Master of Crows (28 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

At the first hint of the morning sunlight gilding the tops of Silhara’s orange trees, Martise rose quietly from his bed to dress.  Still warmed from his body heat, she inhaled sharply at the sudden shock of cool air on her bare skin.  The blankets whispered against her legs as she stretched a thigh over his hip and crawled off the bed.  The movement made her wince.  He’d had a voracious appetite for her the previous night.  He hadn’t hurt her, but his rough attentions left their mark on her hips and a reminder in her muscles.

She gazed at his outline beneath the blankets.  He lay on his stomach, face partially concealed by the crook of his arm.  It was still too dark to make out his features.  She imagined them pinched and scowling, even in slumber.  Since their return from the Kurman village, he’d been a cauldron of quietly bubbling emotion, unleashed only in the dark when she lay beneath him.

Exhausted from loving her throughout the night, he’d dragged her on top of him and promptly fallen asleep.  His rest wasn’t peaceful.  Violent dreams made him flail in the bed, and twice Martise narrowly avoided a blow when he lashed out, battling some invisible demon.  She considered retreating to her room where she could sleep without being pummeled but abandoned the idea.  Whatever dark thoughts plagued the Master of Crows in his nightmares, she wouldn’t leave him alone with them.

He finally quieted, his stillness interrupted by an occasional muttered curse and the soft rhythm of snoring.  Martise had sighed her relief and curled against his side.  Sleep didn’t come easily for her.  She’d mulled over Silhara’s restlessness, the subtle shift in his behavior since they’d returned to Neith.

She’d noted the change the morning they packed their gear and said their farewells to the Kurmans.  She hadn’t asked what the
sarsin
discussed with him, and he held his silence on the matter.  That silence lasted almost the entire trip back to Neith.  Never jovial in the best of moods, he was even more distant.  The few times he spoke to remark on their lunch or instruct her on how to set up their camp for the most protection, he’d been remote, barely acknowledging her presence.

Martise was used to others ignoring her.  But not him.  His actions might have hurt save for the fact he touched her constantly on the return trip.  She rode in front of him, and he kept a tight grip on her as he guided Gnat home.  The one night they spent on the open plain, he held watch while she slept.  She’d awakened to find him running his thumb and finger over her braid as if it were a strand of prayer beads.

They’d been back at Neith for a day, and he remained taciturn and distracted.  Even when he’d taken her so passionately the previous night, he said little, though his dark eyes burned when he gazed upon her.  He slept now, oblivious to her movements.  Or so she thought.

“You needn’t tiptoe.  I’m awake.”

The leine slipped from her fingers at his voice.  She bent to retrieve it, wincing again.  “Forgive me.  I tried to be quiet.”

“I hurt you.”

She paused.  Had he seen her flinch in the dark?  His eyesight was exceptional.  He moved sure-footed through Neith’s lightless corridors, but she’d thought it nothing more than a natural grace combined with the familiarity of his domain.  Those shrewd black eyes missed very little.

She smiled and shrugged the thin leine over her head.  “I didn’t notice at the time.  And I probably left a bruise or two on you as well.”

“Come here.”  His voice was no less commanding for its quiet raspiness.  Blankets rustled, and he sat up.

Standing patiently between his splayed knees, Martise studied his austere face in the pallid light slowly filling the room.  Dark circles ringed his eyes, revealing a lassitude that went deeper than muscle and bone.  His warm fingers tugged at her leine, lifting the hem until her legs were once more exposed to the chilly air.  She gasped softly at his touch, the trickle of heat fluttering over her skin as he caressed the bluish marks on her hipbones and inner thighs.

 “I didn’t mean these.”

Reawakened desire raced through her when he placed a light kiss where thigh curved into hip.  “I know.”

He leaned his forehead into her belly.  “Say my name.”

Martise swallowed down the knot lodged in her throat.  Something was horribly wrong.  The volatile sorcerer who captured a storm, ridiculed a god and spat in Conclave’s collective face, sat before her, a weary pilgrim seeking succor in her embrace.

“Silhara.”  His hair slipped through her fingers in an inky cascade as she stroked his head.  His name slid off her tongue, and she savored the feel.  She loved his name, the grace of it in her mouth, the sound of it on her ears.  In old Coastal, his name meant Unconquered, and the man who bore the name lived up to it in every sense.

She cupped his jaw, tilting his face so she could look in his eyes.  His cheeks were rough with a day’s growth of beard, and his lips were still swollen from her enthusiastic kisses the night before.  He sighed when she ran her thumbs lightly over his cheekbones.  “You slept poorly and chased demons in your dreams.  What troubles you?”

