Well, Martise thought. That ended in utter failure and humiliation. She didn’t know how Cumbria expected her to send him messages when his messenger wouldn’t respond to her calls. Then again, if Micah had any sense, he’d flown away with the rest of the crows at her first shrill note.
Her thoughts caught on Silhara’s coarse comment regarding her voice. The most left-handed compliment she’d ever received, it still managed to send a pleasant heat through her. Most often, she dreaded such remarks from people, even the more refined ones. They were usually accompanied by the callous observation of what a pity it was her face didn’t match her voice.
She had never held any illusions concerning her appearance. She’d been fooled once into thinking it didn’t matter to someone else and had come away with a bruised heart for her mistake. The small cuts about her plainness, whether purposeful or inadvertent, hurt less after so many years, but the pain never truly faded. She was grateful that Silhara, as abrupt and snide as he could be at times, had only once commented on her looks. Even then, she wasn’t sure if she’d misunderstood his offhand remark about not bothering to primp for them. If he thought her as drab as others did, he kept his opinions to himself.
She paused in reaching for another cluster of oranges and shook her head to rid herself of the memory of her time with him in the stillroom. Rape didn’t require beauty. Silhara’s blunt command that she undress had nearly driven her into a blind panic. Only the obvious disinterest in his eyes and the half bored, half irritated note in his rough voice calmed her. He’d massaged the liniment into her back with strong fingers, kneading tight, aching muscles until she almost fell in a boneless heap on the floor.
He had good hands. Graceful, adept. They were the hands of a scholar save for the rough calluses that covered the pads of his fingers and toughened his palms. He’d eased the pain in muscles still unused to the rigors of orange harvesting, all the while entertaining her with anecdotes of his past. He’d suffered a harsh childhood, yet he spoke of it and his mother in a matter-of-fact tone, as if every six-year old lived in a brothel and acted as messenger to hourin and the men they serviced. He’d even surprised a laugh out of her. His was an irreverent humor, dry and often sarcastic.
Martise frowned and cut the cluster of oranges from their branch with more force than necessary. He fascinated her, drew her in ways no man ever had before him. Not even her old lover Balian, whom she once thought she loved. The sensation of Silhara close behind her, smoothing her skin with rough hands, had mesmerized her. Her first fear had evaporated, making her aware that she stood alone with him in the dark, fragrant stillroom.
That awareness had changed to a humming tension which danced along her spine when his hands lowered to her waist, fingers flexing gently against her skin. He’d curved his tall frame into hers, and she’d drowned in a myriad of sensations—the smoky sweetness of tobacco and orange flower, a whisper of cloth, the puff of air tickling her ear as he drew closer. Thank Bursin he’d stepped away when he did, or she might have been tempted to lean back into his warmth, forgetting her purpose at Neith and the many reasons why she should despise him.
He was an enigma. To anyone except maybe Gurn. Son of a prostitute, poor landowner, Conclave-trained, a mage of notoriety instead of renown, he was a strange combination of opposing roles. Eloquent and vulgar by turn, he was quick with a quip or an insult. His methods for making her Gift manifest were terrifying and extreme. Martise had been relieved when he pronounced them useless and halted them. He was a strict taskmaster, chiding her when she did something wrong but just as willing to show her the proper way of completing the task. He worked her and Gurn from dawn to dusk and even later, when she toiled away at translations and research in the candlelit library. No one questioned who ruled here, but Silhara worked as hard, if not harder, than they did and never put himself above any chore.
Even now, he was ensconced in an orange tree nearby, probably swatting wasps and dodging bird droppings as he picked fruit and cursed her name for bludgeoning his ears with her lullaby. The image made her grin and chased away the seductive heat pooling in her belly.
She was saved from further introspection by a loud clang. Gurn called them to lunch. Her stomach rumbled in response, and she made quick work leaving the orchard, stripping off the hat and cleaning her face and hands at the well pump.
