Master of Crows (26 page)

“No.  He died while my mother still carried me.  His people didn’t even know of me until I’d reached my twentieth season.  They came to trade at Neith with my mentor.  A few saw the resemblance between us, asked the right questions.  Hard to miss the Kurman nose and cheekbones.”

She ran her thumb across his knuckles.  “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged against her back.  “It was long ago.  You don’t miss what you never knew.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, and she dozed at short intervals, wrapped in a cocoon of blanket and Silhara’s swaying warmth.  She was awake when they finally entered the outskirts of the Kurman village.  Nestled high in the mountains and surrounded by a sheltering stand of pines, the village sprawled across a flat clearing.  Black tents sporting bright banners in shades of red and yellow shared space with more permanent dwellings built of rough stone and roofed with woven branches mixed with sun-dried mud.  The roofs were unique, built into a dome shape with a hole in a center from which smoke escaped in lazy spirals.

A few sheep milled about the village’s center, and children competed with dogs to see who could chase squawking chickens the fastest.  They were accompanied by parental reprimands from colorfully dressed women tending cooking fires or sitting at looms outside their doorways.

Peyan kicked his pony into a trot and alerted the village of their arrival with a loud “Aiyee!”

As a single entity, the entire village surged forward to greet them.  Gnat stood patiently as many hands patted his neck and traced his withers.  Silhara dismounted and helped Martise down.  He was patted too, and amidst the excited chatter, she heard the word “
kurr
” several times, an endearment she recognized for “son.”

Like Peyan and Mezdar, the Kurmans were swarthy-complected, darker than Silhara but with the same black hair and eyes.  Their faces were broader and the eyes more almond-shaped.  Many had the same aquiline nose as his and the same prominent cheekbones, but not his height.  Silhara towered over the tallest villager in the crowd.

The women wore similar vests as the men, but their shirts were brighter, and their skirts draped in an array of azure, saffron and scarlet.  Their dark hair was arranged in intricate braids and decorated with painted beads.  All eyes suddenly focused on her.

Unused to so much attention, she blushed and gave a clumsy bow.  At least she didn’t stutter her Kurmanji greeting.  “A fair moon above you.  I am honored to break bread.”

More chatter followed her greeting, along with a few admiring “ooohs.”  One young girl in the crowd exclaimed, “Such a beautiful voice!  Do you sing?”

Silhara blanched.  Martise tried not to laugh at his horrified expression.  “No, I’m sorry.  I don’t sing well at all.”

A round of disappointed protests echoed from the crowd, and Silhara gave an audible sigh of relief.  He grinned at the indignant frown she shot him.

They were escorted into the heart of the village by the entire population.  There was much excited talk about a welcome celebration that night and calls for Silhara to give them news of the plains.  A sudden hush descended on the villagers, and the crowd parted.

A stately figure approached them.  Garbed much like the other Kurman men in embroidered vest and dun trousers, he stood out amongst the crowd.  His tall hat added height to his diminutive frame and sported a ruby the size of a robin’s egg.  Life and sun had carved fissures into a dusky face half-obscured by a white beard that touched his knees.  Martise was struck by his presence, the quiet power and authority.

Silhara met him half way and bowed low with his hands clasped together as if in prayer.  “I am honored,
Sarsin
.”

The
sarsin
harrumphed.  His dark eyes crinkled at the corner, and his mouth, almost hidden by the beard, turned up in a smile.  “Good to have you here,
kurr
.”  He glanced at Martise.  “You’ve brought your woman?”

“I have.  She serves me well and is fine comfort on a cold night.”

Martise stiffened.  She’d done more for Silhara than act as tea pourer and bed warmer.  Just as quickly she relaxed. Bendewin had sometimes mentioned the high value placed on a Kurman wife who tended her mate and pleased him between the sheets.  While Martise judged her worth by her learning, in Kurman eyes Silhara had just paid her a high compliment.

The two men clasped hands, and the
sarsin
led him away from the crowd.  Silhara spoke to Martise over his shoulder.  “Go with the women.  They’ll show you the village and take you to the house we’ll share.  I’ll see you later this evening.”

