Master of Crows (29 page)

“They’ll refuse your help.”

“No, they won’t.”

She helped him stack the parchment together, musing aloud on the ritual.  “The strongest priest would have to act as Berdikhan to hold Corruption so the others might destroy him.”  She shook her head, puzzled.  “Some of the younger bishops are powerful enough to do it, but I know of none willing to martyr themselves.”

Silhara’s eyebrows rose.  “Don’t be so sure.  There’s always some idiot willing to sacrifice himself for fame and glory.  Immortality through martyrdom isn’t all that unusual.”

He placed his hand over hers as she continued to fiddle with the parchment.  “Enough for now.  I need to write a letter to the Luminary.  I’m sure Gurn can keep you occupied until midday?”

The strange disquiet wouldn’t leave her.  He held something from her.  She heard it in his voice, felt it in the tension of his body next to hers.  “Silhara…”

“Later, Martise.”

He swept out of the library, leaving her to trail after him, sick with a sense of dread.

Distracted by thoughts of her conversation with Silhara, she said little to Gurn as she spent the morning helping him with chores.  Her stomach continued churning with unease.  Silhara hated Conclave, had made no secret of his loathing for the priesthood.  If she were honest, she sympathized with his enmity.  But what if he wanted to take on the role of Berdikhan?  Suds dripped from her hands as she clutched a dirty dish and stared, unseeing, at the soapy water.  Silhara’s survival instincts were honed too sharp for him to willingly give his life for such a cause, but he might well succumb to the temptation of vengeance.  He might not die for a world, but would he do so for his own hatred?

“Ah, gods,” she murmured.  “What are you up to, Silhara?”  She’d come to Neith for the purpose of betraying him, to send him to a different death.  But that had been when the temptation of her freedom overrode the morality of her soul, and when Silhara of Neith was nothing more than a means to an end.  Everything had changed since then.  Even if he’d never discovered her Gift or she’d witnessed a hundred traitorous acts on his part, she wouldn’t betray him.  Dour and scornful, yet generous and loyal to his own, he’d taken her heart and made her love him.  “You must live for me,” she said softly.  “Don’t make my sacrifice an empty one.”

She’d talk to him, beg him if necessary if such were his plans.  Her hope lay with the priests.  Silhara might offer to act as Berdikhan, but the priests weren’t like the northern kings.  They didn’t trust the Master of Crows.  The idea that they might allow him to participate in the ritual at all was far-fetched.  Allowing him to act as the key player was out of the question.

At midday, Martise and Gurn ate their lunch in the kitchen without Silhara.  Shut in the downstairs study since morning, he hadn’t emerged at the tempting fragrance of Gurn’s soup.  Gurn loaded a tray with a deep bowl filled with broth, two loaves of bread and a pitcher of wine.  Martise, desperate to speak with Silhara once more, quickly volunteered to take the tray to him.

The study door was open partway, allowing strands of light to ripple along the corridor’s dark walls.  Martise balanced the tray of food on one shoulder and rapped on the door to announce her presence before crossing the threshold.  She saw Silhara, not at the desk writing, but standing near the small window that looked out onto the grove.  A dry zephyr wind, smelling of dust and orange blossom, swept inside.  It spun through the room, shuffled parchments on the desk with unseen hands and played with Silhara’s dark hair before fading to a gentle sigh.

Martise might have thought nothing of it, save for the welcome warmth it brought.  The chamber was icy with a sepulchral chill that reminded her of the Conclave cemetery or worse–those brief moments before a summoner brought forth a demon.  Fear scuttled down her spine.

From somewhere in the house’s labyrinth of corridors and rooms, Cael set up a howl loud enough to raise the dead.  Silhara remained at the window, ominously still.  Martise tried to swallow and found her mouth dry as chaff.  Every instinct screamed at her to run, to drop the tray and race for sanctuary.  Sweat dotted her upper lip despite the numbing cold pouring through the doorway.  She prayed he didn’t know she was there, dreaded what she might see when he finally turned and faced her.

