Master of Crows (14 page)

“What happened?”  Her reedy voice caressed his ear.

He lifted her in his arms.  “You’re more generous with your Gift than a
houri
shown a full purse,” he snapped.  She’d rattled him.  Bleeding and nearly insensate from their bonding, she awakened more of the unwelcome guilt within him.  He’d done much in his lifetime others might consider abhorrent and never suffered a twinge of conscience.  But this was no way to repay the woman who’d saved his life.

He left the library and climbed the stairs to the third floor.  Weak light filtering up from the hole in the floor illuminated the corridor leading to her room.  Silhara kicked the door open and paused.  Spare and meticulously clean, the bedchamber was an aberration in the manor house’s dusty warren.  Even Gurn’s kitchen didn’t compare.

The small bed pushed against one wall was neatly made, not a wrinkle marring the smooth surface of blankets.  No dust motes danced in the sunlight filling the space.  Her personal effects were hidden away. No combs, jewelry or other feminine trifles lay on the table near the bed or the chest at its foot.

Martise opened her eyes when Silhara laid her on the bed.  Despite her ordeal, her gaze was delighted. “I can still feel the Gift, but I’m very tired.”

He peered into the pitcher near her wash basin.  Empty.  “You should be.  Your Gift might lash out if forced to manifest, but it is very accommodating when coaxed.  At least with me.”  Residual power from the bonding still flowed through him.  Her Gift strengthened his.  His fingers tingled and sparked shards of white light against whatever he touched.  Any spell he might conjure would be ten times more potent than usual.  Unlike Corruption’s offering, Martise’s Gift still allowed him control over his increased magery.

Silhara frowned when she wiped at her cheeks a second time.  “You’re making it worse.  I’ll send Gurn with water and an elixir to restore your strength and help you sleep.”

She struggled to rise but gave up when he placed a staying hand on her shoulder.  Her essence inundated his senses, carried by the flow of her Gift into his very being.  He smelled her on his clothes, tasted her on his palate.  His desire for her power swelled to include the woman as well.  He hardened at the thought of stripping her and taking her on the pristine bed with her heat and her Gift running fast in his blood and over his body.

His eyes narrowed.  Martise shrank back against the bedding at his expression.

“What about the harvest?”

Still fighting the arousal she engendered, he put distance between him and her bed.  “Weak as you are right now, you’ll only be in the way.  Besides, we’ve managed well enough without you in past years.  You’ll be good as new at first light.  I expect you to be dressed and ready to leave with us for Eastern Prime in the morning.”

Martise rolled onto her side, hinting at the graceful curves she’d revealed when he’d soothed her sore back.  Silhara reached out and just as quickly dropped his hand.  If he didn’t leave now, he wouldn’t leave at all.  Lust and magic roared through him, escalating every moment he lingered in this room.  He strode to the door, wrenching it open.  Halfway into the shadowed corridor, he heard her call to him.

“Will you teach me how to use my Gift?”

He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.  “Yes.”  She’d found a way to exact revenge for his lessons.  “You’ve not been much of an apprentice until now.  At least we have something to work with.”

Her soft thanks followed him down the hall.  She might regret that gratitude.  His willingness to teach her was as much motivated by self-serving curiosity as generosity.  Fierce yet gentle, almost independent of Martise in how it reacted, her Gift fascinated him.  He’d hazard a guess no priest or novitiate of Conclave had ever possessed or encountered its like, and any knowledge he might gain over the priesthood pleased him.

“Do you truly know what you have sent me, Cumbria?”  Only the creak of floorboards beneath his feet answered him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Martise awakened before dawn, alerted by an inner voice that cried “Wake up!”  She huddled on the bed for a moment, eyes wide as she peered into the room’s darkness, looking for any movement.  All was still save the band of moonlight outlining her open window.  She rose, careful not to make any loud noise.  The night air hung cold and damp with a hint of dew.  She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and padded to the window, drawn by an insistent voice that demanded she look outside.

Neith was still, slumbering in the darkest hours.  The orange trees, nothing more than silhouettes edged in silver, were still beneath a night sky arrayed in glittering stars.  Only the sickly Corruption star hovering on the southern horizon marred the view.  The star pulsed bright once, twice and finally a third time.  She looked away and scratched at the crawling tingle on her arms.  A glimpse of movement beneath the orange trees’ canopy made her freeze.

A black smoke undulated over the ground, rolling fast and sure as it swept through the line of trees toward the house.

Lich!

Horror screamed through her veins.  Her Gift burst upward, making her stagger as it consumed her senses.  Light shot out her fingertips and bounced off the walls, chasing away the shadows lurking in the corners.  Just as quickly, the light died, but the Gift did not, and she struggled to bring her power under control as it sought to destroy a perceived enemy.

Hinges squealed in protest as she banged the shutters closed, plunging the bedchamber into confining darkness.  She panted.  The tingling sharpened at the certainty she was no longer alone in the room.

“Who are you?” she snapped.

Hissing laughter slithered over her.  Her Gift raged within, struggling to break free.

A voice, devoid of any humanity, answered.  “The more interesting question is who are you?”

