Cumbria turned to the short, balding priest next to him. Younger than Cumbria and not nearly as imposing, he had a round, jovial face and sharp eyes that burned holes through a person with their stare. Martise had only been this close to the Luminary once before, and she remained suitably awed.
The bishop touched his forehead in deference. “Eminence, you would rest the fate of the world on this outcast and the mythology of those savages whose blood he shares?”
Silhara’s eyebrows rose. He ran a lazy fingertip around the rim of his teacup. “I share your blood, Uncle. Are you a savage?”
Stifled gasps from the other priests punctuated Silhara’s question. Martise almost dropped the half empty teapot into a lesser bishop’s lap. At the makeshift sideboard hastily prepared for this meeting, Gurn calmly buttered bread slices and smiled.
“Never call me that!” His bony hands curled into fists, Cumbria leaned across the table as if to leap at Silhara and pummel him.
“Cumbria! This isn’t the time for family squabbles.” The Luminary’s command snapped everyone to attention, including Silhara who straightened from his indolent slouch.
Martise took one of the plates of bread from Gurn with a distracted nod. Her thoughts spun. The bishop was Silhara’s uncle? She doubted she’d be more shocked if he said Cumbria was actually a woman.
They were blood kin and hated each other with a ferocity reserved for born enemies. She understood a little of Silhara’s animosity. He’d been treated badly at Conclave, more so than most initiates, and Cumbria had been the culprit in each abuse.
Silhara had only hinted at the bishop’s motivation for bullying a novitiate, and she’d found the behavior odd. Twenty-two years of slavery to the house of Asher, and she’d never seen nor been subjected to such cruelty by her master. Cumbria was fair in his manner, harsh when necessary, uninterested in his servants most times. Why he’d act so viciously toward another, especially a relative, baffled her.
She circled the table with Gurn, placing the food in the center for easy reach. More tea was poured, and the tension in the library slowly ebbed. She was at ease in this familiar role. Hardly seen and never heard, she could observe every action, hear every word said and remember it all. Cumbria would interrogate her once they were alone, make her recite each sentence uttered by any person contributing to the conversation.
The Luminary helped himself to the bread. He pointed a piece of crust at Silhara. “I’ve known you since you were a boy, Silhara. An uncontrolled, rebellious, strong-willed boy with a honed instinct for survival. The man is much the same, save for the control. You’re quite good at that now. The ritual of the northern kings could work, especially with a willing martyr at its center. What I want to know is why you choose to be that martyr?”
Silhara shoved his cup away and met the Luminary’s sharp gaze with one of his own. “I’m the avatar reborn.”
Smothering a faint moan of despair, Martise closed her eyes. He’d damned himself with that admission.
Cumbria slapped his hands on the table. “I knew it!” His voice rang triumphant. “How many times, Eminence, did I say he was the one? We took a viper into our midst, and now he’s betrayed us.”
Silhara rolled his eyes. “Tell me, Uncle,” he emphasized the address and smiled when Cumbria’s eyes sparked. “How have I betrayed Conclave? I came to you for an apprentice so that I might find a way to kill the god.” For the first time Martise saw a resemblance between the two men in Silhara’s overt disdain. “Martise makes a far better translator than she does a spy. You’re wasting her talents.” She looked away when he glanced at her. “Together, we found you a ritual that will work and an idiot ready and willing to act the sacrificial offering.
“He’s lying,” Cumbria snapped.
“Believe what you want. Use the ritual or don’t. Use me in it or don’t, but make up your mind so I’ll know if I should prepare to die or prepare to harvest. I’ll have orange flowers ready for picking soon.”
Martise shook her head. No wonder Conclave gnashed its collective teeth. He showed no deference, offered no obsequiousness. Pragmatic to a fault, even before the most powerful men in the far lands. The fact that these same men had gathered at Neith instead of summoning him to Conclave Redoubt spoke a great deal of their acceptance to deal with the Master of Crows on his terms.
“Are you certain you’re the avatar?” The Luminary’s intense scrutiny might have set Silhara’s robes on fire.