A faint smile curved his mouth and was gone.  “I don’t have to sleep to chase demons, Martise.”  Long fingers drifted gently over the back of her thighs.  “You worry over nothing.  I’ve had more than my share of bad nights.”  He dropped the hem of her leine.

Not like this.  At least not since she’d come to share his bed.  He didn’t sleep many hours, but when he did, he slept hard and was as still as death in her arms.  Last night was far different, and Martise sensed the
sarsin’s
words, whatever they were, weighed heavily on Silhara’s thoughts.  The warning gleam in his eyes told her not to pursue it further.

She stood in his loose embrace for several moments, content to simply stroke his hair while he pressed his cheek against her stomach.  The clatter of pans and the bang of the bailey door downstairs signaled Gurn’s arrival in the kitchens.

“I have to go downstairs and help Gurn.  He burned his hand on a hot pot yesterday and will be clumsy for a few days with his bandages.  Do you need anything from me?”  She was reluctant to leave him.

The folds of her leine muffled his chuckle.  “Can you give me salvation?”

The strange question sent another bolt of dread through her.  “No.”

“Then tea will do.”  He pulled away from her, swatting her lightly on the bottom.  A grim humor hardened his smile.  “I’ll see you and Gurn in the kitchen.  And tell him I’ll want a look at that burn.”

She and Gurn were almost finished with breakfast when Silhara finally made an appearance.  Clean-shaven but still haggard, he sat at his customary place and proceeded to drink three pots of tea without saying a word.  A sidelong glance from Gurn, and Martise shook her head.  Silhara had been pensive in the privacy of his chamber.  Now he was dour with storm clouds gathering in his eyes.  The oranges sat untouched in their bowl, another oddity.  Only once had she seen him forego the ritual of eating his two oranges, and that was due to a stomach still roiling from the effect of Peleta’s Fire.

“Do you not want the oranges this morning?”

His black gaze glittered.  “Not today.”  He looked to Gurn, busy at the hearth stoking the fire.  “Gurn, show me your hand.”

After inspecting the burn and reciting a spell to ease the pain, Silhara pronounced the wound on the mend.  He was rewrapping it when Martise interrupted him.

“You can use me to heal him, can’t you?”  She caught Gurn’s puzzled expression.

“No.”

Stunned, she stared at him wide-eyed.  He lied outright.  They both knew the combination of her Gift and his skill could heal Gurn’s hand.  Why would he not help his most trusted servant?

“But…”

“Martise!”  His voice, ruined by the garroting, managed to boom in the kitchen.  “You forget yourself.  I said no.”

Outrage at his surprising callous treatment toward Gurn almost overrode twenty-two years of servitude.  She clenched her teeth against the words rushing to her lips and finally bit out  “Forgive me, Master.”

Her lungs burned with the need to shout at him.  Martise kept her gaze firmly on the floor, assuming the long-standing posture of servant to master.  The kitchen’s quiet pounded in her ears, tense and humming with a silent anger.  She jumped when Silhara suddenly grasped her arm and yanked her toward the door leading to the great hall.

“The library.  Now.”

He hauled her up the stairs and down the hall, his grip unyielding on her wrist.  Martise hurried to keep up with his long strides.  The library door banged against the opposite wall and Silhara thrust her inside.  A cold fire flickered in his gaze as he slammed the door behind him.

“Your Gift is a danger to everyone here, Martise.  If Gurn knows of your particular talent, my willingness to remain silent about it means nothing.  Conclave will do whatever it has to in order to get the information it wants.”  He paced in front of her.  “I can withstand any seer-bonding a Conclave priest might subject me to.  They’ll learn nothing and may well kill us both for the effort.  Gurn, however, isn’t Gifted and doesn’t have the means to resist a bonding.  Do you think if they can’t interrogate the master, they won’t interrogate the servant?  Being mute will not guard all his secrets.  And where will you be if they learn of yours?”

Her face heated.  All this time living with Silhara and Gurn, she should have realized Silhara would have good reason to let his servant and friend suffer his wound.  “I’m sorry, Silhara.”

His expression softened.  “No need to apologize.  I don’t fault you for your compassion, only your indiscretion.”  He walked to the table where her notes were neatly stacked next to the old pages they rescued from Iwehvenn.  “If Conclave were to seer-bond with Gurn, it would be to glean information about me, not you.  But if they discover some hint of your talent in his memories, they’ll pursue it.”  The look he gave her from the corner of his eye was amused.  “You have no reason to suspect Conclave the way I do.  I’d wonder at your caution if you did.”

