Master of Crows (35 page)
She took the torch with a nod of thanks and another beaming smile. “They already have.”
The forest that once terrified her with its grasping trees and slinking shadows, welcomed her now. Martise sensed its sibilant encouragement, its recognition of her presence the moment she set foot on the path leading to Neith. The whistles and calls, the roll of wagons and clanking of trade goods faded to silence as she followed the dark avenue to Neith. Sinuous shapes flitted through the sparse underbrush, fluid ribbons of darkness that stayed even with her pace. She no longer feared them. They were guardians now, escorts to accompany one of their own back home.
Her torch cast a corona of pale light around her and was swallowed up by the curling mist caressing her ankles. The forest smelled of damp and moss and the underlying odor of cinders.
In the distance she caught a glimpse of familiar green witchlights, like strange fireflies, moving toward her.
The lights brightened as they drew closer, revealing two familiar figures.
“Gurn! Cael!” Martise sprinted to meet them halfway, almost dropping her torch in the process.
Gurn caught her in a fierce hug. He looked the same, a giant of a man with his bald pate shining a pale moon itself and his blue eyes dark in the witchlight’s spectral glow. Cael whined a greeting of his own. His whip tail snapped back and forth when Martise bent to hug him and scratch his furry ears.
She rose and wrinkled her nose. “Gods, you smell even worse since I last saw you. Is no one ever going to bathe you?”
Gurn took her satchel and lunch, giving an appreciative sniff at the contents in her food kerchief. He grasped Martise’s hand, nearly dragging her down the road toward the manor in his excitement at her arrival. By the time they reached the rusted gates that closed off the courtyard, she was gasping for breath.
Aglow in the moonlight, Neith was as she remembered it, an ancient wreck, still graceful and stately in its decay. Here, the scent of ash and burnt wood lingered in the air, and Martise’s happiness dimmed.
“The grove. I smell what’s left of it?”
Gurn’s eyes were bright with tears. His fingers moved in quick patterns.
“So much has been lost here.” She nodded at Gurn’s silent answer. “You’re right. Much has been gained as well.”
She followed him through the gates and into the manor, pausing only once for a quick glance at the great hall, a place of hard lessons and harsh revelations. Gurn ushered her toward the stairs, signing that the master awaited her in his bedchamber.
A sudden nervousness mixed with her elation, and she wiped her palms on her cyrtel before climbing the rickety steps to the second floor. The witchlights hovered before her, leading the way down the black corridor until she reached Silhara’s door. It was open, and she slipped inside on silent feet.
She’d loved and been well loved in this room. Like the rest of Neith, it was a sanctuary of aging grandeur ruled by a fierce pauper king of immense power.
Silhara stood at his customary spot, facing the window leading to the balcony. He wore a new robe of rich burgundy velvet. A thin belt of silver and gemstones circled his narrow waist. Outlined in the warm shimmer of several lit candles, he was lean and tall. Martise’s hands tingled with the need to touch the wide, proud shoulders.
She wasn’t as silent as she thought, or he’d sensed her presence. He stretched out his arm, and her breath caught at the sight of her spirit stone swinging from the chain laced through his long fingers.
“I believe this is yours.”
His ruined voice resonated in the chamber, sent gooseflesh down her arms. He’d made love to her with that voice as skillfully as he had with his hands. She followed its call like a sleepwalker, lured as much to him as to the silver-lit sapphire containing a portion of her soul.
She came up beside him, holding out her hand. The chain spilled into her palm in a gleaming waterfall, the blue jewel a warm, heavy weight against her skin. Martise gripped the necklace in tight fingers.
Silhara’s profile, gilded in the moonlight shining through the window, was expressionless. He turned to her, and she stared dumbstruck, forgetting the treasure she held. Like Cumbria, he wore the trauma of the ritual on his face. The lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened, and his cheekbones were sharper, lending his austere features a gaunt appearance. But what held her gaze was his hair. A white streak ran the long length from scalp to tip.
Martise reached out and stroked the silky lock, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “When did you get this?”
His mouth curved into a faint smile. “A few weeks ago. I woke up one morning sporting this proof of my declining years. I’ve yet to decide if it’s the result of the ritual or what Gurn served me for dinner the night before.”
“It suits you. You look almost civilized,” she teased.
“Kurman savage that I am,” he teased back, and his smile widened.
She held up the necklace. “Cumbria said he was made an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
The smile transformed to a full-blown smirk of satisfaction. “The Luminary bought you. One of my rewards for saving the world and all that. The bishop wouldn’t dare refuse his superior.”
“He didn’t know it was you.”
“No. He’d have hanged you from his stable rafters before I had the chance to retrieve you if he’d known.”
She shuddered. To die in the act of saving a loved one was one thing. To die for the sake of petty revenge was another.
She thrust the necklace at him gently. “Do you not want to keep it?”
He waved away her offer with a casual hand. “I warred with a god to retain my freedom, Martise. Why would I wish to have a slave of my own?”
