Master of Crows

  “What is the spell to descend, Martise?”

  She ceased struggling, though her breathing was loud and labored. “What?” She panted, her voice thinned to a squeak as she hovered high above him.

  “What is the spell to descend?”

  “I don’t remember! Please, let me down.”

  Her terror washed over him, but he held fast to his intent. “I think not. You disappoint me. A skilled mage knows his spells at every turn, even during times of danger.”

  “I’m not a mage!”

  Silhara tapped a finger against his bottom lip. “But you are Conclave-trained. If you know levitation in two languages, surely you know descent in the same two? Were you not taught to keep your composure?”

  He traced a half circle in the air. Martise gasped as she slowly rotated so that she looked down on him. Her face was bright red, her eyes huge. She reached for him, even when he was too far below her to touch.

  “Master,” she pleaded. “I beg you. Set me down, and I will recite every spell ever written in the Hourlis Arcana.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed, a faint, shuddering sigh escaping her lips. Guilt curdled his stomach. He suppressed it with ruthless determination. If she discovered the truth of Corruption’s hold on him, Conclave would strap him to the nearest stake and cheerfully set him ablaze—only after hours or days of torture.

  “Think, Martise. What is descent?”

  He ended the levitation spell, and she plummeted to the floor. The whistling flutter of her skirts accompanied her screaming attempt to invoke a life-saving counter spell. He invoked levitation an instant before she smashed against the stones.

  Only her stuttering breaths broke the silence in the great hall. Silhara bent close to look in her eyes. They were black with terror, the pupils swallowing the copper color.

  “That should have worked. You’ve a stubborn Gift.”

  His palm hovered over her midriff. He gently lowered her to the ground until she lay in a sea of skirts and coiling braid.

  Martise rolled on her side, away from him, and hid her face behind one hand. Hard shudders wracked her. She pulled her knees to her chest and sucked in great gulps of air. Sickened by what he’d done, Silhara looked away. Bursin have mercy on them both; let this be enough to frighten her away.

  He waited for her to calm, taking a cautious step back when she staggered to her feet and stood before him. Her head was bowed as if in prayer. Did she pray? He thought she might—for his untimely and painful demise, no doubt. He blinked when she raised her head.

  In that moment she reminded him of the Astris statues he’d seen a dozen years earlier. His mentor had taken him east to the Quay province, a land ruled by women. They had sailed through the narrow straits to the main port, passing the Five Queens who guarded the water gates. Silhara had stared, spellbound, at the ancient rulers, their proud, resolute faces worn by neither time nor weather. Theirs was a silent strength, bred of powerful souls never broken. Martise, with that bleak, imperious stare, reminded him of the Queens.

  “I remembered the spell.”

  Disgust for him crossed her still features. Good enough for now. He hadn’t succeeded in scaring her into leaving, but he might coax her to it through hatred—if she didn’t bury a knife in his back first. She was stronger than he anticipated, and far more stubborn than he’d first guessed. Cumbria must have offered her a small fortune to suffer months at Neith. Silhara intended she earn every coin.

  “Aye, you did, apprentice. And it was all for nothing, wasn’t it? We try again tomorrow.” He smirked at her involuntary shiver. “I understand you’ve been helping Gurn. A comfort to know that while you can’t work a simple spell, you can at least milk a goat”

  Her hands twitched before relaxing at her sides. He was curious to see if she’d conquer that urge to slam her fist into his jaw. It seemed so as she laced her fingers together until her knuckles turned white.

  “Yes, Master. I’ve worked among livestock all my life, including cows, pigs, goats…and asses.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Another morning, another lesson—this one worse than all the others combined. The Master of Crows was a hateful, contemptible pig. If he'd tried to terrorize her with his malicious sorcery, the tactic worked. Her heart still thundered in her chest from the fright he'd given her. Of the many lessons he’d subjected her to so far, this one was the pinnacle of nightmares. If he meant to scare her away, his effort failed. Whatever guilt plaguing Martise regarding her mission evaporated. She swore she'd find some evidence to mark Silhara as a heretic. When the priests built his execution pyre, she'd volunteer to lay the first torch. If they chose to behead him, she'd offer to sharpen the axe.