Martise watched him go, nervous but determined to make a good impression on his kinsmen.  She stood within a circle of women and children who asked her numerous questions.  The Kurmanji flew so fast, she had to ask them to repeat themselves.  At a lull in the conversation, a Kurman woman with white-streaked hair pushed her way to the front of the crowd.

“That’s enough for now.  They’ve traveled far and will want to rest and bathe.”  She looked at Martise who nodded enthusiastically.

The dwelling the woman led her to was one of the large stone houses in the village.  Martise followed her inside and was instantly awash in warmth.  The house was a single large room, lit by the fire dancing merrily in a pit in the center of the floor.  Rugs covered the floor, providing soft footing.  Rows of jars and chests were pushed against the walls, and several sheep skins made up a bed.  Smoke from the fire rose to the ceiling and disappeared through the hole that allowed a column of sunlight to filter down.  She stepped over numerous pillows and walked past strings of garlic and dried peppers hung from the rafters.

Her escort pointed at the fire.  She spoke in accented Plains instead of Kurmanji.  “Someone will return with tea and water for a bath.  Have you eaten?”

“Not yet.”

The woman moved around the room, straightening the blankets on the bed and checking the contents of some of the jars.  She returned to Martise and appraised her with that same measuring gaze.  “I am Dercima, Karduk’s fourth consort.  My brother was Silhara’s father.”

Martise hid her surprise with another bow.  “I’m Martise of Asher.”  She paused.  How did she introduce herself?  Silhara had already called her his woman, but that was more a claim than an official title.  She settled on something applicable to the moment.  “I serve Neith.”

Dercima’s gaze was shrewd, and though no taller than Martise, she still managed to look down the length of her nose at her.  Martise immediately recognized the expression.  “You aren’t what I’d expect from my nephew.”

How many times had she heard similar words in her life?  “I surprise people sometimes.”

Dercima’s somber features relaxed with a hint of amusement.  “I suspect you surprised him.”  She straightened a pillow before walking to the door.  “Rest for now.  Silhara will return later.  My husband will want to talk with him, and Karduk can be long-winded.”

“Does Silhara look like his father?”

Her question made Dercima pause.  She turned back.  Firelight reflected in her still gaze.  “Yes, but Silhara’s eyes are far older than Terlan’s ever were.  He’s a harder man, a darker one.  You embrace shadow.”  She crouched and swept out of the short doorway before Martise could ask her more.

She wasn’t left alone for long.  Three young women knocked and entered the house carrying supplies for a bath, a plate heaped with food, a sturdy cauldron of water and a tea kettle.  Martise murmured her thanks as they left.  Alone in the house, she set the tea and cauldron to heat and helped herself to the food.  There were no Kurman here to reprimand her for eating before Silhara returned.

The food was a hash of ground lamb, lentils and peppers.  She used the flat enjita bread as a spoon and drank half the kettle of tea to cool the spicy fire of the peppers on her tongue.  Afterward, she tested the cauldron’s water, undid her braid and stripped for a quick bath.  Outside, the brisk air smelled of snow, but inside the house it was warm, and Martise took her time in soaping and rinsing the dust of the road off her body.

“To be greeted by such a sight each time I walk in a house.”

She spied Silhara at the entrance, an admiring gleam in his dark eyes.  Martise lowered her arms to her side and gave him an unobstructed view of her body.

“Raised in a brothel, I’d think such a sight common for you.”

He approached her slowly, his gaze caressing her as he drew close.  “True.”  He drew a delicate pattern over her bare breasts and midriff.  “But you aren’t common, even if you do only have two breasts.”

He coaxed a chuckle out of her, even as he heated her blood with his nearness and his touch.  “You’ve spoken with the
sarsin
?”  She gasped and arched when he bent, took her nipple in his mouth and suckled.  Martise buried her wet hands in his hair and moaned, uncaring that she was likely soaking the front of his tunic.

Silhara placed a last kiss on the tip of her nipple before stepping away.  Light from the fire emphasized the color on his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes blazed.  “For now.  It’s more a formal greeting than anything.  He’ll want to talk again tonight.  Karduk is long-winded.”

She giggled.  “That’s what your aunt said.”

“You’ve spoken with Dercima?  Now there is a woman to challenge a god.  She is the fourth of six consorts, and the most powerful in Karduk’s household.  She rules them all.”