Her fingers closed over the jewel once more, and she held it to her breast. “I can never repay you for this. I could live ten lifetimes serving you, and it wouldn’t be enough.”
Silhara’s eyes narrowed. “There is no debt. I took your Gift from you to save myself.”
“You took nothing I didn’t give willingly. And you gave me my freedom in return. One has always been far greater in my eyes than the other.”
Butterflies fluttered madly in her belly. He was beautiful. Standing so close, lit by candlelight and the moon’s radiance, he was a fallen star—tarnished but undiminished. She felt grubby and plain in comparison.
“Please tell me Conclave gave you something other than me. Otherwise, that is poor payment for so great a risk and so great a success.”
He shrugged. “I was offered another manor to the south, one that grows olives, and the barony that came with it—allied to Conclave of course.” His upper lip rose a little in disdain. “I refused. Neith is my home. Oranges are my crop. I bargained for seedlings and labor to help plant them for the next two years. And a purse fat enough to keep us fed until I can begin harvesting.”
Her thoughts reeled. He asked for so little. Conclave was wealthy enough and grateful enough to reward the Master of Crows with anything he asked. A great estate, ownership of a fleet of ships, a bishopric if he desired. Instead, he’d asked for an overeducated slave, field hands, orange trees and a money purse.
“I always thought you’d want to be a king.”
Silhara’s low chuckle caressed her. He reached behind her to pull her braid over her shoulder. Martise’s eyelids fell to half-mast at the gentle tug of his fingers as he stroked her hair. “I do, but of a kingdom of my choosing, and I choose Neith.”
“Won’t it take years to bring the grove back to what it was?”
“A few. I disapprove of using magic to harvest a crop, but I’ve no qualms in employing it to coax trees to life.”
His fingers wandered from her braid, danced across her collarbone with a touch so light she sighed. They trailed down the center of her chest, pausing briefly to rest against her cleavage before stopping at her hand holding the necklace. The dark of his eyes deepened.
“You are a free woman,” he said. “I will give you the spell to break the stone and return that part of your soul to you. You will be able to travel the world, see those things once barred to you.” His other hand rose, thumb sliding across her jawline as his fingers curved along her neck. “You’re no longer property.”
Martise’s eyes closed, and she swayed toward him. She might not be property, but she wasn’t free, and he needed no chain or spirit stone to bind her to him. She opened her eyes and met his black gaze. “What if I want to stay here? With you?”
The hand at her neck tensed, fingers pressing into her skin. His voice was almost guttural in its intensity. “You have a place here if you wish it.”
He sucked in a breath when she slid her arms around his waist and drew him against her. He was wiry muscle and long bones, the soft caress of velvet and the spicy scent of matal. And he was hers—as much as she was his.
She tilted her head back and smiled at his grim, beloved features. “A place as what? A servant?”
Silhara lowered his head, and a lock of white hair, earned through harsh sacrifice and unswerving devotion, tickled her cheek.
“A companion,” he whispered against her mouth. “A lover.” He nibbled at her bottom lip, and his hand slid from her nape to cup the back of her head. “A beloved wife.”
He teased the corner of her mouth with feathery touches and light nips. She tickled his upper lip with the tip of her tongue before pulling back enough to see his eyes.
“And will you love me for a day? A year? A lifetime?” She knew the answer but wanted to hear him say it in that beautiful, shattered voice.
“Beyond that,” he whispered, eyes shining with the tempest of emotion he’d held in check until now. “Beyond the reign of false gods and meddlesome priests. Beyond al Zafira when her bright stars fade.”
He kissed her then, breathed his life into her mouth, her heart, her spirit—the same way she’d breathed her Gift into him while they stood in the empty soul of a dying god.
Martise kissed him fiercely in return, holding him so tightly her arms ached, and the necklace she clutched dug into his back. When they parted, she leaned her forehead against his. “That’s a long time to love someone.”
Nimble fingers worked the ties of her cyrtel, unlacing them with ease. “Not long enough.”
“I’d be happy with today.”
Silhara parted the cyrtel’s neckline, revealing her leine and the pale skin of her breasts beneath the thin fabric. A blush of desire darkened his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes glittered. The rough pad of one finger dipped into the hollow of her throat, tantalizing, teasing. “Then I’d best begin.” The timbre of his voice deepened even more. “The day is dying as we speak.”
Martise arched in his arms. “And the bed’s too far away.”
A short laugh punctuated by a gentle nip on her ear lobe made her laugh as well. “As it always is, sweet woman. As it always is.”
-End-
About the author:
Grace Draven is an author and Louisiana native living in Texas with her husband, three smalls and a big doofus dog. She has lived in Spain, hiked the Teton Mountains, honeymooned in Scotland, ridden in competition rodeo and is the great great granddaughter of a Nicaraguan president. She also hates doing laundry and refuses to iron anything.
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MASTER OF CROWS
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