  Bile laced with lingering terror burned the back of her throat. She stumbled into the kitchen, tripping over the scruffy mage-finder where he lay by the door. The dog growled a warning and snapped at her heels. Martise hardly noticed. Bastard! Arrogant, pitiless louse with his mocking smile! Bursin's wings, what she wouldn't give to have her Gift manifest and see how he'd like it if she set a shrieking, blood-mad demon on him. Such a thing would never happen, but she took comfort in imagining the scenario.

  Gurn leaned across the table, scrubbing away the last remnants of breakfast. He stopped when he saw her, slung his wet towel over his shoulder and guided her to one of the benches. She waved him off. It was bad enough Silhara witnessed her screeching in terror. She didn't want Gurn thinking she was some delicate invalid. At least her skirts hid her wobbling knees.

  He hovered over her until she sat and gave him a weak smile. “A Woman’s Bane demon this time. He banished her just before she leapt on me.”

  Gurn’s blue eyes were dark with sympathy. He patted her on the shoulder before striding to one of the cupboards to rummage through its contents. He came back, holding a small cup filled with a pale green liquid. He motioned for her to drink.

  Martise eyed the draught and took a cautious sniff. She coughed as the powerful and familiar fumes of Peleta's Fire scorched her nose. Guaranteed to blister the drinker's entrails and addle his mind by the second cup, its admirers fondly referred to the Fire by its more vulgar name, Dragon Piss. She thought the description apt. Her first and only taste had almost made her retch, and she’d avoided it since. Now, with her composure shattered, she welcomed the drink.

  She took a breath, closed her eyes and downed the cup’s contents in a single gulp. Gurn's shocked expression blurred before her eyes as the Fire seared a white-hot path down her throat and into her belly. She wheezed and bent forward until her forehead touched her knees, the latest fright forgotten. She concentrated solely on inhaling and exhaling.

  Just when she thought her belly would burst into flame, the heat died to a radiant warmth. A pleasant euphoria washed over her, and the floor tilted in her vision. Martise straightened slowly and came face to face with Cael. This close, his large head, with its blunted muzzle and bushy eyebrows, looked enormous. He eyed her in the intense, predatory way mage-finders displayed around the Gifted. Martise, caught in a Fire-induced torpor, forgot her caution and breathed gently into his nostrils. Cael backed away, snorting and shaking his head in protest. She giggled. She didn't blame him. The astringent fumes, whether in the cup or on a person's breath, were enough to curdle milk.

  Cael whined, retreating even more when Martise held out a hand. "Come on, my big lad," she crooned. "I won't hurt you." She grinned at Gurn's laugh.

  She stood slowly and hiccupped. The room spun on a sloping axis. She grabbed for the table's edge to support herself. "The master sent me back to you, Gurn. You're supposed to give me shears and a satchel."

  Her voice slurred the words. They rolled off a tongue swollen and thick. The Fire spiraled through her, heating her blood. Gurn made her sit and brought her a piece of bread to eat. She blinked, certain for one moment there were two pieces in front of her. Her hand hovered over them before Gurn pushed the bread closer, where it became one piece again. She ate slowly, still full from break
fast and drunker than a wine merchant at the end of market day.

  The door from the hall to the kitchen opened, admitting a scowling Silhara. He stopped short at seeing her. She tried to stand, but Gurn's large hand on her shoulder held her in place.

  The mage had braided his hair and tied a kerchief around his head. He wore work clothes shabbier than anything she owned, and she was a slave. Martise smiled at him in drunken admiration, despite her murderous thoughts about him moments earlier. Even dressed in his worn clothing, he cut an appealing figure standing there in Gurn's sunlit kitchen. Too ascetic to be handsome, there was something striking about his face and the confident way he held himself, as if he ruled a kingdom instead of this wretched excuse for a manor.

  Her smile faded. He had just set a demon on her and stood by, amusement curving his lips, while she recited empty spells in a futile effort to stop the gibbering abomination from pouncing on her. Oh yes, not only would she lay the first torch, she'd bring a cart full of extras to share with the spectators.

