Master of Crows (24 page)

Gurn hesitated for a moment, glanced at Martise’s shocked expression, then bowed and left.  Martise’s fingers were laced together, the knuckles white against her dark skirts.  A blank look, at odds with those tense hands, settled over her features.

“This,” he waved a hand to encompass the windows, “shouldn’t have happened.  At least not how you saw it.”

Her brow furrowed.  “I don’t understand.  You’re very powerful.  That didn’t seem beyond your reach.”

“It isn’t.  But that particular shatter spell should have done nothing more than crack the glass.  Its very nature limits the effects, no matter the power of the mage.  The second spell was harder.  Repairing is always more difficult than destroying.  The spell should have made me bleed.  I didn’t.”  He raised his hands so she could see the shimmer of her Gift still on them.  “The power of your Gift, channeled through me, transformed those spells.”

She blinked at him, raised her hands which no longer glowed as his did.  “My Gift lent you power?”

Silhara gut turned at the rekindled hope in her eyes.  “Your Gift is rare, Martise.  The last recorded Gifted with your talent was born more than fourteen hundred years ago to a coastal woman.  The Kurmans call such Gifted
bide jiana
.  Life-givers.  That life-giver met a bad end at the hands of his lover, a crow mage who once lived not far from here.”

Martise frowned.  Silhara could almost hear her mentally searching the many archives she’d read and translated, the histories of Conclave and the varied talents born to the Gifted.

“I’ve never heard or read of a—what did you call it?—a
bide jiana
.  The priests never taught us of them.”

“They’re legendary, so rare that many believe their existence only myth.  Conclave has never had a life-giver join the priestly ranks.”  He smirked.  “And what Conclave doesn’t know or recognize is either fabrication or simply unimportant.”

He kept his voice even, revealing nothing of the growing turmoil inside him.  “Your Gift is no blessing, Martise.  Not to you.  The spells you’ve learned and memorized will never work for you.”   Her shocked gasp punctuated his statement, but he continued, relentless with the truth and determined to protect her, no matter how much she might suffer from his honesty.

“You’re a vessel, nothing more.  A source to be used by mages like me.  Your power strengthens the magic of others.

Martise’s mouth thinned to a tight line, and her eyes darkened.  “How did you learn this?” she whispered.

She aged before his eyes, made haggard by his words.  “I searched the library.  I have several tomes of the black arcana.  Two tell of crow wizards who enslaved
bide jiana
and fed on their power like leeches on blood.  One was the soul eater of Iwehvenn.”

Her face went white, and she swayed.  Silhara reached out to steady her, but she jerked away from his touch.

Stiffer than a rake handle, she buried her hands in her skirt and breathed slowly.  She stared at the floor and then at him.  “I’m going to be sick,” she said flatly and rushed past him to the kitchen.

Standing alone in the great hall, he wondered why he didn’t feel like celebrating his triumph over Conclave and Cumbria in particular.  His spy had witnessed nothing yet that would condemn him as a traitor or a heretic.  And now it mattered little if she did.  Corruption could drink tea with him in the kitchen and discuss how they intended to remake the world in their preference—starting with the slow torture and death of every Conclave priest.  He now held the key to her silence.  Whatever prize Cumbria dangled before her for turning Silhara over to them, he doubted it was worth the sacrifice of her soul.

Out in the bailey Gurn stood by his washtub and peered at a spot behind one corner of the house.  The unmistakable sound of violent retching overrode the squawks, bleats and snorts of the livestock milling about the enclosure.  Silhara came to stand next to Gurn and answered his frantically signed question.

“Leave her be, Gurn.  She’s just learned a cruel truth.”

Both men waited until Martise reappeared around the corner.  Her pallor gave her eyes a sunken appearance.  She met Silhara’s gaze bleakly.  “What will you tell the bishop?”

Silhara held her gaze.  “Gurn, where’s that wine we bought at market?”

Gurn signed, and Silhara took Martise’s hand.  Her fingers were cold in the summer heat.  In the kitchen, Silhara opened the cold cellar and returned with a small jar.

“Wouldn’t the Fire be better?”  She was calm, but her sensual voice carried a shrill note.

“It might.”  He lifted the bottle of Peleta’s Fire from the cupboard shelf and handed it to her.  “Use it to rinse your mouth, but don’t drink.  I need you coherent and thinking.  The wine will do well enough.”