Martise leapt for the window, scrabbling to open the shutters once more.  Moonlight painted her visitor in a phantasmal corona.  She screamed, a thin, high sound that carried to every corner of the manor and sent startled crows bursting from the trees in fright.

A man—no, a man-shaped atrocity—stood before her.  Tall and emaciated, it had slick grub-like skin, white and mottled.  Long arms swung low so that its hands brushed its knees.  Black nails tipped three misshapen fingers, curving into lethal claws.  The splayed toes sported the same claws.  They clicked on the floor as the thing crept closer.

Martise’s gaze locked on the monster’s most hideous aspect.  No face.  Only a blank canvas of discolored skin split by an impossibly wide mouth.  The lips were thin and gray, and they bled each time the thing grinned at her, exposing double rows of jagged teeth.

Corruption—the god assuming physical form.  The stuff of nightmares, its presence fouled her room.  She raised a shaking hand and sketched a protective ward in the air.  Nothing happened, though her Gift writhed in response.

Corruption laughed, a weird chattering noise.  “Foolish creature.  Why bother?  You cannot fight a god.”  It stalked her across the room.  “You weren’t here before, and now you are.  Your essence mingles with his.  Different yet matched.”  The faceless head tilted in a puzzled gesture.  “What are you that you have enthralled the Master of Crows?”

She backed away, breathing hard.  She mewled at the feel of the stone wall against her back.  Trapped.  With a thousands-year old abomination.  Nearly frozen with terror, she surrendered control of her Gift. It rushed out of her, a turbulent river of chaotic magic.  The air around her warped.  Her ears popped, and the shutters slammed together before snapping back against the walls with a resounding crack.  The bedroom door flew open, and she caught a glimpse of Silhara, shirtless and wild-eyed, before she turned her attention back to the god.

Startled by the power saturating the room, Corruption paused a second before it was hurled into the opposite wall hard enough to send a shower of broken stone flying through the air. The quasi-human form dissolved back into the sinuous black vapor that had rushed toward her from the trees.

Silhara stood between Martise and the god.  She came away from the wall and inched closer.  The mage’s voice was fearless, caustic as he addressed Corruption.  “I’ve always thought the gods fickle, unworthy of even a sacrificial chicken.”  He raised his palm in question.  “Why are you here?”

Corruption floated toward him.  Martise wanted to retch at the sight of ghostly hands sliding up his legs, stroking him with a poisoned caress.  “I’m not so easily swayed, sorcerer.”  The god’s voice echoed now, coming from every corner of the room.  “But I am curious.  Your strength is greater now, if no longer pure.  This creature is a source from which you’ve fed.  I approve.”

Sarcasm painted each of Silhara’s words.  “How that gladdens my heart.”

“I await you, sorcerer, and I am patient.”

The mist unwrapped itself from his legs, sliding back toward the window until it slipped over the edge.  Martise and Silhara watched from the window as the haze thinned to a gray ribbon that spun upward and disappeared.

“Congratulations.  You’ve been noticed by a god.”

Still reeling from the effects of the god’s visit, she breathed deep and succumbed to a long shudder.  “I’ve no interest in such notoriety.  That was Corruption?”

“One face of it, yes.  I’m guessing he was drawn to your Gift.  Were you trying out your newfound powers?”

Martise turned to him.  Moonglow outlined his profile, highlighting the prominent nose and a sharp cheekbone.  His hair gleamed almost blue, flowing over his bare shoulders in a black waterfall.  The breeches he wore hung low on his narrow hips, revealing a lean, muscled torso.  Even fighting down her fear, she couldn’t help but admire him.  He was beautiful.  Forbidden.

She tore her gaze away, focusing instead on the murders of crows returning to their roosts.  “No.  I was sleeping and awakened by a sense of…otherness.”

“Now you know.  The exiled god who once crushed the world and was imprisoned by Conclave is more than a light in the sky, and he has decided to take up residence here.”

“Why?  What does Neith possess that he lingers here?  And why does he await you?”  She had her suspicions.

His sly gaze challenged her to look deeper.  “Even gods are limited, especially the lesser ones.  They may despise the weak mortals who worship them, but they need a sycophant or two.”

Martise couldn’t imagine Silhara of Neith acting as anyone’s subordinate.  Not even a god’s.

He faced her, skating his fingers across the air.  Sparks followed in their wake.  “Ah, I thought so.  Your Gift is still alert and ready to do battle.”

Martise didn’t deny his observation.  Once unleashed, her Gift fought against her control.  She’d memorized every spell Conclave had taught, but had not yet adequately harnessed her power.  Sheer luck had blessed her the few times she’d managed to do so.  “It feels separate sometimes.  A thing onto itself.”

“I suspect it is.  Did you wield the spell that threw Corruption across the room?”

“Not intentionally.  I just didn’t want that hideous thing touching me, and my Gift reacted.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”  He tilted his head, his gaze puzzled.  “Yours is a peculiar talent.”

He gestured once, a silent invocation.  Luminescence flowed from his palm in an ethereal river.  She embraced the now familiar heat rising within as her Gift responded to his overture.  Amber light met silver, entwined in a lover’s embrace.  Her light passed his hand, traveled up his arm until his shoulders and face were suffused in a gentle radiance.

