Master of Crows (10 page)

CHAPTER TEN

If she managed to survive this journey, Martise intended to kill her former master the moment she was free.  She paced past Gurn who waited with her in the bailey.  Until recently, her dislike had been reserved for Silhara and his unorthodox teaching methods, but the Master of Crows had yet to deceive her.  She’d known from the start he’d be a merciless teacher and had expected the worst.

Unlike Silhara, Cumbria had misled her.  He’d warned her of Silhara’s mercurial nature and sharp tongue, of his power and his reputation.  But he’d downplayed her role as spy. Adventuring had never been part of the plan.

“You need only do what you are unequaled at.  Observe his actions, hear his words and remember every detail.  He will betray himself.  No man, not even Silhara, can hide all secrets forever.”

“Ha!” she snapped, ignoring Gurn’s perplexed look.  So far, the Master of Crows had done a fine job of concealing anything that might bring Conclave justice down on his head.  She’d seen no evidence of Corruption’s influence on him nor any interest in the god’s celestial presence.  If Conclave ever outlawed orange-harvesting and book-stealing, Silhara was a dead man.  Otherwise, she had nothing.

Nothing except a knotted stomach and the burn of fear in her throat at the thought of sneaking around a lich’s stronghold.  The risks she took in coming here were worth regaining her spirit stone.  But a lich?  Cumbria didn’t mention Silhara’s fearless sense of purpose or that he had a soul eater as a neighbor.

His draft horse stood next to her and fluttered her shawl with a soft exhalation.  Martise patted his neck and scratched a spot behind the bridle strap.  The horse, a gentle dun gelding, was a far cry from Cumbria’s high-strung mounts.  Saddled and loaded with supplies including Silhara’s crossbow and a pair of long knives, he too awaited Silhara’s arrival.

Martise looked at Gurn.  “Do you think he’s still asleep?”

“I never went to sleep, apprentice.  You should learn a little patience.”

With her back to the kitchen door, she'd missed his arrival.  As usual, he moved on soundless feet.  She bowed to hide her startlement.  “Good morning, Master.”

His gaze skimmed over her shawl, long tunic and makeshift trousers.  He wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept.  Martise had spent the remaining hours before dawn cutting down a skirt and sewing it into something resembling trews suitable for riding.

Silhara wore his usual raiment of worn shirt, faded black breeches, and boots.  His hair, free of its customary braid, fell straight and silky over his wide shoulders, framing a face sharpened by fatigue.  Despite his shabby appearance and the weariness in his eyes, he had the air of an aristo—powerful, arrogant, sure of his place in the world.  Martise sometimes found it hard to believe he was the son of a lowly
houri
.

She looked away, unsettled by the pleasant prickle dancing up her legs and across her lower back.  She’d found him attractive upon first meeting, and even after, when he’d done his best to frighten her into abandoning her purpose here.  Now, more accustomed to his ways and witness to his fair dealings with his dependents, she was even more drawn to him.  She crossed her arms and silently admonished herself for such feelings.  She had a role to play, an objective to achieve.  The price of her freedom grew higher each day.

“What grim thoughts plague you so early in the morning, Martise?”  His raspy voice snapped her out of her musings, and she straightened.  “Have you fallen asleep standing there?  I’ve asked you twice if you’re ready to leave.”

Her apology hovered on the tip of her tongue.  “I’m ready, Master.  I only wondered how long our trip might be.”

“Most of the day.  We’ll camp about three miles outside Iwehvenn and reach the stronghold an hour or two before sunset.  We’ll return to Neith in the morning.”

Alone with him for a day and night.  More if she counted the return trip.  Nervousness warred with a disquieting eagerness.  “Then we shouldn’t delay.”

His lips quirked, but he didn’t reply.  The gelding held still when he took the reins, swung nimbly onto the horse’s wide back and patted its withers.  “You’ve grown fat on plains grass, Gnat.  This journey will do you good.”

Martise’s eyes widened.  “Gnat?  His name is Gnat?”  She stared at the mountain of horseflesh, heavily muscled and big-boned, with a girth that would make riding astride a challenge, and he stood at least seventeen hands high.