Silhara didn’t cower. “If I’m not, then Corruption has wasted time courting the wrong puppet. Four days ago the god took full possession of me, and I almost killed the bishop’s ward.” Martise blushed when a dozen pairs of eyes suddenly turned to her. “He wants me, and has himself named me his avatar.”
Cumbria rubbed his temples. “Eminence, he will turn on us in the ritual.”
“I can turn on you now, and you can’t stop me.”
The bishop ignored him. “Use someone else.”
The leader of Conclave looked to his bishop with a frustrated sigh. “Who, Cumbria? Are you volunteering?” He raised an eyebrow when Cumbria paled.
Silhara laughed. “Your Grace, You’ve tried to nail or hang my carcass from the nearest tree for more than twenty years. Now, when I offer myself on a plate, you refuse? Hoping for a little more blood sport?”
The Luminary laced his fingers together and looked to each of the priests sitting before him. “Like it or not, Silhara is the key to the ritual. Just like Berdikhan before him. He’s powerful enough to trap the god within him long enough for us to do our work and physically strong enough to withstand our attack until the god is dead. Most of all, Corruption wants Silhara. No effort has to be made in luring the god to him.”
Cumbria still resisted. “We should take this to the Holy See.”
“We don’t have time, and half the See is here already. We cast our vote now. If yes, then we plan at Eastern Prime and meet again at Ferrin’s Tor in two days’ time.” He gazed at Silhara. “Can you fend off Corruption that long? Or do I need to bewitch you into unconsciousness?”
The mage chuckled. “A day or two is nothing. A month, and I might need that rest.”
The Luminary raised his hand. “Cast your vote. Aye for the ritual. Nay against. I say aye.”
A chorus of “aye” followed his declaration, even Cumbria, who uttered his sullen agreement last.
Martise stared at her feet. She wanted to retch. Silhara had drafted his own death warrant, and the priests had signed it. How ironic that the one man who most wanted to see him dead had been the most reluctant to give his approval.
Two days. If only two days encompassed eternity.
She looked up and found Silhara watching her, those dark eyes so deep, so filled with secrets and shadows. “Please,” she mouthed to him. He shook his head before rising with the rest of the priests when the Luminary stood. He glanced at her a final time before walking out with the Luminary by his side.
Cumbria stayed behind, cornering her near the windows. Gurn hovered nearby, ostensibly to clean the table and clear away the remains of their refreshments. The bishop wore no ornamentation to dress his gray silk robes except her spirit stone on its silver chain. A terrible yearning rose within her, followed by despair. She’d given up her chance to live as a free woman, to regain the part of herself taken from her as a child. Given the opportunity, she’d do it again if it meant protecting Silhara from Conclave, but the realization didn’t lessen the pain.
“You failed.”
Martise dragged her gaze from the blue jewel to Cumbria’s face. “Yes, Your Grace.” She had no excuses, made no apologies.
His mouth turned down. “Did you even try?”
She had. At first. “Yes. I sang to your crow. He never came. I witnessed the possession, but Sil…,” she paused at his narrowed look. “The mage sent a message to the Luminary before I could send one to you.”
The motion of his fingers caressing the stone hypnotized her. Martise didn’t hid
e her longing. They both knew how much that stone meant to her. Cumbria’s gaunt face softened, and he let his hand fall to his side. “Nothing has turned out as I’d hoped. For you either, I expect.
“No,” she said simply. Her loss was nothing compared to what Silhara faced.
“It doesn’t surprise me that Silhara knew your purpose here. I am surprised he let you stay as long as you have.” One gray eyebrow rose as he raked her with a speculative gaze. “And you’re none the worse for your sojourn. A bit thinner, a bit darker from the sun.”
Her body was fine; her heart was shattered. She plucked at the folds of her skirt. “I was of some use with the Helenese tomes. And I helped with the harvest.”
Cumbria wrapped his robes more closely about him. “Conclave will reward you for your discovery, but I won’t free you.” Martise keened inside but kept her expression blank. “I need your skills. And Silhara’s death was never meant to be that of a hero. Make ready. We leave for Eastern Prime in an hour.”
