Master of Crows (30 page)

Cumbria would see him dead at last, but not as he might wish.  Instead of a criminal executed for treachery or heresy, Silhara would die a martyred hero.

He didn’t care about heroism or martyrdom or foiling Cumbria’s plans.  He wanted to live, to harvest his oranges, to live at Neith without Conclave up his nose and keep Martise by his side until he died of old age instead of this cursed nobility suddenly afflicting him.

But none of this would be his fate if he stood by and watched Corruption swell with power until it consumed him and the world it sought to conquer.  Despite what others might think or how history might record it, Silhara was self-serving.  Corruption was no different than the lich of Iwehvenn, and Silhara chose to die with his soul intact rather than live a shell of a man who’d lost his humanity.

A sly inner voice whispered to him. 
“You might live.  You swive a bide jiana every night.  Use her for what she is made.”

Weeks earlier, he might have done so without a second thought, when Martise was nothing more than an instrument of Conclave whose purpose was to betray him.  Things had changed.

“I am pathetic,” he muttered.  “I condemn myself and risk a world for a woman.”

He returned to his room.  The letter to the Luminary lay on his bed, half unfurled next to his stained shirt.  Silhara reread the short missive before rolling it and transforming it into a sphere of light no bigger than a thimble.  Back out on the balcony he summoned a crow from one of the trees and placed the sphere under the ensorcelled bird’s wing.  The glossy black feathers were smooth as he stroked the crow’s back.

“Conclave,” he said.  “The Luminary.”

The bird cawed once before taking flight, winging its way toward the coast and Conclave’s stronghold.

He expected the priests to be on his doorstep in a matter of days.  The Luminary might not bother to reply; just appear with his entourage in tow to discuss his plans with Silhara.

Behind him, a soft knock sounded against his door.  Martise’s voice drifted to the balcony.

“Silhara?”

“For now.  I’m on the balcony.”

Her light footfalls drew closer.  Disheveled and flushed from helping Gurn downstairs, she smiled and passed him a goblet.  “How are…”

“My bollocks?  Sore, but at least I’m no longer choking on them.  How’s your throat?

She touched her neck.  “Good.  Gurn had me drink a little of the Fire, and it helped.”

Silhara tipped the goblet and drained half the contents.  The drink scorched his insides, leaving a pleasant euphoria in its wake.  He breathed hard and rubbed his watering eyes.  “Nothing can kill pain or cause it like Dragon’s Piss.”  He set the cup on the balcony railing.  “Did you know soldiers use Peleta’s Fire to keep battle wounds from poisoning?”

He motioned her closer and drew her against him.  Her back was warm, and she smelled of orange flowers.  He nuzzled her neck.

“You now have something to tell the bishop.”

Martise stiffened.

“Surely, you knew I’d guessed your purpose here the day you arrived?”  He kissed her temple.

Her voice was steady.  “Yes, but I wouldn’t have admitted it had you confronted me earlier.”  She turned in his arms, copper eyes guarded as she met his gaze.  “And I have nothing to tell the bishop.”

Silhara stroked her back and ran her long braid through his fingers.  “It wouldn’t matter if you did, Martise.  Only you and I will know of your Gift.  Your secret is safe.

She pressed against him, her breasts soft beneath her tunic.  Summer sun caressed her upturned face.  “Even if I had no secret to protect, I wouldn’t tell the bishop what I saw today.”

A declaration of loyalties changed.  Silhara closed his eyes and embraced her.  He should feel triumphant.  He’d won over the spy and defeated Cumbria at his little game.  But he’d lost the woman in the bargain.

He peered down at her.  “What reward are you forfeiting for your silence?”

Her gaze slid away.  “Nothing worth a man’s life.”

Silhara chuckled.  “My fair innocent.  Men sacrifice other men for power and wealth, food and sometimes just for entertainment.”

She looked at him with those somber eyes.  “What do we sacrifice ourselves for?”

Her question caught him off guard.  He didn’t answer, only kissed her forehead.

“What does the symbol mean, Silhara?”

More tenacious than a mage-finder with a kill, she refused to give up on the notion he knew about the symbol next to Berdikhan’s name.  Thank Bursin they weren’t having this discussion at night.  He might not resist the temptation to stare at Zafira’s constellation as he’d done so many times since their return from the Kurman camp.

“I don’t know.”

Her eyes narrowed.  “You’re lying.”

Silhara chuckled.  He very much liked when she displayed such ferocity.  He lowered his mouth to hers, ran his tongue along her bottom lip.  “Prove it,” he whispered.

She sank into him as he kissed her.  He savored the feel of her in his arms.  If he wasn’t still recovering from Corruption’s possession and her effective defense, he’d take her to bed and make love to her for the remainder of the afternoon and into the night.

He groaned when she pulled away and gave him a piercing look.  “Wait.  What do you mean it doesn’t matter if I tell the bishop you’re the avatar?”