The servant’s blue eyes glinted at her as he signed from the kitchen door. Martise, used to his particular language now, blushed and raised her chin. “You’re exaggerating. My singing wasn’t that bad.” He snorted in disagreement and nudged her toward the table.
She was seated and pouring tea for everyone when Silhara came through the door. His face, still damp from a quick wash, was grim. He sat in his customary spot across from her. Martise expected additional acidic commentary about her singing, but he only addressed Gurn.
“We need rain. This drought’s lasted too long. Some of the younger trees are dropping leaves. If this keeps up, we’ll have little flowering come autumn.”
Gurn’s normally amiable features went as dark as Silhara’s. He finished laying out the rest of their lunch and sat down. The kitchen was dead quiet until Martise, eaten with curiosity, spoke.
“What will this mean for your orchard?”
Silhara filled his plate with cheese, bread, slices of smoked pork and small tomatoes from Gurn’s garden. “A poor harvest for next year.” He slid the ever-present bowl of oranges toward Gurn. “Too much leaf-drop means fewer flowers. Fewer flowers mean less fruit. Less fruit to sell, less money made. We starve.” He wore that familiar, derisive half-smile. “Good thing I’m a crow mage. We sell our magic like hourin sell their bodies.”
Martise didn’t answer. Everyone knew of Conclave’s distaste for the mages who sold the labors of their Gifts for money. Silhara’s given title of Master of Crows was no compliment.
She was content to sip tea and listen to him converse with Gurn and plan their trip to Eastern Prime. She no longer watched in astonishment while he ate. The first time he had sat down to lunch with her and Gurn, she’d gawked as he consumed a loaf of bread, half a small wheel of cheese, an entire chicken, five boiled eggs and a bowl of olives.
She’d expected him to eat more at lunch than he did at breakfast, but he amazed her. After working hours in the grove, she was starving by lunchtime, and that was with Gurn’s porridge sticking to her ribs. She didn’t know how Silhara managed to work on so little breakfast. His scant meal of tea and two oranges in the morning wouldn’t hold a child until midday. He made up for it at lunch. It was no wonder the servant baked enough bread for an army and kept a coop full of nesting hens.
“Have you found anything on god rituals?” He popped a tomato in his mouth and chewed.
She paused in buttering a slice of bread. “Only a few things, and none that speak of defeating one through magery. The Dalatian chronicles mention a god destroyed by disbelief. But that took generations to accomplish and the introduction of a new god.”
Silhara stabbed a slice of pork with his knife. “Generations? That’s a luxury of time we don’t have. I doubt Corruption will be content to wait another few hundred years before seizing control.”
She nodded. “Before I came to Neith, there were rumors of strange plagues in the southern provinces. Crops dying for no apparent cause and famine in the outlying areas.”
He scowled. “An impatient god is a dangerous one.” He steepled his hands together and peered at her over the tops of his fingers. “Try harder. My library is extensive. There must be something.”
A growl of frustration rose in her throat, and she swallowed it down. He’d assigned her no easy task. His library was extraordinary. A room of shelves stretching from floor to ceiling, filled to overflowing with tomes, scrolls and sheaves of loose-leaf manuscripts. Some looked almost new, while others crumbled under her fingers, so ancient their ink had faded to mere shadows on the yellowed parchment. She had no doubt some jewel of information lay hidden in that mountain
of knowledge, but the search proved to be monumental and overwhelming. She possessed a unique talent for remembering every detail she’d read, every conversation she heard. But she was one woman amongst thousands of documents.
Silhara helped her at night, when his work in the grove was done for the evening. They sometimes took supper in the library, with Gurn retrieving books from the high shelves while she and Silhara pored over pages of archaic words, looking for that one ceremony that might aid them. For all the power of his Gift, he neither possessed her skill with translation nor her memory. He deciphered text much slower than she did. There were times when he’d pin her with a speculative stare when she directed him to a specific page of a specific grimoir for more information. So far their best efforts had been fruitless, and Martise was as frustrated as he over their lack of progress. Try harder. She glared at her plate.
“Martise, lower your knife. There are more than a few people eager to carve out my heart. You’ll have to take your place in line.”