She eased back toward the hall’s shadows one step at a time.  Gurn.  She had to warn Gurn. Of what, she didn’t know, only that they were all in imminent danger, and the master of Neith had somehow become the greatest threat to their safety.

Her cry echoed down the hall when an invisible force suddenly struck her in the back, shoving her farther into the room.  She managed to twist away just in time to keep from shattering her nose against the door’s edge.  The tray she carried flew out of her hand, tilting end over end, sending a shower of soup and wine splattering across every surface.  Martise pitched forward, staggering until her hip struck the work table.  She gripped its edges in an attempt to keep her footing on the now slick floor.

The unseen hand abruptly ceased pushing her forward. Martise ran for the door, terror giving her feet wings.  The crack of wood slamming against the frame buffeted her ears.  She skidded in a puddle and fell against the door’s carved face.  When she turned to face her adversary,   Silhara had abandoned his place at the window and walked slowly toward her.  Backlit by the sun’s red rays, he was no more than a lithe, sinister shadow.

“We meet again, servant.”

Martise gasped.  Sweat ran in rivulets down her ribs despite the brutal cold glazing her skin.  He was no longer hoarse.  The rasp normally characterizing his speech gave way to a deep timbre as smooth as a silk strangling scarf.  Whoever or whatever spoke to her was not Silhara of Neith.

“Silhara?”  The question fading on a choked breath as he drew closer, and she got a good look at his features.

Still the hard face she knew and loved, all sharp planes and unforgiving angles, it had taken on a skeletal cast.  His prominent cheekbones stood out in high relief, accentuating the sunken hollows beneath his eyes.  He looked starved, drained of life and spirit.  His eyes made her shrink against the door and edge her way along the wall.  The whites of his eyes were gone, replaced by a solid black stare from which something inhuman and ancient gazed back at her.

Silhara, or the thing inhabiting his body, looked upon her with unblinking curiosity, much as a viper waiting to strike.  Her teeth chattered, and a faint whimper escaped her lips.  He cocked his head, nostrils flaring as if to catch the scent of her terror.  His actions reminded her of the way Corruption acted when it first entered her room as a white and faceless abomination.

He kept pace with her as she slid along the back wall in a futile attempt to keep distance between them.  “He craves you.”  Long fingers reached out to skate along her collarbone. She flinched at the touch.  “Why?  You have no beauty to speak of.”  He leaned into her, drawing a deep breath against her neck.  “Still, there is something within you—unique, appetizing.  Something unafraid.”

Horror nearly blotted out all reason, and she lunged away from him—or tried to, only to be held fast in place.  Her Gift, buried within the deep recesses of her soul, twisted and turned in reaction.

The power that had thrust her into the chamber now shackled her to the wall.  Her heart thumped against her ribs.  Over Silhara’s bent shoulder she glimpsed the window, the orange grove beyond etched in the shadow of a summer sun, and the dull star drawing ever closer on the horizon.

Corruption had taken him, possessed the man whose ambitions and desires coincided with the will of the fallen god.  Martise wanted to vomit.  Her notions of slavery had been burned to ash more than once here at Neith.  But this trumped them all.  She had never known this form of bondage, singular and nightmarish.  Her voice, thin and unsteady, begged for mercy.  “Please.  Release him.  He won’t serve you willingly.”

The god laughed softly in her ear, the dulcet tones raising the fine hairs at her nape.  “I disagree.  Silhara of Neith is willful and stubborn, but he is also ambitious.  All those things he wishes for—power, respect, control—I can give him.  He knows this.  In time, he shall turn fully to me.”

Martise did her best to melt into the stone wall against her back as Silhara straightened.  His gaunt face filled her vision once more.  The intense, passionate lover who had arched beneath her caressing hands the night before was gone, overwhelmed by an evil whose smile never reached the dead black eyes.  He swept a hand down his body.  “As you can see, he is nearly mine already.”