He waited while she rinsed with a combination of water and Fire and spat in the slop bucket by the door.  Just a taste of the strong drink brought a hint of color back to her cheeks, and she stood straighter.  They climbed to his chamber.  He motioned for her to sit on the bed while he poured wine into goblets and gave her one.  She drained it in two gulps and held out the cup for more.

Eyebrows raised, he refilled the cup.  He dragged the only chair across the room and sat across from her, holding his own goblet.  Martise eyed him warily, much as she did when she first met him.  They were adversaries again.

“There are many things I plan to tell Cumbria of Asher.  None should be uttered in polite company.”  She smiled faintly at that.  “Enslaving and using another mage for the purpose of gaining power is one of the darkest arcana.  By Conclave law, any mage caught performing such a practice is subject to death.”  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.  The little color that had returned to her cheeks faded once more.

“A bondage like no other.”

“It is.  And a compulsion for the mage who controls the
jiana
.  A taste of it is more than tempting.”  His eyes narrowed when she swallowed and looked away.  “For a powerful mage, like me or Cumbria, your talent is worth more than a ship loaded to the waterline with gold.”

He chuckled dryly.  “All this time serving his household, training with Conclave, and he never knew.”

“But you’ll tell him, or keep me for yourself.”  Bitterness sharpened her words.

There were many reasons why he might like to keep Martise for himself.  Her Gift wasn’t one of them.  With Corruption’s star hanging in the sky outside his window and the god’s voice promising him a power that could bring kingdoms to their knees, her Gift held only a small temptation.

“While enticing, I don’t have need of such a Gift, but Cumbria would.  With you empowering him, he could control Conclave.  He wouldn’t have to wait for the Luminary to die or the Holy See to meet and elect the next Luminary.  He’d simply usurp and rule.  I doubt Conclave’s laws or any imaginary morality would stop him from leeching you.”  His lip curled into a sneer.  “The man who reviles crow mages would become the epitome of all such failed men.”

Martise rose and walked to the window.  Framed in the curved arch and backlit by sunlight, her features were cast in shadow.  “What now then?”

He frowned at the dull note in her voice, as if something more than the hope of her Gift had died within her.

“I have Conclave up my nose enough as it is, and that’s with a Luminary who is reasonable and doesn’t bear me ill will.  I’ve no wish to help the bishop rise to greater prominence.”  He drained his wine and rose.  She didn’t back away when he approached her.  “I can teach you to hide your Gift.  Not just control it, but submerge it.  Deep enough that the priests will never sense its presence.  And I am a good liar.  It won’t take much to convince Conclave that I failed in finding your talent.

Martise’s empty gaze raked him.  “You can use me, and I can’t stop you.”

Her hair was soft as he stroked her braid.  “How is this different from any other day?”

She closed her eyes.  “I’m scared.”

He caressed her cheek.  He hated her fear, but it would keep her alive.  “You should be.  The
bide jiana
enslaved had their Gifts taken from them by force.  Sex, torture, whatever their masters found necessary to make that power manifest and use it to their advantage.”

Hollow laughter, edged with hysteria, escaped her.  Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she covered her mouth.  The laughter turned to agonized groans.  Silhara wrapped his arms around her, driven by an unfamiliar urge to hold and comfort.  He rubbed her back and let her tears bleed on his chest.  She felt good in his arms, even in her grief.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wept for anything, but he understood her tears.  They were made of anger and broken dreams, frustration and powerlessness.  He held her in silence until she hiccupped and straightened away from him.

She wiped away the remaining tears with shaking hands “Surely, the gods laugh.”

Gods were nothing more to him than a convenient means by which he cursed the daily annoyances of life.  Only Corruption had risen above that philosophy, and Silhara loathed his seducer.  “They don’t do much else, apprentice.  None are worth a single genuflection from any of us.”  Her bottom lip quivered under his thumb.  “Let me give you the means to protect yourself, Martise.”

A gentle kiss on his thumb and she sighed.  “Many would say I’d be a fool to trust you.”

“And many would be right.  I lie well, and I lie often.”

Amusement lightened her somber face.  “You’ve never lied to me.”

“Haven’t I?”

“Not in those things that count.”

Desire rose in him.  Not fierce as before, but just as strong, just as deep.  Save for Gurn and Cael, and his mother so long ago, he’d not been moved to care for anyone—until now.