She glanced up, startled. Amusement lightened his dark eyes. She looked at her hand fisted around her eating knife in a death grip. The knife struck the table with a clatter. She cleared her throat and stopped just short of apologizing when his eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t…”
“Wasn’t what? Dreaming of ways to skin my hide and nail it to my chamber door?” He laughed, a rough grating sound. “You’re better than most at concealing your thoughts.” He paused, and his gaze lowered. The timbre of his voice changed, smoothed and deepened. “But you have an expressive mouth. What you hide in your eyes is revealed there.”
Her stomach somersaulted against her ribs. She licked her bottom lip. His eyes went blacker than the most forbidden arcana spell. She took a breath, as unnerved by her reaction to his words as the words themselves. “I’ll try harder.”
“I’m certain you will.” He dragged his gaze to Gurn. “Pull out the large chest in the corner by the south window and unlock it. She can search the grimoires.”
He looked back. His voice was raspy again. “We’ll try something new tonight. I’ve books taken from Iwehvenn Keep. Old tomes with writings about the Wastelands and their ancient magic. There may be nothing of use to us, but it’s worth a look.”
The sip of tea she’d taken soured in her mouth. She swallowed hard. “Iwehvenn Keep? The lich’s stronghold?”
He nodded. “The very one. The Eater of Souls is far more interested in feasting on the spirit of the unlucky traveler than he is in reading. He won’t miss what I took.”
Martise struggled to keep from gaping at him. She’d grown up listening to the horror stories of the Soul Eater of Iwehvenn and the hapless victims who’d fallen prey to its ravenous appetite. That Silhara had willingly breached the lich’s fortress and come away unscathed was extraordinary and a testament to his cunning and the strength of his Gift.
No wonder the priesthood feared him. A mage that young, who commanded such power, was formidable and not easily matched nor defeated.
Silhara drained his cup and rose. “I’ve wasted enough time.” He eyed Martise. “Gurn will show you where I keep those tomes. Your fingers may pain you. The lich’s taint still lingers on the pages.”
He left her with a warning reminder. “No singing in the library. No singing anywhere. If I hear you, I’ll see to it you’re as mute as Gurn for the rest of your stay at Neith.”
She held up her hands in surrender. “No singing. I swear.”
The rest of lunch was quick and uneventful. Martise helped Gurn clear away the food and wash dishes.
“Gurn,” she said. He paused in straightening the larder. “The grove is more than a source of income, isn’t it? Silhara loves those trees.”
Mute but adept at expressing his thoughts and opinions, he draped long arms over the larder’s door and stared at her in somber approval. Even had he not nodded and confirmed her supposition, she knew she was right. Silhara treasured his small orange grove in the way another man would treasure a beloved wife or child. Martise frowned, oddly troubled by her observation. She had yet to discover his heresy, but she’d found his vulnerability.
The disturbing thought stayed with her as she made her way to the library and the tomes awaiting her perusal. Her long-suffering sigh echoed in the cavernous room, a far cry from her reaction at seeing the library for the first time. Cumbria’s library at Asher was extensive, but nothing compared to the one at Neith. Only Conclave’s equaled it in scope and variety, and that library served hundreds of priests and novitiates.
Narrow windows, flanked by bookshelves, filtered light in from the south and east. At night, she was often distracted from her reading by the glimmer of stars and moon as they hung jewel-like in the window’s frame of the night sky—and relieved that she didn’t see Corruption’s star from this vantage point.
The chamber wasn’t as dusty as most of the manor, but it was far from neat. Grimoires and scrolls lay scattered across the floor and stacked in haphazard fashion on the shelves. The two tables placed in the center almost sagged under the weight of more. Open chests spilled loose pages onto the floor. It had taken her two days to figure out an orderly way to conduct her research and not drown in a sea of parchment.
Gurn arrived and pointed to a small chest tucked in a corner near the south windows. He unlocked it with a rusted key, and a cloud of dust rose from the chest’s interior. Martise choked, and Gurn covered his mouth with the hem of his tunic while he pulled the stack of grimoires out and piled them on the floor.