She watched him go and gasped when a heavy weight descended on her shoulder. Gurn stood next to her, sympathy deepening the blue of his eyes. So focused on Cumbria and the crushing confirmation of her continued bondage, she’d forgotten he still lingered in the room with them. He patted her shoulder in a comforting gesture.
His hands drew patterns in the air, his lips moving in soundless words. Martise chuckled despite her gloom. “Killing him won’t help either of us, Gurn. Conclave justice is quick and merciless. You’d be dead, and I’d likely be sold to someone worse.” She shrugged. “He isn’t so bad. The lot of a slave is never easy, but mine has been far easier than most.”
She patted his hand. “I have to get my things.” She’d miss Gurn and Cael. They, like Silhara, had become her family. The lump in her throat made it hard to talk. She managed to croak out a question. “Will you escort us to the gates?
He nodded and patted her arm once more. Martise left him to finish straightening the library and returned to her chamber.
The door had barely clicked shut when Silhara emerged from a shadowed corner of her room. A ripple of air flowed from his fingers, fanned out until it encompassed the chamber and lapped against the walls. Her ears popped in protest. He’d invoked a silencing ward. No one outside the door would hear a thing, not even a scream.
His eyes blazed in a face gone white with fury. “I knew you weren’t Cumbria’s ward.” The words, icy and sharp, sent chills down Martise’s arms. She retreated as he stalked her. “A servant, yes. A unique and educated one. But a slave?” He lashed out, kicked the only stool across the room so that it smashed into the opposite wall. Two of the legs split with a loud crack. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he snarled. The cords in his neck tightened, skin flushing so that the circlet of scar tissue stood out in a pale band.
Martise stared, stunned at his anger. Why should her status matter now? “I saw no reason…”
“No reason?” She winced at the cutting scorn in his tone. “There was every reason.”
He backed her against the wall nearest the window. Martise, heartsick at knowing she had only these few minutes with him, was unafraid. She touched his face with gentle fingers. “Why are you angry?”
Her caress worked its own magic. Silhara closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers. The thick fan of his lashes rested against his cheeks. She stroked the hard line of his jaw, trailed her fingers down his neck to the white garroting scar.
He straightened and opened his eyes but didn’t back away from her. “He offered you your freedom, didn’t he?” His eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re neither greedy nor ambitious. Nor are you cold blooded. But you are enslaved. What else could motivate a quiet, gentle woman to turn a man over to his enemies?”
He didn’t give her a chance to respond. “You couldn’t take your gaze off that bauble he sported; he couldn’t resist throwing your failure in your face.” Again, his voice turned clipped and cold. “I know what that bit of jewelry is. A soul shackle.”
“Yes.”
She stayed against the wall when he stepped away and began pacing. “Martise, I told you my silence regarding your Gift was freely given.” He stopped, flung his arms wide in frustration. “Why didn’t you tell him something? Anything? I’d have held off sending my letter to the Luminary, given you time to send a letter of your own to Cumbria.”
Martise scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I didn’t know you planned to write the Luminary and spill your secrets.” He frowned when she raised her hands to plead her reasoning. “I want to sleep at night, Silhara. I cannot, in good conscience, bargain a man’s life at any price.”
He closed the distance between them. Martise leaned into the warm hands clasping her waist. His breath tickled her throat. “Any man?” he whispered in her ear.
Her eyes closed, and she slid her arms around him, gathered him close so she felt every tense muscle. “Especially you. You more than anyone.” His hair was silk against her fingers, and she breathed the scent of oranges. “You don’t love me, but I love you. I will never betray you.”
Silhara kissed her, tongue teasing and coaxing. He tasted of desperation and Gurn’s blackberry tea. Warm hands skated over her back and across her buttocks. Martise moaned in protest when he broke the kiss. One hand rose to her face, long fingers caressing her cheeks, the bridge of her nose.
“Were I a rich man, I’d buy you from him.”
His bleak smile mirrored her equally bleak thoughts.