He raised his eyes to the heavens.  “So much for my powers of seduction.”  Martise didn’t crack a smile.  “Conclave’s first attempt to destroy Corruption only resulted in a long exile.  This time, they must rely on the avatar to defeat the god.”

Realization struck her, swift and hard.  Her eyes darkened until they were nearly as black as his.  “No!”  She clutched his arms.  “Let someone else be Berdikhan.  The Luminary or Cumbria.  They are as strong as you.  As powerful.  This is Conclave’s purpose, not yours!”

Silhara shrugged her off.  “But it is my redemption.”  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.  “What did you see when you looked into my face an hour ago?”

Her hand trembled in his grip.  “Something soulless.”

He inclined his head.  “An apt description.  Conclave has accused me of such failings many times.  Now, they’d be right.”  He released her hand.  “I’ve no wish to be reduced to a cipher, Martise.  I’ll die before that happens, and I’ll take Corruption down with me.”

She bowed her head.  “I wish you loved me,” she said in a small voice.  “Maybe then I could make you halt this madness.”

Her statement almost brought him to his knees.  It was because he loved her that he followed this path, but telling her so would only make her protest harder or worse, do something foolish that might compromise them both.  He closed his eyes for a moment and told his greatest lie.

“I don’t love you.  You are an admirable woman, more so than any other person I’ve known save Gurn.  But that has little bearing here.”

The faintest moan hovered between them before the afternoon breeze snatched it away.  Martise clasped her hands together.

“Would it matter at all if I said I loved you?”

A part of Silhara, the smallest part that remembered his humanity and his ability to love, shuddered.  “No.”

He raised her head with a fingertip under her chin.  Tears coursed down her wan cheeks and dripped onto his hand.  He fancied they burned.  “Ready your things.  I’m returning you to your true master.”

He kissed her again, hard.  He’d take the memory of her taste with him to his death.

She returned his kiss briefly before fleeing the balcony.  Once the door closed behind her he entered his chamber with the half-finished goblet of Peleta’s Fire, donned a new shirt and prepared his
huqqah
.

The tobacco’s smooth taste dampened the alcohol’s harshness, and Silhara smoked from the
huqqah
in long draws.  He exhaled a cloud of smoke in a slow breath, murmuring arcane words as he did.  The smoke swirled and spun in purposeful patterns, shaping itself into a misty replica of Martise’s face.  The ghostly image hung in the air before him, and he traced its outline.

“My own Zafira.  You have condemned me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“How do we know we can trust you?”

Cumbria’s question lashed across the clatter of tea cups and the whisper of robes.

Silhara, dressed in his red robe and at ease in his library amongst a gathering of Conclave bishops, reclined in his chair and smirked.  “You don’t.”

Steam from the hot tea kettle scalded Martise’s fingers as she refilled their cups.  The contingent of priests, including the all-powerful Luminary, had been here less than two hours, and already the bishop and the mage postured and prepared to engage in combat.

Cumbria turned to the short, balding priest next to him.  Younger than Cumbria and not nearly as imposing, he had a round, jovial face and sharp eyes that burned holes through a person with their stare.  Martise had only been this close to the Luminary once before, and she remained suitably awed.

The bishop touched his forehead in deference.  “Eminence, you would rest the fate of the world on this outcast and the mythology of those savages whose blood he shares?”

Silhara’s eyebrows rose.  He ran a lazy fingertip around the rim of his teacup.  “I share your blood, Uncle.  Are you a savage?”

Stifled gasps from the other priests punctuated Silhara’s question.  Martise almost dropped the half empty teapot into a lesser bishop’s lap.  At the makeshift sideboard hastily prepared for this meeting, Gurn calmly buttered bread slices and smiled.

“Never call me that!”  His bony hands curled into fists, Cumbria leaned across the table as if to leap at Silhara and pummel him.

“Cumbria!  This isn’t the time for family squabbles.”  The Luminary’s command snapped everyone to attention, including Silhara who straightened from his indolent slouch.

Martise took one of the plates of bread from Gurn with a distracted nod.  Her thoughts spun.  The bishop was Silhara’s uncle?  She doubted she’d be more shocked if he said Cumbria was actually a woman.

They were blood kin and hated each other with a ferocity reserved for born enemies.  She understood a little of Silhara’s animosity.  He’d been treated badly at Conclave, more so than most initiates, and Cumbria had been the culprit in each abuse.

Silhara had only hinted at the bishop’s motivation for bullying a novitiate, and she’d found the behavior odd.  Twenty-two years of slavery to the house of Asher, and she’d never seen nor been subjected to such cruelty by her master.  Cumbria was fair in his manner, harsh when necessary, uninterested in his servants most times.  Why he’d act so viciously toward another, especially a relative, baffled her.

She circled the table with Gurn, placing the food in the center for easy reach.  More tea was poured, and the tension in the library slowly ebbed.  She was at ease in this familiar role.  Hardly seen and never heard, she could observe every action, hear every word said and remember it all.  Cumbria would interrogate her once they were alone, make her recite each sentence uttered by any person contributing to the conversation.

