She would die in his arms, and by his hand. Silhara gathered Martise close and claimed her willing soul, hoarded it within his own fragile spirit and raged against the god for his actions. This wasn’t a mating, but a possession, vile and parasitic. The god’s control over him was limited, and the most powerful part of his being remained untouched. Silhara not only possessed Martise, he consumed her. He almost dropped her, recoiling at the thought of what he was doing to the woman who had saved him, not once but twice.
This plain, unassuming girl held a Gift more powerful than a hundred suns, a Gift rushing through him like a vast, undammed river. He’d taken what she offered because she’d offered something no other person had ever given him—hope. His Gift rallied beneath the buoyed strength of hers, filling his soul so that he no longer saw sea and rock through his own hands. No longer suffered the bludgeoning force of the god’s possession or the single-minded hatred of the priests.
The waters raged around them as the creature in the depths flailed the rock, sending broken stones tumbling into the waves. The stars above, manifestations of the priests, brightened, converging their magic in preparation for attacking the god once more.
Silhara stared at Martise’s peaceful face, her closed eyes. In this foul place, she burned softly, haloed in amber light. He loved her to the point of madness, to obsession and even sacrifice. He wasn’t Berdikhan, and he wouldn’t make her Zafira. He’d rob her of her Gift, but she’d live. If he had to destroy Corruption, Conclave and himself, she’d live.
He drew on her Gift as a starved man at a feast. The sudden agony ripping up his spine made him cry out. The priests hurled their combined might against him, and through him, to the god. Despite the agony, Silhara grasped their power, channeled it, fortified it and honed it until the magic pulsed in his hand, a blazing javelin. He flung the spear into the waves, harpooning the black shadow undulating just below the surface. Corruption’s shock, its sudden terror, lashed him as hard as the priests’ attack. A spray of glutinous water shot skyward as the creature launched out of the waves in a convulsive arc—a great eel-like thing with dark, slick scales, its eyeless head towered over them. The gaping mouth, pierced by the mage-spear Silhara crafted, was wide enough to swallow the moon.
Corruption twisted in the air as it hurtled back toward Silhara. The mage invoked a shield spell, using the residual strength of Conclave’s magic and the ceaseless flow of Martise’s Gift. The eel slammed against the mage ward before falling into the water, sending a tidal wave high as a tor toward the lifeless shore.
The god shrieked its anger. I am betrayed!
Conclave’s priests flooded the ocean in crimson light. Silhara, triumphant and riddled with pain, laughed. “You are disbelieved,” he shouted.
The leviathan churned the waters in rising panic. You are my avatar!
Silhara smiled a grim smile. “I am your ruin and your executioner.”
A sudden silence fell around them, and the sea flattened to a glassy stillness. Corruption’s voice whispered comprehension and malice. The apprentice.
Silhara hugged Martise’s limp body, shuddering at her lightness, the translucence of her skin as her life force faded with the diminishing of her Gift. He could no longer wait. The god now knew the source of his greatest strength. “My woman,” he whispered. “My weapon.”
More of the priestly light shone down, and Silhara seized it, weaving an unbreakable web as he not only drained Martise but the priests as well. A nebulous darkness billowed out from the vanished horizon and surged over the ocean’s surface toward him. Silhara braced himself, knowing the god had turned all its will and power on him. To destroy Martise, destroy him and free itself from the prison of its own possession.
Silhara clenched his teeth when the blackness smashed into him. Invisible claws raked his skin. He could see nothing, only hear the cacophony of shrieks and demon howls as Corruption strove to obliterate him. Silhara fought back, bound the god in ethereal chains and bled the darkness dry. A last beseeching screech blasted his ears before the black cloud fractured like glass and exploded in a shower of obsidian splinters. The Master of Crows collapsed.
He awakened flat on his back with a close-up view of Gurn’s blunt face and tear-filled eyes staring at him. A wet coldness seeped into his back and legs. The broken moans of suffering and distress serenaded him into full consciousness. He tried to speak but only managed to cough up a mouthful of blood. Gurn rolled him gently to his side so he could spit.