Revulsion curdled the food in her stomach.  “Your price for such rewards is too high.”

“Not for him.  He will have dominion over the world through me, wealth and immortality.  And I will have the greatest avatar ever born, stronger than those before him.  One who will lead my armies and conquer all before me.”

Martise’s terror mingled with shock.  Bursin’s wings!    Silhara, the reborn avatar.  And he knew.  Surely, he knew.  Tears of despair and rage made her vision swim.   A lesser man might well serve Corruption, but not the Master of Crows.  A man who refused to bow to Conclave would not submit as puppet to a god.

Her lip curled as she stared into the god’s dead eyes.  This was no creature worthy of deification, only a parasite with no greater wish than to yoke a world to serve its petty whims.

“You’re mistaken.”  She found some small measure of strength in the renewed steadiness in her voice.  “He will not surrender to you.  You’ve fed his temptation and turned him for a moment, but it won’t last.”  She met the dark, reptilian gaze unflinchingly.  “Release him.  You are false and unworthy of either worship or Silhara’s servitude.”

A flicker of something—uncertainty, doubt—chased a whirl of shadows in Silhara’s possessed gaze.  He lashed out, fingers curving around her throat as he straight-armed her off the floor.  There wasn’t even time to scream.  She dangled in midair, choking and clawing at the hand slowly crushing the breath out of her.

He was preternaturally strong, holding her aloft with ease, oblivious to her nails digging bloodied furrows into his hand.  Her feet kicked in a desperate bid to find some purchase as black spots danced in her vision.  Her struggles were rewarded when her foot connected with something soft.  Silhara’s calculating expression never changed.  The force of her blow, which should have brought him to his knees, had no effect, filled as he was with the god’s power.

He tightened his hold slowly, his mouth curving into another brittle, calculating smile.  “You will have the honor of being my first condemned heretic.”

Her vision grayed.  Her air-starved lungs burned in her chest.  Somewhere, in the fading threads of her consciousness, she heard the sound of running feet, the frantic barking of a dog.  The wall behind her vibrated as the door shook on its hinges from a relentless pounding.  Gurn and Cael come to save them both.  Too late, her mind whispered.  Too late.

“Please,” she prayed in choked silence. “Help me.”

A god didn’t answer, but her Gift did.  Released from her control, it surged out of her, bathing her and Silhara in amber light.  A powerful wrench snapped her head against the wall as Silhara lost his grip.  Invisible hands lifted him off his feet and slammed him across the room.  He crashed into the desk, hard enough to overturn it.

Martise hit the floor in a gasping, gagging heap.  She struggled to take one, two precious gulps of air before rolling to her back.  The ceiling spun above her in a shimmering sea, and the pounding at the door was a monstrous heartbeat in her ears.   She turned on her side and saw Silhara.

Slumped against the overturned desk, he looked like a broken doll.  His head was lowered, shoulders sagging as if Corruption had suddenly cut the strings that held him a prisoner puppet.  Blood streaked from his nose and down his mouth.  Drops splashed on his hands, mingling with the blood seeping from the wounds she’d gouged into his skin.

She sucked in a pained breath and crawled to him, terrified that Corruption still held sway but desperate to reach him.  Her sigh of relief scorched her throat when Silhara raised his head and blinked slowly.  His eyes, bloodshot and nearly crossed, were human again.  Tears dripped from her cheeks, mingling with the blood on his hands.  Martise touched his nose, his mouth and kissed his forehead.  She tried to speak, to thank more merciful gods that he was whole again, but she was mute, her voice lost from his strangle hold. 

Silhara stared at her, dazed.  His lips parted.  Suddenly, what little color he still retained drained from his skin.  His mouth opened in a rictus of pain, and he clutched the place between his legs.  Martise backed away when he keeled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, gasping in wordless agony.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Black pain roared through his body, swiping at him with claws that dug deep into his ribs, his skull and especially into his groin and back.  Martise’s pinched features swam in his vision.  Silhara found it hard to reconcile that the woman who now stroked his sweating face with gentle fingers was the same woman who practically kicked his balls into his throat.