  Annoyance drew his features into tight lines. "What are you doing? Don’t you have work to attend to? We don't live to serve you, Martise, no matter the bishop's generous contribution for your care."

  Oh, how she wanted to give him a tongue lashing, something that would pin his ears back and silence the scorn he generously doled out to anyone within hearing, but she was far too inebriated to catch a coherent thought much less verbally spar with Silhara. Gurn came to her rescue, his hands moving in agitated gestures too fast for her to follow.

  Silhara's eyes widened at Gurn's silent conversation. "She swilled the entire thing?" Exasperation joined the scorn in his voice. "What were you thinking, you foolish girl?” he admonished. “There was likely enough in that cup to drop a plow horse." He was equally sharp with his servant. "What were you thinking to give her that much?"

  Martise shrugged. Peleta’s Fire also made liars honest. "I was too frightened to think," she mumbled. "Gurn was only trying to help calm me down."

  A haunted expression passed through Silhara’s eyes, so quick she thought it merely a hallucination brought on by the Fire's effect on her befuddled senses. He frowned at Gurn who frowned in return and made another sweeping gesture with his hands.

  "Leave off, Gurn," he snapped. "I'm not in the mood."

  Martise stared at the two men in confusion. The unspoken conversation between them was charged with tension. She wondered at the servant's assured, almost berating manner and her volatile master's patience for such behavior. Cumbria would have had her stripped and beaten in the courtyard for that kind of insolence.

  Silhara strode back the way he came, giving orders over his shoulder as he left. "Make her finish the bread. It'll keep her from retching up her insides. I'll be back." He paused long enough to level a disgusted look at her. "You're more trouble than you're worth." He punctuated the statement by slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the plates and cups in Gurn's dry sink.

  Focused on keeping her stomach calm, Martise sat quietly on the bench and chewed her bread. Gurn’s tall figure wavered in her vision while he worked in the kitchen. So far she failed miserably as a spy. Her bid to insinuate herself into Silhara’s household as seamlessly as possible was a catastrophe. A little more than a fortnight, and she’d done nothing more than act as Gurn’s assistant and subject herself to Silhara’s daily tests. She was no closer to revealing some damning information about him than the first day she arrived. Cumbria’s messenger crow would languish in the trees, waiting for her summons, until his feathers turned white.

  Martise took another bite of the bread and blanched at the threatening roil in her belly. Cumbria might be angered, but he wasn’t the one fighting off demons, being set on fire or tossed toward the manor’s roof with no means to save herself except a wizard of questionable mercy.

  The door leading to the great hall crashed open once more. Silhara had returned. He thrust a goblet under her nose. “Drink this,” he ordered.

  The cup, finely wrought of silver engraved with Kurman knotwork, felt cool in her palm. She tipped the goblet to her mouth then hesitated. Over the rim of her cup, she met Silhara’s gaze, wondering if what he gave her was truly a restorative. His black eyes gleamed with annoyance and a touch of challenge.

  Spiteful wretch. Martise half-regretted her growing knowledge of his character. After the torture sessions in the great hall, she knew he wouldn’t bother poisoning her. There was no entertainment value in that. She narrowed her eyes at him, the Fire’s intoxicating effects giving her a temporary courage, and tossed back the goblet’s contents.

  Cold on the throat and bitter on the tongue, the draught doused the coals burning hot in her belly and even managed to quell the nausea and clear her head in a single swallow. She stared at the cup and then at Silhara, amazed at the speed with which his potion worked. “What is in this drink?”

  His gaze derided her. “All manner of small evils, apprentice. Do you really want to know?”

  “No.”

  He snatched the cup from her. “You’ve recovered enough to work.” He addressed Gurn. “When she’s finished her tasks, bring her out to the grove.” He left without a backward glance.