She stared at the cover of the first tome, captivated by the curving symbols etched into the cracked leather. She recognized the writing, an extinct script of the far northern countries that bordered the outland Waste. One of her Conclave mentors, an ancient priestess and scribe from those distant lands, had taught her how to read early Helenese.
“Remember it always, Martise,” she’d commanded in a reedy voice. “There are few left alive who can read the old Northern tongue. Too much knowledge is already lost.”
Gurn hovered at her side, eyeing the books with more revulsion than fascination. She waved him off. “Go on, Gurn. Silhara is probably wondering what’s taking you so long.” She sank to her knees before the books. “I’ll be fine here.”
She didn’t hear him leave, too entranced by the knowledge revealed within the books. Her hands tingled unpleasantly each time she touched the pages. Mild nausea made her stomach roil, but it wasn’t enough make her abandon the trove of information before her. She took a more comfortable seat on the floor and began reading.
The dying sun cast long shadows across her lap. Martise raised her head for the first time in hours, aware of an ache in her neck and the beginnings of a headache. The library had taken on a surreal cast, silvering with the moon’s rise and the last sparkle of dust motes.
“A woman garbed in moonlight is a fair sight indeed.”
Silhara stood over her, his approach silent as always. Shadows hollowed the spaces beneath his cheekbones and highlighted the arch of his nose. He stared at her, eyes glittering. “Did you try harder, Martise?” His voice, too damaged ever to caress, stroked her skin.
She raised the book she held to him. “I did, Master. And I think I’ve found your god-killer.”
CHAPTER NINE
“What do you mean half the ritual is missing?”
Silhara scowled at the scatter of loose papers Martise had spread before him. Candlelight danced with the moon's glow as it streamed through the library windows. Martise, sitting next to him, pinched the bridge of her nose. The action gave him pause. His apprentice, normally so diligent at hiding her emotions, had twice today revealed her frustration with him. First, the knife clutched in her hand at lunch and now this. He didn’t know whether to laugh or reprimand her. But he couldn’t resist the chance to goad her.
“Did you lose the additional pages? I don’t like carelessness, Martise.”
He heard her teeth snap together. “No, Master. There were no additional pages to lose.??
? She rubbed her temples. It was past midnight, and the two of them had been studying this particular tome since he’d returned to the library and found her sitting on the floor with the lich’s books spread around her. “As you can see, the pages are falling out of the book.” She waved a hand at the individual pieces. “The binding is old and the threads rotted. I’m surprised it held together this long.” Her sidelong look was hesitant. “Is it possible some pages fell and were left behind when you stole…I mean took the books?”
He leaned back against his chair and cursed. “Not possible. Probable. I had no wish to linger and taste the soul eater’s brand of hospitality. Those pages, and others, are likely gathering dust in Iwehvenn’s library.” He smirked at her. “And I’m usually such a careful thief.”
Martise blushed and lowered her eyes. “I meant no offense.”
“Ah, another way to apologize. You have an impressive arsenal of conciliatory statements. I’ve known slaves less contrite than you.” Her expressive mouth tightened to a thin line. She had a finely curved jaw and a long neck revealed by her upswept hair. Silhara hadn’t noticed either before. A trick of the moonlight, he thought. Graced by a sliver of silvery radiance piercing the window, she reminded him of a moth—colorless in the daylight but ethereal at night.
He cast a baleful glare at the papers with their rows of archaic script. He’d done passably well with transcription and translation during his years at Conclave, but his skills were nowhere near Martise’s expertise. He’d been too busy brawling with fellow novitiates in the shadowed corridors, terrorizing his teachers with the unpredictable strength of his Gift and causing general mayhem at Conclave Redoubt.
“Read it again. There must be enough there to build upon.”
Her faint sigh carried a wealth of grudging acquiescence. Silhara promised himself he'd listen closely and not become ensorcelled by her voice as she read the passage for a third time.