with yourself, Corruption?”
The god remained silent for once, but the star pulsed in triumph. Silhara scowled. Corruption grew stronger every day. For all his strength and skill, he didn’t think he could resist much longer. If he didn’t go to the god willingly, Corruption would eventually take him by force. If, however, he allowed the god possession, he might still retain some control of himself and Corruption for a short time—long enough to perform the ritual that would trap the god, killing it and him in the bargain.
Cumbria would see him dead at last, but not as he might wish. Instead of a criminal executed for treachery or heresy, Silhara would die a martyred hero.
He didn’t care about heroism or martyrdom or foiling Cumbria’s plans. He wanted to live, to harvest his oranges, to live at Neith without Conclave up his nose and keep Martise by his side until he died of old age instead of this cursed nobility suddenly afflicting him.
But none of this would be his fate if he stood by and watched Corruption swell with power until it consumed him and the world it sought to conquer. Despite what others might think or how history might record it, Silhara was self-serving. Corruption was no different than the lich of Iwehvenn, and Silhara chose to die with his soul intact rather than live a shell of a man who’d lost his humanity.
A sly inner voice whispered to him. “You might live. You swive a bide jiana every night. Use her for what she is made.”
Weeks earlier, he might have done so without a second thought, when Martise was nothing more than an instrument of Conclave whose purpose was to betray him. Things had changed.
“I am pathetic,” he muttered. “I condemn myself and risk a world for a woman.”
He returned to his room. The letter to the Luminary lay on his bed, half unfurled next to his stained shirt. Silhara reread the short missive before rolling it and transforming it into a sphere of light no bigger than a thimble. Back out on the balcony he summoned a crow from one of the trees and placed the sphere under the ensorcelled bird’s wing. The glossy black feathers were smooth as he stroked the crow’s back.
“Conclave,” he said. “The Luminary.”
The bird cawed once before taking flight, winging its way toward the coast and Conclave’s stronghold.
He expected the priests to be on his doorstep in a matter of days. The Luminary might not bother to reply; just appear with his entourage in tow to discuss his plans with Silhara.
Behind him, a soft knock sounded against his door. Martise’s voice drifted to the balcony.
“Silhara?”
“For now. I’m on the balcony.”
Her light footfalls drew closer. Disheveled and flushed from helping Gurn downstairs, she smiled and passed him a goblet. “How are…”
“My bollocks? Sore, but at least I’m no longer choking on them. How’s your throat?
She touched her neck. “Good. Gurn had me drink a little of the Fire, and it helped.”
Silhara tipped the goblet and drained half the contents. The drink scorched his insides, leaving a pleasant euphoria in its wake. He breathed hard and rubbed his watering eyes. “Nothing can kill pain or cause it like Dragon’s Piss.” He set the cup on the balcony railing. “Did you know soldiers use Peleta’s Fire to keep battle wounds from poisoning?”
He motioned her closer and drew her against him. Her back was warm, and she smelled of orange flowers. He nuzzled her neck.
“You now have something to tell the bishop.”
Martise stiffened.
“Surely, you knew I’d guessed your purpose here the day you arrived?” He kissed her temple.
Her voice was steady. “Yes, but I wouldn’t have admitted it had you confronted me earlier.” She turned in his arms, copper eyes guarded as she met his gaze. “And I have nothing to tell the bishop.”
Silhara stroked her back and ran her long braid through his fingers. “It wouldn’t matter if you did, Martise. Only you and I will know of your Gift. Your secret is safe.
She pressed against him, her breasts soft beneath her tunic. Summer sun caressed her upturned face. “Even if I had no secret to protect, I wouldn’t tell the bishop what I saw today.”
A declaration of loyalties changed. Silhara closed his eyes and embraced her. He should feel triumphant. He’d won over the spy and defeated Cumbria at his little game. But he’d lost the woman in the bargain.
He peered down at her. “What reward are you forfeiting for your silence?”
Her gaze slid away. “Nothing worth a man’s life.”