Martise sucked in a breath, rocked by the images passing across her mind’s eye.  Vivid scenes of smooth brown limbs wrapped around hers, the scent of aroused male in her nostrils, a lithe body pressed against hers.  Thrusting.  Possessing.  Overlaying those provocative visions, a deeper awareness of the man.  A strong, damaged soul filled with equal measures of hate, passion and a near-dead hope.  To these, her Gift strove to meld, yearned to reach and touch.  She shared in that yearning.

His eyes closed, his face taut with ecstasy.  As in the library, she suffered a slow drain of power, an exhaustion born of her connection to the mage.  She wanted to collapse on the floor, curl into a ball and sleep for days.

Silhara’s sudden lunge for her and his bruising grip on her arms snapped her out of the sorcery-induced torpor.  His black eyes glittered with anger and a hint of desperation.

“Control it, Martise, or I’ll take it and you and leave nothing behind.”

The threat acted as a bucket of icy water tossed on her head.  She concentrated, grappling with her stubborn Gift until it finally yielded to her will and broke the connection between her and Silhara.  The effort made her head swim, and she held onto him for balance.

She stilled when he leaned into her.  Her head tipped back, lips parting as he drew closer, tickling her cheeks with a whisper of breath.  If he kissed her, she’d surrender.  Her desire for him, amplified by her Gift’s overt attachment, would overpower her common sense.  Martise knew she’d help him hitch her skirts, let him take her as he pleased.  Standing at the window, lying on the bed.  Whatever he wished as long as he gave her a full measure of the passion he hid beneath layers of cold mockery and disdain.

His bottom lip touched hers, soft, tantalizing.  “Why are you here?”  He spoke the words into her mouth, his tongue flicking briefly across her upper lip.

She smothered a moan.  “Because you wanted me.”

Lean hips pressed into hers, the bulge of his erection nestling against her thin leine, coaxing her to widen her stance.  She obeyed, sighing her pleasure at the feel of him between her legs.

“No truer words.”  The harsh voice was a broken whisper.  His tongue slid across her lip.  She met it with the tip of hers, tasting him for the first time.  Like his scent, he tasted of oranges and the spice of matal tobacco.

“Please,” she implored.

Her entreaty acted as a catalyst.  Silhara crushed her to him.  His tongue thrust between her lips, took her mouth in a hard kiss.  Martise met his ardor with equal fire, taking him deeper to suck on his tongue and slide hers across his teeth and the roof of his mouth.

Her Gift writhed within her, desperate for freedom.  Equally desperate to feel and taste more of the Master of Crows, Martise ignored it.  His bare back heated her palms, tempted her with smooth skin, muscular slopes and valleys.

He made love to her mouth, stroking and sucking, thrusting with his tongue and mimicking the action with his hips.  She slid her thigh over his, whimpering into his mouth when a rough palm hiked her leine and glided across her leg to her hip.

She burned for him.  The danger of spying, the questionable ethics of betraying one life to free another, and the motivations of a power-hungry mage—all those things be damned.  For a single, scorching moment, Martise wanted only this—the feel and taste of Silhara of Neith on her and within her.

His arm slid beneath her buttocks to hoist her against him.  She threaded her hands through his hair and tightened her leg on his, moaning in protest when he suddenly stiffened and ended the kiss.

His lips were swollen, his face thin with unquenched desire, but his eyes were as cold and hard as black ice.  Martise blinked, knocked off kilter by his abrupt withdrawal.

“I’ve underestimated the High Bishop.  He knew me better than I ever imagined when he brought you to Neith.”

He dropped her and stepped back.  Startled, Martise stumbled.  She gaped at him, stunned by the sudden reversal of events.  “Master, I…”

He ignored her and strode to the door, as coolly collected as if they’d just discussed the weather.  She stared after him, flabbergasted.

He paused at the threshold.  “You need training.  And that talent of yours needs a firm hand.  We’ll start when we return from Eastern Prime.”  His voice, flat and distant, revealed nothing.

Almost sick with embarrassment, Martise smoothed her leine and wrapped her shawl more securely around her.  If he chose to ignore what they just shared, she’d do the same.  “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

A fleeting frown marred his brow before disappearing.  “You’ve a screech to raise the dead.  I’m surprised Gurn and Cael haven’t yet arrived.”

As if on cue, servant and dog burst through the open door.  Silhara leapt out of their way to keep from being flattened.  “Took you long enough,” he drawled.

Gurn surveyed the room, brandishing a small ax in his hand.  The weapon resembled a child’s toy in his massive palm.  Cael patrolled the chamber’s perimeter, his eyes a bright crimson as he snuffled and growled his disapproval.

“Corruption,” Silhara informed his servant.  “I think he got the wrong room this time.”  He glanced at Martise.  “You don’t have to sleep here tonight.  There are other chambers.”

She shook her head, feeling as she did when she first arrived at Neith, awkward in his presence.  “I’m all right.”  She smiled at Gurn.  “Gurn, you are ever the hero.  Were I Corruption, I might have leapt out the window at the sight of you charging through the door.”

He smiled and signed to her.