“Martise.” He struggled to breathe. “Gurn, find Martise.”
The giant stroked the damp hair away from Silhara’s temple and signed before he left. Silhara remained on his side. The uncomfortable damp was the grass beneath him, muddied and brittle with melting frost. From where he huddled, he saw battered white shapes sprawled on the ground. The priests lay around him, their once pristine robes stained with dirt and blood. Some twitched and moaned. Others were ominously still.
His vision blurred, and he squinted, desperate to see another shape—small and dressed in brown wool—among the gathering. “Please,” he prayed sincerely for the first time in his life. “Let her be alive.”
His prayer was answered when a pair of mud-encrusted shoes and a dirty hem filled his vision. Martise fell to her knees beside him. As filthy and bloodied as he, she stared at him as Gurn had, eyes wide and full of tears, but exultant.
“You did it,” she said. Her hand drifted over his face in a feather-light caress. “You defeated a god, Silhara.”
He pulled her down and rolled so that she rested on top of him. Every muscle and bone in his body screamed in protest, but he ignored the pain. She was freezing, muddy and blessedly alive. He cupped her face in his palms and kissed her deeply, uncaring that he tasted of blood. So did she, and she returned his kiss with a desperate fervor, sweeping her tongue into his mouth and sucking on his lower lip.
Tears painted silver tracks on her dirty cheeks when they finally separated. “I will give tribute to the gods every day at temple. You’re a hero, not a martyr.”
He snorted his disdain. “I’m neither, and want to stay that way. Take your credit. Without you, I would not have lived to sing of Corruption’s defeat.”
Martise wiped a trickle of blood from beneath her nose. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
Silhara couldn’t agree more. “Can you summon your Gift?”
She frowned, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. Her wry smile told its tale. “No. It’s gone.”
They both knew such would be the outcome, and in the case of her unique magic, that outcome was a blessing. Still, he remembered the excitement in her eyes when her Gift first manifested and sorrowed for its loss. He stroked her back. “Would you believe me if I said I’m sorry?”
Martise ran her finger over his lip before kissing the spot she’d caressed. No condemnation clouded her gaze. “Yes. But why be sorry? My sacrifice is no greater than yours. I’m free of another yoke, and I’ve lived my life until now without such power. I’ll do so again. And you’re here. Whole and unconquered. I’m happy with that.” She kissed him again, her gaze holding a grief like his. “I heard you on the beach. I’m sorry about your grove. Corruption exacted a terrible punishment.”
Anguish rose within him, despite his present fortuitous circumstances. His grove. The heart of Neith, once the heart of him. Until Martise. The thought eased his sorrow. He rubbed the tip of her braid between thumb and forefinger. “He didn’t take what means most to me.”
Her eyes glittered, almost as dark as his in the shadows of true night. “I love you,” she whispered.
He embraced her, kissed her and inhaled her scent, almost hidden beneath the pungent odors of wet wool and blood. Corruption hadn’t taken her from him, but Cumbria would. Not for long. Not if he had a say in it.
Gurn loomed over them, conspicuously occupying himself with stargazing. He looked down when Silhara raised a hand. The servant helped them stand. His eyes were glassy with tears, but h
e bestowed a beatific smile on Silhara and signed.
The world tilted on its axis as Silhara tottered. His stomach roiled; he wanted to retch, and his clothes were sodden and cold. All those things paled before Gurn’s obvious happiness. He slapped the giant on the arm and gave him a mock scowl. “Piss-poor, disobedient servant as always. I thought I laid a geas against you.”
More signing, and Martise blinked innocently when Gurn pointed to her. “Your geas prevented him from returning to Neith, not the tor.”
This time Silhara’s scowl was genuine. “I’m not usually so careless.”
Servant and apprentice both shrugged. “You were distracted,” she said.
More groans from the surviving priests, along with the whinny of horses and the rattle of carts as Conclave retainers began their climb up the tor to help their masters.
He was out of time. Even with her Gift now extinct, Conclave could never know Martise was here. No lie, no matter how skillfully told, would convince the priests she’d come as a spectator if they saw her standing with him. They’d sensed the change in his strength, the signature feel of a powerful magic not his own. He despised the clerics, but he never underestimated them.