Silhara chuckled. “My fair innocent. Men sacrifice other men for power and wealth, food and sometimes just for entertainment.”
She looked at him with those somber eyes. “What do we sacrifice ourselves for?”
Her question caught him off guard. He didn’t answer, only kissed her forehead.
“What does the symbol mean, Silhara?”
More tenacious than a mage-finder with a kill, she refused to give up on the notion he knew about the symbol next to Berdikhan’s name. Thank Bursin they weren’t having this discussion at night. He might not resist the temptation to stare at Zafira’s constellation as he’d done so many times since their return from the Kurman camp.
“I don’t know.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”
Silhara chuckled. He very much liked when she displayed such ferocity. He lowered his mouth to hers, ran his tongue along her bottom lip. “Prove it,” he whispered.
She sank into him as he kissed her. He savored the feel of her in his arms. If he wasn’t still recovering from Corruption’s possession and her effective defense, he’d take her to bed and make love to her for the remainder of the afternoon and into the night.
He groaned when she pulled away and gave him a piercing look. “Wait. What do you mean it doesn’t matter if I tell the bishop you’re the avatar?”
He raised his eyes to the heavens. “So much for my powers of seduction.” Martise didn’t crack a smile. “Conclave’s first attempt to destroy Corruption only resulted in a long exile. This time, they must rely on the avatar to defeat the god.”
Realization struck her, swift and hard. Her eyes darkened until they were nearly as black as his. “No!” She clutched his arms. “Let someone else be Berdikhan. The Luminary or Cumbria. They are as strong as you. As powerful. This is Conclave’s purpose, not yours!”
Silhara shrugged her off. “But it is my redemption.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “What did you see when you looked into my face an hour ago?”
Her hand trembled in his grip. “Something soulless.”
He inclined his head. “An apt description. Conclave has accused me of such failings many times. Now, they’d be right.” He released her hand. “I’ve no wish to be reduced to a cipher, Martise. I’ll die before that happens, and I’ll take Corruption down with me.”
She bowed her head. “I wish you loved me,” she said in a small voice. “Maybe then I could make you halt this madness.”
Her statement almost brought him to his knees. It was because he loved her that he followed this path, but telling her so would only make her protest harder or worse, do somethi
ng foolish that might compromise them both. He closed his eyes for a moment and told his greatest lie.
“I don’t love you. You are an admirable woman, more so than any other person I’ve known save Gurn. But that has little bearing here.”
The faintest moan hovered between them before the afternoon breeze snatched it away. Martise clasped her hands together.
“Would it matter at all if I said I loved you?”
A part of Silhara, the smallest part that remembered his humanity and his ability to love, shuddered. “No.”
He raised her head with a fingertip under her chin. Tears coursed down her wan cheeks and dripped onto his hand. He fancied they burned. “Ready your things. I’m returning you to your true master.”
He kissed her again, hard. He’d take the memory of her taste with him to his death.
She returned his kiss briefly before fleeing the balcony. Once the door closed behind her he entered his chamber with the half-finished goblet of Peleta’s Fire, donned a new shirt and prepared his huqqah.
The tobacco’s smooth taste dampened the alcohol’s harshness, and Silhara smoked from the huqqah in long draws. He exhaled a cloud of smoke in a slow breath, murmuring arcane words as he did. The smoke swirled and spun in purposeful patterns, shaping itself into a misty replica of Martise’s face. The ghostly image hung in the air before him, and he traced its outline.
“My own Zafira. You have condemned me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“How do we know we can trust you?”
Cumbria’s question lashed across the clatter of tea cups and the whisper of robes.
Silhara, dressed in his red robe and at ease in his library amongst a gathering of Conclave bishops, reclined in his chair and smirked. “You don’t.”
Steam from the hot tea kettle scalded Martise’s fingers as she refilled their cups. The contingent of priests, including the all-powerful Luminary, had been here less than two hours, and already the bishop and the mage postured and prepared to engage in combat.