He spoke of her with fondness and great respect.  Martise liked seeing this side of him, a man free of the usual scorn.  She dropped the wet cloth on the edge of the cauldron and reached for another to dry herself off.  Silhara took the cloth from her.

“No.  Finish your bath.”

“But there’s food…”

One black eyebrow arched.  “And I’ll eat it while you bathe.”

The look he slanted her seduced her, and she answered his unspoken challenge.  In the privacy of the Kurman house, she was not servant, nor was he master.  It pleased him simply to watch her.  It pleased her to have him do so.

The rest of her bath was slow and languorous.  Silhara sat cross-legged against one of the cushions and ate the rest of the food on the plate.  She hid her grin when, too distracted by following the path of the wash cloth over her hip, he almost put his hand in the fire instead of on the tea kettle’s handle.  She was plain Martise, but in those moments she felt more beautiful and sensual than all the Anyas in the world.  She reveled in the decadence of tempting him.  He was the
sarsin
here and she the consort performing for his pleasure.

His features tensed as she ran the drying cloth up the inside of her thigh, almost to her cunnus.  He tossed his empty teacup aside and reached for her, wrapping a hand around her calf.  Martise dropped the cloth and waited.  He stood swiftly, resting his hands on her hips.

She played with the lacings on his tunic.  “Do Kurman women bathe their men?”

Callused hands stroked a path from her hips to her waist, to the outer curve of her breasts.  “Sometimes.  A man’s consort may choose to do so.  The privilege of marriage.”  Silhara’s smile was puzzled.

One of the laces unfurled between her fingers.  “I want to bathe you.”

He lost the smile.  “Why?”

Such a guarded man despite his bluntness.  Her heart ached within her chest, even as her body burned with desire.  She would grieve him when she left Neith.  One fingertip followed the arched bridge of his nose.  “Because you are a pleasure to touch, a pleasure to look upon.  A man who does this…”  She placed his hand on her breast, let him feel the sensitive peak of her nipple.  “And this…”  She guided that same hand between her legs and opened her thighs so that his fingers slipped into the dampness there.

Silhara’s eyes closed, and he groaned.  Those wondrous fingers worked their own magic on her, sliding into her to stroke and tease.  His tongue mimicked his fingers as he tilted her head back and kissed her.

For several minutes, Martise was lost to his touch before she regained her thoughts and pushed his hand away.  Silhara growled in protest but didn’t stop her.  They were both short of breath.  “I do not ask for much,” she panted.

His gaze stripped her to her soul.  “You ask for everything.”  He continued to stare at her, shadows swirling within the depths of his eyes.  His shoulders lifted in a deep breath.  “As you wish.”

Euphoria entwined with desire.  Martise divested him of his garments, casting them aside with such enthusiasm, he laughed.  She paused when he stood nude before her, clothed only in the flickering light of the hearth’s low flame.  Burnished skin that paled below the slim waist, wide shoulders and long legs.  He was beautiful, and her fingers tingled in eagerness to pay homage to that masculine beauty.

The remaining water in the cauldron was still warm, and she wet a new cloth.  Silhara stood still for her slow ministrations, sucking in an audible breath when the cloth glided between his thighs and passed over his testicles in a light caress.  She took her time, reveling in the sight of his skin glistening with water droplets.  He swayed on his feet when she soaped him and ran her slick hands down his ribs, the indentation of his spine and his tight buttocks.  A pleased sigh escaped him when she curled slippery fingers around his cock and stroked.

Silhara’s hands curled into fists at his side.  His face, flushed by the heat from the fire and the heat Martise ignited in him, was drawn into sharp angles.  His voice was a harsh rasp.  “Finish soon, or there will be soap on the bed.”

She laughed softly and trickled water over him to clean away the soap.  He was wet and glistening and aroused.  Martise dropped the cloth into the cauldron.  Her lips fluttered against his chin.  “The bed is too far away.”

His breathing quickened even more as she learned his body with her mouth, lips and tongue playing on his nipples, passing across his stomach, the prominent angle of his hipbone, down to the slim, muscular thighs.  Silhara buried his hands in her hair and massaged her scalp with trembling fingers.  On her knees before him, Martise met his dark gaze and closed her mouth over the tip of his cock.  He was the first to break their stare, throwing his head back to gasp his pleasure when she took him fully, down to the hilt.