He led her to the bed and made slow love to her, telling her with his hands what he was too frightened to recognize in the deepest part of his heart.  Afterward, he spooned against her and nestled his face in her fragrant hair.  Outside, the crows screeched and flapped in the trees, and Gurn hummed an off-key chant as he swept the back stoop.   Silhara had wasted the day away in here with Martise and regretted none of it.

Their lessons would be in earnest now.  He’d be damned if he saw her broken on the wheel of slavery, even more damned if he gave Cumbria the chance to rise to greater power.  He’d hand his soul over to Corruption with a smile if necessary to stop the bishop.

The crows’ discordant songs faded, and he drifted on the edge of sleep, content to savor Martise’s warmth.  She stirred, slid her foot along his calf.  Her voice, cool and faintly challenging, brought him fully awake.

“What will protect me from you?”

He pulled her hard against him and nipped her shoulder.  "Nothing."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Her time here had been a spectacular failure.  Martise sat on a milking stool in the bailey, milking one of the new nanny goats and wondering what she would do now.  Gurn sat nearby, repairing a section of Gnat’s bridle.  Silhara had sequestered himself in the stillroom to bottle one of the many perfumes he made from orange flowers.

She had three more weeks at Neith with no true purpose other than continue her translations for Silhara, and that had always been a flimsy reason.  Cumbria’s crow had never answered her call, and she’d sung in secret three more times.  Not that any message meant much.  All she had to report was their trip to Iwehvenn, which was neither a secret nor a crime.  If Silhara worked to betray Conclave in any way, he’d kept his machinations well-hidden.

She paused in her milking.  The Master of Crows had insured her silence with his knowledge of her Gift.  She shuddered at the idea of her talent revealed to others.  Her current bondage was nothing compared to its potential.

Silhara had offered her the means to effectively hide what she now thought of as her curse.  Each morning, instead of coaxing her talent for spell work, they strove to suppress it, push it back to the deep recesses it occupied prior to the lich’s attack at Iwehvenn. Silhara’s altruism cloaked a more personal motivation.  Conclave, under Cumbria’s rule, would turn on him without hesitation.  The present Luminary was a fair man, an adherent to the rule of law who insisted on justice by proof and trial.  He might suspect Silhara of nefarious activities, but he wouldn’t condemn him without evidence.  Cumbria would not be bound by such strictures.

Martise regretted coming to Neith.  Enslaved for most of her life, she’d grown accustomed to her role, but she never lost the yearning to be a free woman, to control her own life and regain that small part of her spirit locked away in a glittering jewel.

At the time she’d made her accord with Cumbria, her purpose was clear, or so she imagined.  A small sob lodged in the back of her throat.  Betraying Silhara might have been easy at first.  Not now.  Even without his knowledge of her Gift, she couldn’t turn him over.  She might be nothing more to him than a convenient bed mate while she stayed at Neith, but he was far more to her.  The rebellious mage, who refused to wear Conclave’s yoke and lived as an outcast pauper for it, had frightened her, mentored her, defended her and saw her as something more than a pair of useful, obedient hands.  When he took her to his bed, he might as well have placed Cumbria’s shackles on her wrists.  He’d never know she’d fallen in love with him, and she’d leave Neith never saying it aloud.  Her freedom wasn’t worth his death.

A tug on her braid made her look up from staring blindly at the ground.  The nanny goat chewed contentedly on the end.  Martise yanked the braid away and flipped it over her shoulder.  “No you don’t, my girl.  You’ve already chewed holes in two of Gurn’s blankets.  You’ll not be gnawing on me today.”

The air suddenly warped around her, followed by a blast of cold wind from the solaris wood.  Cael barked a warning, and the goat bleated and scampered away to take shelter under one of the bailey’s overhangs.

Martise rose from her stool.  “What was that?”

Gurn shrugged, looking surprised but unconcerned.

The door to the stillroom flew open, and Silhara strode out, wiping his hands on a cloth.  His dark hair was restrained in a tight queue, giving his eyes a more narrow shape.

He peered past the bailey wall.  “We have visitors.”  Gurn caught the cloth he tossed him.  “Gurn, they’ll have their ponies with them.  You’ll need to lead them in.”

Martise wanted to ask who “they” were but held her tongue.

Silhara issued more instructions as he headed for the kitchen.  “Set a blanket and whatever pillows you can find out in the courtyard.  We’ll eat our midday there.”  He crooked a finger at Martise.  “Come with me.”