“Get away from me, demon,” he wheezed.

Her shoulders sagged in relief at his reprimand.  Tears painted luminous trails on her pallid cheeks, and the red marks left by his fingers circled her neck in a ghastly collar.  Still, she’d found the courage to come near him after what he’d just done to her.

The pounding on the door continued until the mage-ward faded.  Gurn, wielding his cudgel, and Cael, red-eyed and bristling, burst into the room ready to do battle.  The dog crept toward Silhara, teeth bared.  Any recognition of his master had fled, and his wide nostrils twitched at Corruption’s scent in the air.

Too injured to dodge a possible attack, Silhara snapped at Gurn.  “Get him out of here before he decides to sink his teeth into me.”

Gurn hauled Cael back, careful to stay clear of the snapping jaws as the dog resisted his efforts to toss him out the door.  The moment Gurn closed the door on him, Cael set up a howling racket that had Silhara wincing.

Content to lie on his side and let the pain ebb and flow through his body, he stared at Martise.  She sat next to him, a mix of fear and compassion in her gaze.  Gurn crouched beside him, shaking his head.  His big hands were gentle as he prodded Silhara for injuries.

Silhara shrugged off his touch.  “I’ll be fine in a moment.  See to Martise.  I just tried to kill her.”

Gurn’s eyes rounded at her disheveled appearance and the darkening bruises on her neck.  She gave him a brief smile and tried to speak.  The resulting croak made everyone flinch.  Gurn clucked in sympathy.  He signed he’d return with drinks for them both and something for Silhara to wash away the blood.  He rose and offered his hand to help Martise stand.  She declined with a quick shake of her head.  Silhara’s eyebrows rose when she used the same hand motions as Gurn, who grinned and bowed before leaving the room.

Silhara, as pleased as Gurn, smiled through the residual pain thrumming through his muscles.  “You could have demonstrated no greater friendship to him than that.  Not even if you saved his life.”  She blushed and signed to him that she was very fond of Gurn.

He levered himself into a sitting position and wiped the blood from his nose and mouth with a trembling hand.  The metallic taste on the back of his throat made his stomach turn, and he spat on the floor to rid himself of the taste.  Martise scooted to sit in front of him and signed an apology.

Silhara grumbled and shielded his groin with one hand.  “Who could guess that such a small woman would make so formidable an opponent?”  He winced.  “I’m lucky you didn’t break a rib or two.  Do you often toss your lovers around the room like that?”

Martise tried to laugh and stopped.  She rubbed her throat.

Silhara reached out to run a light finger over one of the marks on the side of her neck.  “It’s I who should beg your forgiveness.  I’ve thieved and murdered in my lifetime and regret little of those actions.  But if I’ve destroyed that wondrous voice…”

He’d been harsh with her.  Deadly as well.  He’d marked her when loving her, and again when he tried to strangle her.  Two sides to a tarnished coin.  A hard knot settled under his ribs.  Her time at Neith was finished.  So was Gurn’s.  The god’s newest attack and subsequent possession—the worst and longest so far—solidified the decision he’d pondered over the last two days.  For their protection, he’d send Martise back to the bishop before her scheduled time and order Gurn to Eastern Prime.

Martise knew his secret now, and it didn’t matter if she told the world.  He’d won his battles against Conclave and ultimately lost the war—and the woman he’d grown to love.

She touched his hand, entwined her fingers with his.  He stared down at her chafed knuckles, the pink nails rimmed with his blood.  History might see him as a hero, like Berdikhan.  None would know he’d martyred himself, not for a world, but for this woman.

He tugged on her hand.  “Come closer.”

She hesitated for a brief moment then inched closer until she was almost in his lap.

He caressed her neck.  “I can heal these with your help.  But we’ll do it now before Gurn returns.