Martise’s shoulders sagged in relief.  “I’m more concerned about Gurn.  I’d never deliberately hurt him.”

“I know.”

Ancient parchment crackled under his fingers as he flipped them gently over and stared at the writing.  “The Helenese make heroes of those who would make them fools.”

She came to stand beside him, bemused by his cryptic remark.  The Helenese script was burned on the back of her eyelids by now.  She’d read the documents dozens of times, searching for something more in the story of Amunsa that might be applied to defeating Corruption.  “I don’t know that these papers have helped.  The ancient Conclave who first exiled Corruption used a very similar ritual, but it wasn’t enough to kill him.  Maybe the kings were able to destroy Amunsa because he wasn’t as strong.”

Silhara’s next statement surprised Martise.  “Without these papers, Karduk’s information would be useless.”  He smiled faintly at her wide-eyed stare.  “When the Kurman were greater in number and more powerful, they were ruled by a single
sarsin
.  One who claimed his place through fratricide instead of election.”

Martise waited, intrigued.  She knew little of Kurman history but found it fascinating, even without its ties to the Helenese documents.  Silhara continued.

“The
sarsin
was powerful and united the tribes for a short time under his rule.  He was also a sorcerer, as skilled as any Conclave bishop in the ways of magery and unafraid to invoke the dark arcana.  But such gifts weren’t enough.  He sought more through any means, sent spies far and wide to find the secrets of other peoples.  He even sacrificed two of his consorts and a half dozen of his children to gain more power.”

“Gods.”  She shuddered at the thought of such monstrous acts.

Silhara flipped more of the parchment, stopping at the last page describing Amunsa’s death.  A long finger traced the mysterious symbol next to Birdixan’s name.  “That was his goal.  To be a god.  He was no different from the lich of Iwehvenn except he was moved by a craving to rule a world.  The soul eater was moved by a fear of death and embraced something far worse.”

“Then why would he help the northern kings defeat Amunsa?”

“There was nothing left for him.  The tribes rose against him, banishing him and his remaining wives from Kurman territory.  They had no place to go but north.  The one thing he’d sought most of his life he found in exile and by accident.”

Martise rubbed the chills on her arms.  “The Kurman should have killed him instead of exiling him.”

Silhara gave a dark, humorless chuckle.  “You’re not alone in your opinion.  His name was Berdikhan, and he fooled the kings into thinking he was a pilgrim traveler, a man of great power who sought their good will by helping them destroy Amunsa.”

Martise gasped and snatched the stack of parchment from Silhara.  She shifted through the pages and laid out those with Birdixan’s name mentioned.  “Berdikhan.  Birdixan.  I missed it.  The Helenese have no equivalent for the hard sound in his name.  For example, Cumbria would be written as 'Xumbria.'  I should have seen it.”

He shrugged.  “I don’t see how.  You can flounder your way through a sentence when speaking Kurmanji, but how would you know to make such a connection?  The Kurmans have never put their language in script.  You had nothing to compare.”

She appreciated his support but still cursed her folly.  One document made her pause.  “This piece says he swallowed the god.  I can only think that’s willing possession.”

“It is.  Berdikhan believed himself strong enough to not only harness the god long enough for the kings to entrap him, but also to take the god’s power for his own.”

“Become the god and destroy the kings.”

“Yes.  But he overestimated his strength in that regard and his cleverness.  The kings knew what he intended.”

“Still, they remember him as a hero in these passages, not a traitor.  Why?”

Silhara lips curved into a faint smile.  “People are less inclined to praise you if they know someone almost made a fool of you.”

Martise met his gaze, impressed.  Silhara was an astute observer of human nature.  That talent alone made him formidable, even without his magic to strengthen him.  She flipped back through the parchment to the last one showing the symbol next to Birdixan’s name.  “Did Karduk know anything about this symbol?”

“No.”

She paused to stare at him.  Nothing in his demeanor betrayed him.  He met her eyes calmly, kept his body turned to hers, wide shoulders relaxed.  But her instincts fluttered their disquiet.  Silhara was lying.  He knew something about that symbol and chose to keep it from her.

She kept her suspicions to herself for the moment.  “What will you tell Conclave?”

A subtle shift in his stance signaled his relief when she abandoned the subject of the symbol.  “Everything I’ve just told you.  As repulsive as we may all view it, I need the priests, and they need me if they want to defeat Corruption.”

Conclave could definitely use Silhara in ritual.  Not only was he talented, he was young and physically strong.  Magic and strength depended on each other in ritual spells.  However, she didn’t believe Conclave trusted him enough to invite him to a god-killing.