He ached with the need to keep Martise close, to steal her away. Back to Neith where he ruled unchallenged and could defend his right to keep her. But even he couldn’t break the chain that bound her to Cumbria. She had to return.
“Get out of here, Martise,” he said in a harsh voice.
Bewildered by his sudden turn in mood, she gaped at him.
“They can’t find you here. None can know you participated in the ritual. The priests sensed the strengthening of my magic, but they don’t know why. If you stay, they will."
She shook her head, backing away as if to prevent him from physically forcing her down the hillside. “I can’t leave you here. What if the priests…”
“I have Gurn for protection, and they’re no stronger than I am at the moment. I can defend myself if I must. Thanks to you.” He turned to his servant avoiding his sympathetic gaze. “Get her down there and don’t let the servants see her either. If you have to kill one of them to steal a horse, do it.” Gurn nodded and touched a dagger in the sheath at his belt.
Martise stood before him, hands buried in her skirts, her mouth trembling. “Please,” she mouthed.
He didn’t dare comfort her, didn’t dare get too close. If he did, he wouldn’t let her go. His next words cut him like knives, and he bled inside. “You aren’t mine,” he said in a soft voice. “Go home, Martise…of Asher.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“I’ve sold you.”
The words seemed to thunder in Martise’s ears. She gaped at Cumbria sitting across from her, enthroned behind his desk. The short two months following Corruption’s defeat had not been kind. The tall, haughty bishop she’d served nearly all her life was stooped these days, weaker in both body and spirit. But his eyes were as glass-hard and emotionless as ever.
Martise’s heart thudded against her ribs. She’d been summoned here by a bored servant and thought nothing of it. Cumbria often summoned her when assigning tasks of transcription or minor spying on the priests who came to visit him. He’d poleaxed her with his declaration.
She clasped her hands behind her to hide their trembling. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she said softly. “I don’t understand.”
The scratching of a busy quill sharpened the silence as Cumbria went back to scribbling at a stack of documents before him. He didn’t look up when he answered. “What is there not to understand? I’ve been offered a good price for you. One I can’t refuse.” He said the last in acid tones. “You’ll pack your things and leave today. One of my retainers will escort you to Ivenyi. A caravan will take you the rest of the way. Your spirit stone is already with your new master.”
Martise fell to her knees. Somewhere out there, her spirit stone rested in the hands of an unknown master. She’d wished to be free of bondage to Cumbria, but not like this.
Her voice quavered. “Please, Master. I beg you, let me stay. Asher is my home. Surely, I am still of use to you.”
Cumbria dipped his quill in a small inkpot, unmoved by her entreaty. “You have another home now, and I can always find someone with skills similar to yours. Maybe not as good, but adequate enough to serve my purposes.” He finally glanced at her, annoyance stamped on his craggy face. “I’m busy, Martise. Gather your possessions and leave.”
Stumbling to her feet, Martise gave a clumsy bow and backed out of the room. Swamped with fear of an uncertain future, she made her way to the small chamber she shared with one of Dela-fé’s handmaidens. The room was stifling. Even the breeze blowing in from the open window didn’t lessen the heat pouring in from the noon sun. The gods granted her one small mercy this day. No one witnessed her silent weeping.
She sat on the edge of her narrow cot and stared unseeing at the patch of blue sky filling the window. Except for the futile years at Conclave Redoubt, Martise had lived most of her life at Asher. She knew the rhythms of the lives here, even the grand house itself; how the old rooster crowed before the sun rose and avoided Bendewin’s hatchet year after year, the way the roof beams creaked and snapped in the summer afternoon as the sun went down and the air cooled, how the women chorused a sing-song chant, accompanied by the wet slap of fiber as they walked wool in the bailey.
Many of the servants knew her from childhood, and while some deigned not to befriend her because of her status, they were still familiar, still understood. She’d miss them as much as those to whom she’d grown close. Even had she won her freedom, she would have asked to stay. She loved Asher; she just wanted the right to leave if she chose. Still a slave and she didn’t even have the right to stay. She rose and began emptying the small chest by her bed of its contents.