After what her Gift just did to him, he took a risk in asking her to recall her magic.  He hoped the near-sentient entity had reacted to Corruption’s presence within him and not to him alone.  Martise nodded once and closed her eyes.  Within moments the air around her shimmered with amber light.  Serpentine tendrils wrapped around his wrists in a lover’s clasp, so different from the combative force that had swatted him across the room earlier.  Power, cleansing and redeeming, flowed into his hands and spread throughout his body.  The strength of her Gift washed away Corruption’s taint and filled him with Martise’s essence—a steady flame that burned low but strong and enveloped his soul in a soft embrace.

Bewitched by the seductive sensation of living power, Silhara reveled in the deep bonding.  Martise sat still before him, her eyelids at half-mast as she met his gaze.  His tongue felt thick as he recited a simple healing spell, one that did nothing more than heal a scrape.  With her Gift’s power, the spell worked a greater magic.  The bruises faded from her skin, and the swelling muscles and tendons beneath his fingers softened. 

“Enough,” he said, and withdrew his hands.

Martise breathed deep and closed her eyes once more.  The amber light unwound from Silhara’s arms and wrists, undulating away from him to coalesce into a pinpoint of light centered at Martise’s chest.  It pulsed twice before disappearing into the fabric of her tunic.

Silhara nodded in approval.  She had a good command of her stubborn talent now and suppressed it with less effort.  With continued practice, she’d have no difficulty hiding it from the priests so they’d never suspect her Gift had manifested.

Without the comforting force of her power running in his blood, the pain of his injuries returned.  He shifted and cursed when that small movement sent a sharp pain through his side.  Martise reached for him, but he waved her away.

“Let’s see if that spell did any good for your voice.  Try to speak.”

“Thank you,” she said and grinned when the words came out in something more than an incoherent croak.  Her voice remained a little hoarse, but no worse than it might sound if she was ill with a cold.

“You sing badly enough as it is,” he teased.  “I’d never be redeemed if I made you sound like me.”

Her soft laughter soothed him.  She didn’t hate or fear him, even now after he’d almost killed her.  Despair threatened to consume him.  He would mourn her, even beyond his death.  Were circumstances different, he’d fight to keep her, kill Cumbria if necessary to wrest her from him and face the wrath of Conclave for slaughtering their most powerful bishop.  But fate played a diabolical joke on him.  He would be no better than Berdikhan or even Corruption if he sacrificed his own
bide jiana
for the chance of living through the god-killing ritual.  A scathing anger filled him.  He wasn’t noble, only heart-bound, and surely the second was more pathetic than the first.  He’d give Martise up freely and destroy himself to save her.  What had she once said?  The gods laughed.  Indeed they did.

He banished his self-recriminations.  No need to dwell on what a weak fool he’d become.  Martise held out a hand once more when he clambered unsteadily to his feet.  Again, he waved her off.

“Don’t.  I’ve gained a healthy respect for your feet.  As soon as I’m sure you haven’t completely emasculated me, you can help.”

She blushed.  “Can’t you heal yourself the same way you healed my throat?”

The idea of her hand, heated by the magic of her Gift, cupping his balls would normally have him erect.  Now, with the steady ache in his groin fanning out to his back and down his legs, he found the notion less than appealing.

“Your trust in me is greater than mine in you.  As much as I might usually enjoy it, I think it best you keep your hands off my cock for now, Martise.”

His blunt statement took the sting out of his refusal.  A small smile flickered across her lips before fading.

“Are you well, Silhara?”  Dark memories shadowed her eyes.  “The god… your eyes…”

A rising bile, mixed with the remnants of blood, burned the back of his throat.  He raised his hands and frowned at their trembling.  “Now you know why the star hovers at Neith.”

  Martise clasped her hands in front of her.  Her white knuckles contrasted with her calm voice.  “You’re the avatar reborn.”

“Yes.”