  The bailey looked no better than the rest of the manor. The wall enclosing it crumbled in one corner; other sections were repaired with a mixture of broken brick and bits of timber. Like the rest of the region, Neith suffered from the summer drought, and the bare patches of earth, once churned to a quagmire by grazing livestock, spread across the yard in cracked, rippling patterns of dried mud. A line of wash fluttered in the breeze, partially concealing a large draft horse feeding at a nearby hay rack and a black goat chewing enthusiastically on the hem of a drying shirt. A sow and three piglets, evicted from their sty by an even dirtier Cael, rooted along the bailey’s perimeter, accompanied by a squawking entourage of chickens.

  For all its ramshackle appearance, the bailey made Martise smile. Like Gurn, it was a spot of normalcy in this strange, forgotten place.

  She spent the remainder of the morning completing her assigned tasks. She milked the goat, fed the chickens and gathered eggs, lugged buckets of water from the well for washing and helped Gurn fold the clean linens on the line. Only when Gurn signaled a pause, and indicated she was to follow him to the grove, did she recall the nature of her mission, and her mouth went dry.

  They returned to the house, navigating the maze of dim hallways until they reached the back of the manor and a richly carved door aged to a black patina. Martise squinted against the bright sunlight when Gurn opened the door and gently urged her outside. From this vantage point, she could turn around and see the manor’s back façade. Windows faced south with shuttered eyes, and she located her room at the far end of the building. Only one window remained open, in the chamber below hers. Curtains, flags of faded lapis and rust, fluttered outward, snapping in the wind like a Kurman dancer’s skirts.

  She faced the grove again. Orange trees covered the field in an orderly pattern, their leafy branches bowed with ripe fruit. Dark green leaves camouflaged the birds nesting in the branches, revealing the occasional glint of sunlight on a black beak. Somewhere, within that rustle of wings, Cumbria’s messenger crow waited for a sign from her.

  This was the first time she’d walked the grove. Until now, her forays had been limited to the manor’s interior and bailey. She’d only seen the grove from her window each morning and evening, admiring the ordered rows of trees and breathing in the scent of orange blossom lingering in the balmy air.

  Gurn led her into the grove, his steps sure as he navigated the orchard’s maze. Martise stayed close to him. Each shaded path looked as the other did. Even the manor could no longer be seen as a landmark.

  They rounded a corner and stopped before a line of crates filled with oranges and a tall ladder leaning against a tree’s yielding branches. The top of the ladder disappeared into the leaves, but Martise saw a pair of shoes balanced on one of the rungs. Gurn whistled lo
w, and the shoes moved. Silhara descended the ladder partway and faced them. She swallowed a gasp, silently admonishing herself for her gut reaction to his appearance.

  Working in the morning heat had left a sheen of perspiration on him, and his swarthy skin glistened in the light.

  His shirt was plastered to his back and chest, giving her a clear view of lean, sinewy muscle and shoulders rippling with the strength built by hard labor. A pink flush graced his prominent cheekbones, and a bead of sweat trickled down his neck, sliding in a meandering path across the white ligature scar before disappearing beneath the shirt’s open neckline.

  He swiped his sleeve across his forehead and adjusted the sack, half filled with oranges, across his shoulder. The ladder creaked under his weight as he climbed down to the last rung. Martise looked down, hoping her face didn’t reveal her fascination. What was the matter with her, desiring the man who had nearly killed her with fright only hours before?

  “Was she a help or a hindrance?”

  Her head snapped up. Hindrance? Her fingernails dug into her palms. There were many things she could be rightfully accused of—plainness, shyness, sometimes cowardice—but never laziness or incompetence. She clenched her hands into fists, stopping short of lashing out at him. She was slave-bound and had mastered the art of submissive behavior at an early age, yet there was something about the Master of Crows that made her forget all her training, her low place in the world. He was no more imperious or overbearing than any other landed noble, but he struck an angry chord in her every time he spoke.

  Gurn motioned with his hands, his bald head nodding in time with his enthusiastic gestures. Martise felt vindicated. At least one person here was pleased with her performance so far.

  The mage grunted and walked away to rummage through an empty crate. Whether he accepted Gurn’s silent assessment of her morning’s work or not, no compliment was forthcoming. She stiffened when he returned.