Once in the kitchen he pinned her with a curious gaze.  “Can you brew a pot of strong tea?”

“Yes, why?”

“Good.  Brew several and bring them outside to where Gurn will set up for lunch.”  His eyes narrowed.  “What do you know of Kurmanji customs?”

Ah, the identity of their visitors.

“A little.  Asher’s cook was a Kurman woman.”  She ticked off items on her fingers.  “Don’t eat with the left hand; be sure to touch your heart when you thank someone, and if you’re a woman don’t meet a man’s gaze directly unless you want him to know you’re interested.”

He arched an eyebrow.  “Good.  You’re familiar with the important things.  Especially the last.  These men who visit know the ways of the plains and coastal folk are different from theirs.  But I’d rather be cautious.  I don’t fancy another fight just to prove you’re mine.  And unlike your Balian, Kurmans are very good with their daggers.”

He left her in the kitchen, and she watched him go, stunned and warmed by his comment.

“
You’re mine.”

He might only mean it in the sense she was a servant of his household, and he wouldn’t give her up to an amorous tribesman.  Nor did she think any challenge would be issued.  She wasn’t Anya.  Still, she clung to the hope his possessive statement was more primal than practical.  Martise chastised herself for entertaining such thoughts.  Whatever he meant, it mattered little.

While Gurn was gone, she managed to brew three large pots of black tea, gather several loaves of bread, salted mutton, cheese, olives and oranges.  She used the remaining time to race to her room, wash her face and hands and rebraid her hair.

Gurn met her in the kitchen on his return, and between the two of them, they gathered up the food and drink, along with two large blankets and several dusty cushions.  Out in the courtyard, she spotted Silhara talking with two men dressed in the typical Kurman garb of dun-colored trousers and shirt, brightened by colorful beaded vests and pointed-toe shoes.  They were shorter than Silhara and stocky, with swarthy-complected faces that sported neatly trimmed beards.  The hair and eyes were the same, just as black, and they both had the same prominent noses and cheekbones.  If Silhara didn’t have some Kurman in him, she’d eat one of her shoes.

The shadow cast by the broken walls offered a wide expanse of cool shade.  Gurn laid out the blankets and set the cushions near each other while Martise placed the food in the center and sliced the bread.  She watched Silhara with the Kurmans from the corner of her eye.  She recognized the older of the men as one she’d seen Silhara talking to in Eastern Prime’s market.

He levered a wrapped parcel off his shoulder and set it on the ground.  Carefully pulling back the cloth that bound it, he lifted a crossbow and handed it to Silhara.  From her vantage point, Martise saw it was a finely made weapon.  Silhara must have ordered one from market to replace the one he lost at Iwehvenn.  Likely paid for with the bishop’s money.  She smiled at the idea.

Snatches of conversation floated to her on the breeze as she waited with Gurn by the blankets.  Bendewin, Asher’s cook, had taught her some Kurmanji.  More guttural than the clipped plains speech, Kurmanji was a difficult language to learn and had never been put into script.  The two Kurmans spoke with a mix of rapid-fire words and flamboyant hand gestures.  Obviously fluent, Silhara answered them with ease.

He broke away from their little knot, carrying the crossbow with him.  Gurn eyed it with an admiring gaze.

Silhara handed the bow to the servant.  “Beautiful work, isn’t it?  When you’re through serving, take it to my chambers.  I‘ll test-fire it later.  And bring down the
huqqah
.”  His features sobered.  “Martise, Gurn will serve the men.  You serve me and me alone.  And look me in the eye.  They’ll know you’re my concubine as well as a servant.”

“As you wish, but I don’t think they’ll notice…”  She stopped, surprising herself.  She’d never argued with him or questioned his instruction before.  A quick glance confirmed he was as surprised as she.

“Well, well,” he said, but didn’t admonish her.  “Rank in a Kurman tribe is based on the number of sheep you own, the wives you have and the children you’ve sired.  Younger men have to work hard to gain a Kurman wife.  Some prefer to pursue one outside the tribe.”

He stepped closer but didn’t touch her.  Their visitors observed their interaction with interest.  “Don’t underestimate your presence, Martise,” he said in a low voice.  “You may have been faceless at Asher.  You aren’t at Neith.  If at all possible, try not to speak.”