Gnat swung his large head in her direction, as if questioning her incredulity.  Silhara stared down his nose, the expression made even more imperious by his high seat on the horse’s back.  “I didn’t think ‘Butterfly’ suitable.”

A betraying flutter rose in her throat.  “No,” she said, eyes tearing with the effort to hold in her laughter.  “I suppose not.”

A flicker passed through Silhara’s eyes—so quick, Martise almost didn’t see it.  She grinned and passed a gentle hand over Gnat’s soft nose.  “Your name, big lad…no one would ever guess.”

Next to her, Gurn gave a short bark of laughter and signaled he’d lift her onto Gnat’s back.  His hands were wrapped around her waist when Silhara stopped him.

“Put her down, Gurn.  You’re not going with us.  She needs to do this without your help.”  He leaned down and held out his hand.  “Take my forearm, Martise. Use it as a brace to mount.”

She stared at the graceful hand for a moment.  Her fingers tingled in anticipation of the hint of power transferred from his touch—the presence of his Gift, so strong it leached through his fingers.  She clutched his arm, gasping softly at that lightning contact and swung herself up behind him.  She landed solidly on Gnat’s back, only to slide toward the other side.  Her hands clawed at Silhara’s shirt and arm to keep from falling off.

“Foolish woman,” he snapped.  “Find your seat before you yank us both off this nag.”

“I’m trying.” She managed to pull herself upright.  He grunted when she wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed.  Legs splayed wide over the horse’s broad back, she didn’t even think of what she did, too intent on staying in place and not hitting the ground that looked so far below her.

 “For someone so small, you’ve a grip surpassing Gurn’s.  You’re crushing my ribs.”  He shrugged against her hold.

She let him go, almost falling off Gnat a second time.

Silhara’s low growl of frustration echoed in the bailey.  “Hang on to me.  Just not like a strangler serpent.”

“Sorry.”

“Of course you are.”  He frowned at her over his shoulder.  “Now are you ready?”

“Yes.”  She swiped at the damp tendrils of hair stuck to her forehead.  Even in the chill morning air, she’d managed to break a sweat with her efforts.  This time her hands rested lightly against his sides, feeling the flex of muscle as he guided Gnat through the bailey.  Gurn kept pace beside them, nodding as Silhara gave instructions.

“Check the southwest corner of the grove.  I think one of the trees is diseased.  If it can’t be saved, cut it down and burn it.”  They waited until Gurn unlocked the bailey gate.  “We’ll return tomorrow.  If we don’t, send Cael to track us.”

Gurn frowned at the last.  So did Martise.  If their luck held, they’d return to the safety of Neith and find Cael in his customary place beneath the kitchen table.  She smiled, despite her trepidation.  When did she start thinking of Neith as safe?

She bid Gurn goodbye, squeezing his outstretched hand as they passed through the gate.  Before them, Neith’s lands lay shrouded in a ghostly cloak of ground fog.  Only the tips of the tall plains grasses rose above the murk, fluttering like fireflies as they caught the bright edge of the rising sun.  Silhara guided Gnat down a gradually sloping path that curved around the manor in a half-circle and brought them to the gated courtyard with its cemetery of broken stone.  At the gates, he spoke a few brief words.  The lock snapped free and slipped on its anchoring chain until it clanged against the metal.  Hinges sang their anguish as the gates swung open.  Another cited spell, and Martise watched the gates slam shut.  The chain took on serpentine life, twisting and looping itself around the bars before the lock closed with a loud click.

More undulating fog obscured the main avenue, rolling across the path in wispy tides that broke against the solaris oaks lining the way.  Droplets of dew hung from the trees’ gnarled branches like jewels, falling occasionally to splash on Gnat’s coat or Silhara’s shoulders.  Unlike the bishop’s more skittish mounts, the draft horse plodded down the road, his hooves clopping a steady rhythm.

“Master,” she whispered.  “May I ask you something?”

“Why are you whispering?”  Silhara’s voice, never strident, seemed to thunder in the hushed gloom.