The door to her room flew open and Bendewin strode in, sharp face pinched and dusted with flour. Martise gave her a quick glance and a sniffle and continued shoving her meager possessions into a worn sack.
“I just heard. Why didn’t you tell me, girl?”
Martise shrugged. “I just found out myself. Who told you?”
Bendewin glared at her, arms akimbo, but a suspicious shine glazed her dark eyes. “Jarad. He’s the one who’ll take you to Ivenyi to meet the caravans.”
Trying not to burst into tears, Martise cleared her throat and folded a leine into her pack. “Does he know where they’ll take me?”
“No. They usually take the north roads this time of year, but that’s all I know.” The cook’s face hardened. “You can run. I can help you. I still have Kurman kinsmen who owe me favors after all these years. They can offer you safe haven.”
“What good would that do me, Bendewin? The bishop has already transferred my spirit stone to my new master. I am bound, soul and flesh to another owner.” She paused at Bendewin’s crestfallen expression and patted her arm. “Thank you, though.” The ache in her chest grew. “You’ve been my closest friend, even a mother when I needed one. I’ll miss you most when I leave.”
Bendewin patted her hand awkwardly. “Finish here and come to the kitchens. I’ll have food packed for you. I don’t like those caravan rests. They serve maggoty bread and rancid meat to travelers. At least you know you’ll get a decent meal if I make it.”
When Martise stepped into the kitchens, she found a small crowd of well-wishers waiting for her. She was hugged and cried over, blessed with protective wards and one small, foul-smelling charm. Bendewin handed her a heavy towel tied into a bag that bulged on all sides.
“There’s enjita in there, along with a bit of chicken, some cheese and a few eggs. Also plums and a flask of apricot wine.” Martise’s eyebrows rose at the last. Bendewin sniffed. “The bishop has three casks of the stuff. He won’t miss a glass or two. The old skinflint owes you that much.”
Martise embraced Bendewin a final time. The woman had taken her, bloodied and half-conscious, to her room, tended her and kept the secret of her journey
. She even managed to bribe the stable master not to speak of the incident in the barn, despite the hen’s egg he sported on the side of his head from Gurn’s blow.
Bendewin harrumphed and pushed her gently out the kitchen door. Jarad waited in the bailey with two horses, one the piebald mare. Martise smiled faintly and patted the mare on the neck. “Good to see you again, lass.”
The ride to Ivenyi was short and quiet. Jarad stayed silent except to ask once if she needed water or a rest. When they reached the village, he helped her off the mare, unloaded her packs from the saddle and bid her goodbye.
Nothing more than a dusty rest stop for trade caravans, Ivenyi simmered in the afternoon heat. Martise stood outside a ramshackle rest house amidst a circle of brightly painted wagons and carts loaded with all manner of goods. The traders, a nomadic group made up of people from every clan, tribe and city mingled together, some huddled in groups to barter, others to dice while they waited for their compatriots to finish meals in the house or visit friends.
Three distinct caravans crowded the rest stop. Martise had no idea which would take her to her new home. She was set to hunt down the wagon masters and ask when the most amazing looking man approached her. Dressed in a clashing rainbow of colors, he glittered when he walked from the sunlight bouncing off the many strands of gimcrack beads he wore. Lined by time and sun, he caught Martise’s wide-eyed gaze and held it with a hard, shrewd one of his own.
“Are you Martise of Asher?” She nodded. “Then you ride with my band. I’ll take you to your wagon.”
He didn’t wait to see if she followed. Martise shouldered her pack, grabbed her lunch and hurried to catch up.
“Where will you take me?”
The faint shadow of pity in those otherwise hard eyes made her gut twist in knots. “A place few visit and none are welcome.”
They wove a path through parked wagons and carts, passing knots of women crowded around campfires who paused in their conversations to watch them go by. Children raced around them, shouting and laughing in play. Martise dodged a surly dog that snapped at her heels when she walked too close.