“Cumbria of Asher wouldn’t sell you a tattered blanket if he thought you wanted it, even were you the wealthiest man in the world.”
“Does the High Bishop even own tattered blankets?”
“I don’t think so.” His heart beat strong beneath her hand—the heart of a beggar king. “Why didn’t you tell me the bishop was your uncle?”
He went rigid, and his seductive mouth compressed into a tight line. “Because I never think of him as such. He was my mother’s estranged brother, nothing more.”
Martise disagreed. Silhara might lay claim to only a surface recognition of his relative, but there was far more between them—things dark and painful. “Why do you hate each other?”
Silhara gazed over her head. “We both blame the other for her death. He hates me because I’m the reason he wouldn’t allow her back into the family embrace. She married a Kurman savage against their wishes and shamed the Asher name. I hate him because his pride forced her to live a short and brutal life.” His lip curled. “Of course, that is but first in a long list of reasons why I loathe Cumbria of Asher.”
He moaned softly when she pressed her lips to the puckered skin of his scar. “Cumbria was one of the priests who watched as you were garroted, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
She reeled inwardly at such heartlessness. That a man could stand by and watch as the child of a once-beloved sister struggled against an executioner’s hands bewildered her. Life sometimes dictated harsh choices. Her own mother had sold her into slavery, but out of desperation and a need to feed six other children. Cumbria, wealthy beyond measure, suffered no such hardship. No wonder Silhara hated him.
His black eyes gleamed triumphantly when she told him “You have trumped him at every turn.” That light dimmed when she continued. “And yet you will ultimately give him what he most wants.”
Her fingers dug into Silhara’s arms. The carved angles of his face blurred. “Please, I beg you, do not sacrifice yourself.” She kissed his unyielding mouth, and her voice shook. “I’d rather have the god in the world than you gone from it.”
“Sweet woman, I’m dead already.”
Silhara lifted her off her feet, enfolding her in an embrace that threatened to break her ribs. He kissed her eyes, her nose, her mouth—heedless of her tears that made his lips glisten. Martise tried to summon her Gift, offer a last connection and take something of him for herself. The swell of power rose within her, and the back of her eyelids tingled with the warmth of the eldritch
light flowing through her body.
Silhara set her down, grabbed her wrists, and pulled her hands from his face, abruptly severing the connection to her Gift. “No.”
Martise started, surprised at the vehemence of his denial. He softened it with a wistful smile. “And don’t think I’m not tempted to take what you’re offering. But you can never summon your Gift for any reason—not if you want to keep it secret from your master and his masters.”
He kissed her palm reverently. “I’m sending Gurn to Eastern Prime. He’ll be a day or so behind you. If you need him, go to the Temple of the Moon.” Her eyebrows rose. Silhara chuckled. “The beautiful Anya was kind enough, and quite eager, to offer him temporary shelter.”
“He won’t leave willingly.”
Silhara shrugged. “But he will leave, even if I have to break both his legs and throw him onto Gnat myself. He can return to Neith in a week’s time if he wishes.” His dark gaze bore into her. “You could return as well if you were free.”
Martise smeared the tears from her cheeks. “Free or not, there will be nothing here for me in a week.” She clutched his scarlet robe, the worn threads shredding under her hands. “I will beg you on my knees. Don’t do this.”
He peeled her fingers off the robe and brushed his lips across hers. A kiss of farewell. “Your master awaits you in the courtyard. I won’t see you off.” He turned away and strode to her door, pausing when she held out a supplicating hand and called his name.
“Silhara…”
His broad shoulders remained stiff, nor did he turn back to her. “Fortune favor you, apprentice.” The door closed with a final click.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Silence hovered over Neith, mingling with the last streamers of light as afternoon gave way to evening. Silhara strolled across the courtyard, skirting the graveyard of broken stone and scrubgrass. Dried twigs and shards of rock crunched under his boots as he passed the iron gates. They hailed him in a thin wail of squeaking hinges, swaying gently in the hot breeze rolling off the surrounding plains. His cloak fluttered behind him, the ragged ends caressing the rails and stiles of a splintered staircase as he passed.