He returned to the men and led them back to the shaded place she and Gurn had prepared for their meal.  They sat in a semi-circle against the cushions and broke bread between them.    Martise followed Kurman protocol, not meeting anyone’s eyes save Silhara’s.  She hovered at his side, pouring tea and filling his plate.  She was in her element and had done this very thing for Cumbria dozens of times.  Only now, she wasn’t ignored.  The Kurmans watched her as she attended their host, and the younger of the men tried to catch her eye.

Martise pretended not to understand when he remarked on her to Silhara.

“Your woman serves you well.  She wasn’t here the last time we traded at Neith.”

Silhara popped an olive into his mouth and chewed before answering.  “Martise came to Neith in the beginning of summer.  Sent by Conclave.”

A surprised silence met his statement before the older Kurman spoke.  “You are at peace with the priests then?”

Silhara gave a short laugh.  “I am never at peace with the priests.  However, we’ve agreed to work together to rid the land of the god.  Martise helps me with that.  And other things.”  He ran his fingers lightly over her calf and handed her his cup for a refill.  Both men nodded in recognition of his silent claim.  The older one spoke again.

“The Brecken Falls still cascade with blood.  They are rank with the smell of rotting fish.  People are frightened.”

Martise could only imagine the horrific scene he described.  Even if the non-Gifted couldn’t see its star, Corruption was making itself known throughout the far lands.

Silhara’s fingers caressed hers as she handed him his full teacup.  “It will only grow worse.  There are plagues as well, and fertile fields have gone suddenly fallow.”

Quiet reigned as the three men ate and quaffed the black tea.  Again the older Kurman spoke.  “The
sarsin
has extended an invitation for you to visit him.  He has something for you that might help you in your quest to vanquish the god.”

Silhara’s eyebrows rose in interest.  “I’m honored by his invitation.  It’s been too long since Karduk and I have shared a smoke.”

Martise tried not to gape at him.  Silhara, the hermit, had never before shown any pleasure in visiting with anyone, at Neith or anywhere else.  Yet his voice was warm with genuine pleasure, even eagerness, at the idea of visiting this Karduk.

“You can accompany us home today.”  The Kurman glanced at Martise.  “Bring your woman if you wish, or Karduk will be pleased to offer you one of his concubines for a night or two.”

She prayed her face didn’t betray her thoughts.  Silhara was not hers, and despite this little play for the benefit for the Kurmans, she wasn’t his.  Still, she hoped he wouldn’t leave her behind and find succor with one of his host’s women.

He didn’t reply either way to the suggestion.  “Today is good.  I’ll have my servant ready supplies and load my horse.”

They drank the last of the tea and shared a smoke from Silhara’s
huqqah
.  Seated behind Silhara, Martise gave silent thanks when they finished their smoke and he offered to give them a tour of the grove and show them samples of his perfumes.  Her stomach rumbled.  She was starved.  Gurn’s smile revealed he’d heard her belly’s protest.

Just before the three men left for the stillroom, Silhara turned to her.  “How much of that did you understand?  He asked softly”

“Most of it.  I’ll help Gurn with the packing.”  She wouldn’t ask if he’d take her.  She had some pride.

“Leave Gurn to it.  I’ll tell him what’s needed.  Pack for yourself, and bring something warm.  It’s cold in the Dramorins, even in the height of summer.”

Martise struggled to suppress the pleased smile threatening to curve her lips.  “It won’t take me long.  I can still help Gurn.”

His gaze touched on her hair, her eyes and her mouth.  “You are very good at assuming a role with very little instruction.  I think you were more Kurman than some Kurman women at our meal.”  A shrewd gleam entered his eyes.  “Mezdar and Peyan approved of your attentions to me, and I suspect Peyan may offer me dower-price for you.”

A cold tendril of dread circled Martise’s spine.  She didn’t know which of the men was Mezdar or Peyan, and she didn’t care.  She stared at Silhara, trying to discern his expression.  He could be ruthless when he wanted and showed no hesitation in exercising that trait.  But to try and sell her?  He couldn’t do it if he wanted, but to stop him, she’d have to reveal her bondage to Cumbria.

Amusement softened his hard features.  He ran a finger down her neck.  She tilted her head in an unconscious invitation for him to do more.  He smiled.  “You obviously think more poorly of me than Gurn does.”  His touch left hot trails on her skin.  “You’re not mine to sell, Martise.  And even if you were… well, let’s just say I have no need of sheep or carpets.”