Gurn’s return prevented him from saying more.  The servant carried a tray with two steaming cups and a stack of wet towels.  He handed one cup to Martise and another to Silhara, along with a towel.

Martise snatched the towel out of Silhara’s hand.  “Will you trust me enough to bathe your face?  I promise no kicking.”

She set her cup on the floor when he nodded and proceeded to wipe away the blood.  The cloth was cool on his cheeks and her touch soothing.  Silhara stood passive beneath her ministrations, never looking away as she rubbed smears of dried blood from his nose and chin.  The towel hovered at the corner of his mouth.  Silhara, attuned to her every breath, bent toward her as she stood on tip-toe and kissed the spot.

“No one should suffer such bondage,” she whispered against his mouth.  “I would take this burden if I could.”

Lightning shot through his soul.  Such devotion.  Martise was a compassionate woman, but this went far beyond sympathy.  Did she love him as he did her?  See him as something other than the threat Conclave saw?  Would she grieve their separation in the same silence?  The anguish in her eyes answered his question.

He stroked her temple with his thumb.  “That is a debt I cannot and will not repay.”  The same thumb pressed against her lips when she tried to argue.  “There is always a cost, Martise.

He took the towel from her and gingerly cleaned his hands before giving it back.  “Don’t forget your cup.  My spell has done most of the work, but I can assure you Gurn’s draught will heal you completely.”

His cup was filled with a tea brewed blacker than ink and sweetened heavily with honey.  A simple but effective restorative.  Silhara raised the cup in salute to Gurn.  The dull pain in his chest grew.  He would soon lose Gurn as well, and that hurt almost as much as losing Martise.

Gurn, pleased his patients drank his brews, began cleaning the study.  He tried unsuccessfully to shoo Martise away when she set to helping him.  Silhara, still too sore to do more than watch, limped to the other side of the overturned desk.  Parchment lay scattered across the floor, much of it splattered in ink.  He picked up one page, his letter to the Luminary of Conclave.  A black stain smeared the bottom of the letter, but it was still readable.

Eminence, I offer you the opportunity to kill me and destroy Corruption in one act.  Are you interested?

Silhara, Master of Neith

The letter was dry, grains of sand still trapped on the paper.  He shook it off and rolled the parchment into a tight scroll.  Gurn motioned to him when he stepped over the puddles of wine and soup and made his way to the door.

“I’m well enough, though I doubt I’ll sire children now.”  He smiled slightly at Martise’s blush.

Like Gurn, she wore a worried expression.  “Corruption…”

“Will bide its time.  I doubt you’ll see it again.”  He'd make certain she was back at Asher the next time Corruption paid him a visit.

He paused at the door.  “I’ll be in my chambers.  When you and Gurn are finished here, one of you bring me a cup of the Fire.”

Martise held one of Gurn’s towels, now stained with wine.  “Will you be all right alone?”

Silhara snorted.  “I’m not a child, Martise.  I haven’t needed my mother for many years.

He left them in the study and limped to his room.  Once inside, he groaned and cupped his groin once more.  “Bursin’s wings, woman.  I hadn’t thought to die a eunuch.”

For a moment he regretted refusing the offer of her Gift to heal his own aches and pains and settled on a simple spell that numbed the soreness between his legs.  His shirt was ruined, blood-stained across the chest and torn in places from Martise’s clawing hands.  He stripped it off and tossed it on the bed.  His injured hands still shook, lingering signs of the god’s brutal control.  Silhara growled and strode out to his balcony.  Against the blue sky, Corruption’s star shone a bright white now.

“Pleased with yourself, Corruption?”

The god remained silent for once, but the star pulsed in triumph.  Silhara scowled.  Corruption grew stronger every day.  For all his strength and skill, he didn’t think he could resist much longer.  If he didn’t go to the god willingly, Corruption would eventually take him by force.  If, however, he allowed the god possession, he might still retain some control of himself and Corruption for a short time—long enough to perform the ritual that would trap the god, killing it and him in the bargain.