The question brought her up short.  Why was she whispering?  They weren’t slipping out of Neith like thieves.  Not that there was anything in that tumble-down wreck worth stealing.  Still, the peculiar silence hanging over the woods almost demanded a more subdued tone.  And she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

She tried for a more normal volume.  “Why is Gnat unafraid to take this road?  The bishop and I had to walk to the manor because his mounts balked at the entrance.”

His huff of scorn was almost lost in the weighted silence.  “I could remark on the over-breeding of horse and owner, but that’s an old whine and doesn’t answer your question.”  He leaned forward and patted Gnat on the neck.  “He’s used to it.  The first time I brought him here as a yearling, I had to use a calming spell on him to enter Neith territory.  Curse magic is a strong deterrent.”

He didn’t exaggerate.  Even now, accompanied by the mage who worked such magic on these woods, Martise couldn't shake her unease.  The scent of dark spells, the kind that brought forth demons and invoked force-bondings, hung in the air.

Silhara chuckled at her relieved huff when they left the shadowed avenue for the open plain.  Bathed in pale morning light, the ocean of grass emerged from the thinning fog.  The plain spread out before them, giving way to sloping hills and plateaus dotted with olive and orange groves.  Silhara halted Gnat and breathed deep.  His waist shifted beneath her hands, warm to the touch.

“When Conclave banished me to Neith, I thought I’d miss the sea.  But it’s here as well, only the waves are made of grass.”

“The sea was the only thing I missed when I left Conclave Redoubt,” she said.  The rhythm of the tide had given her comfort in the interminable years of her training.

He glanced at her over his shoulder.  “Its proximity to the sea was the Redoubt’s one saving grace.”

He kicked Gnat into motion, guiding him eastward, toward the rising sun and the soul eater’s sanctuary.  They didn’t speak after that.  Martise, suffering from lost sleep, swayed in her seat.  Lulled by Gnat’s rolling gait, she soon drifted off, cheek resting against Silhara’s back.  The sun warmed her shoulders while another heat warmed her chest.  She nestled closer, breathing in the spicy scent of matal tobacco and reveling in the nearly forgotten sensation of a man’s body against hers.

She thought she’d only closed her eyes for a moment when a shrug and a sharply spoken “Martise!” startled her awake.  Bleary-eyed, she squinted at the expanse of white shirt and blew away a long strand of Silhara’s black hair stuck to her lower lip.  Above her, the sun shone hot and bright.  No hint of the morning’s coolness remained.  She scrubbed at her hot cheek, damp from where she’d pressed her face against his back.

“How long have I been asleep?”  Her voice was almost as hoarse as his.

“Three hours.  Maybe a little more.”  He opened one of the packs tied across Gnat’s back and handed her a water skin.  “Here.  Drink your fill.  There’s a stream not far from here.  We’ll stop, water Gnat and refill the skins.”

The water was tepid and flat but tasted better than wine on her parched tongue.  Silhara waved the skin away when she offered it to him.  “Thank you for letting me sleep.  I was more tired than I thought.”

“Altering a wardrobe at the last minute will do that to a person.”

She laughed and looked down at her makeshift breeches.  His humor never failed to surprise her.  Good thing she sacrificed a night of slumber.  Trying to ride Gnat while wearing skirts would have been impossible.

“Your singing can be used as a torture method, but you’ve a fine laugh.”  His voice smoothed to a silky rumble.  “You should laugh more often.”

Martise blushed at the unexpected compliment.  “Thank you.  You sometimes make me laugh.”  She hastily corrected herself in case he misconstrued her comment.  “Not at you, of course.”

 “No, of course not.”  Amusement threaded his voice.

She fell silent, content to rock with Gnat’s easy gait and survey her surroundings.  Silhara’s back blocked most of her frontal view, but she still marveled at the plains surrounding them, heard the whispering brush of grass as the horse waded through the sea of blue stem and dropseed.  The plain soon gave way to a more rolling landscape, where the grasses thinned and olive trees stood in sentinel rows on the low hills.  Sheep and goats dotted the slopes, their far-off bleating carried by the hot breeze drifting across the land.