The Luminary helped himself to the bread.  He pointed a piece of crust at Silhara.  “I’ve known you since you were a boy, Silhara.  An uncontrolled, rebellious, strong-willed boy with a honed instinct for survival.  The man is much the same, save for the control.  You’re quite good at that now.  The ritual of the northern kings could work, especially with a willing martyr at its center.  What I want to know is why you choose to be that martyr?”

Silhara shoved his cup away and met the Luminary’s sharp gaze with one of his own.  “I’m the avatar reborn.”

Smothering a faint moan of despair, Martise closed her eyes.  He’d damned himself with that admission.

Cumbria slapped his hands on the table.  “I knew it!”  His voice rang triumphant.  “How many times, Eminence, did I say he was the one?  We took a viper into our midst, and now he’s betrayed us.”

Silhara rolled his eyes.   “Tell me, Uncle,” he emphasized the address and smiled when Cumbria’s eyes sparked.  “How have I betrayed Conclave?  I came to you for an apprentice so that I might find a way to kill the god.”  For the first time Martise saw a resemblance between the two men in Silhara’s overt disdain.  “Martise makes a far better translator than she does a spy.  You’re wasting her talents.”  She looked away when he glanced at her.  “Together, we found you a ritual that will work and an idiot ready and willing to act the sacrificial offering.

“He’s lying,” Cumbria snapped.

“Believe what you want.  Use the ritual or don’t.  Use me in it or don’t, but make up your mind so I’ll know if I should prepare to die or prepare to harvest.  I’ll have orange flowers ready for picking soon.”

Martise shook her head.  No wonder Conclave gnashed its collective teeth.  He showed no deference, offered no obsequiousness.  Pragmatic to a fault, even before the most powerful men in the far lands.  The fact that these same men had gathered at Neith instead of summoning him to Conclave Redoubt spoke a great deal of their acceptance to deal with the Master of Crows on his terms.

“Are you certain you’re the avatar?”  The Luminary’s intense scrutiny might have set Silhara’s robes on fire.

Silhara didn’t cower.  “If I’m not, then Corruption has wasted time courting the wrong puppet.  Four days ago the god took full possession of me, and I almost killed the bishop’s ward.”  Martise blushed when a dozen pairs of eyes suddenly turned to her.  “He wants me, and has himself named me his avatar.”

Cumbria rubbed his temples.  “Eminence, he will turn on us in the ritual.”

“I can turn on you now, and you can’t stop me.”

The bishop ignored him.  “Use someone else.”

The leader of Conclave looked to his bishop with a frustrated sigh.  “Who, Cumbria?  Are you volunteering?”  He raised an eyebrow when Cumbria paled.

Silhara laughed.  “Your Grace, You’ve tried to nail or hang my carcass from the nearest tree for more than twenty years.  Now, when I offer myself on a plate, you refuse?  Hoping for a little more blood sport?”

The Luminary laced his fingers together and looked to each of the priests sitting before him.  “Like it or not, Silhara is the key to the ritual.  Just like Berdikhan before him.  He’s powerful enough to trap the god within him long enough for us to do our work and physically strong enough to withstand our attack until the god is dead.  Most of all, Corruption
wants
Silhara.  No effort has to be made in luring the god to him.”

Cumbria still resisted.  “We should take this to the Holy See.”

“We don’t have time, and half the See is here already.  We cast our vote now.  If yes, then we plan at Eastern Prime and meet again at Ferrin’s Tor in two days’ time.”  He gazed at Silhara.  “Can you fend off Corruption that long?  Or do I need to bewitch you into unconsciousness?”

The mage chuckled.  “A day or two is nothing.  A month, and I might need that rest.”

The Luminary raised his hand.  “Cast your vote.  Aye for the ritual.  Nay against.  I say aye.”

A chorus of “aye” followed his declaration, even Cumbria, who uttered his sullen agreement last.

Martise stared at her feet.  She wanted to retch.  Silhara had drafted his own death warrant, and the priests had signed it.  How ironic that the one man who most wanted to see him dead had been the most reluctant to give his approval.

Two days.  If only two days encompassed eternity.

She looked up and found Silhara watching her, those dark eyes so deep, so filled with secrets and shadows.  “Please,” she mouthed to him.  He shook his head before rising with the rest of the priests when the Luminary stood.  He glanced at her a final time before walking out with the Luminary by his side.

Cumbria stayed behind, cornering her near the windows.  Gurn hovered nearby, ostensibly to clean the table and clear away the remains of their refreshments.  The bishop wore no ornamentation to dress his gray silk robes except her spirit stone on its silver chain.  A terrible yearning rose within her, followed by despair.  She’d given up her chance to live as a free woman, to regain the part of herself taken from her as a child.  Given the opportunity, she’d do it again if it meant protecting Silhara from Conclave, but the realization didn’t lessen the pain.

“You failed.”

Martise dragged her gaze from the blue jewel to Cumbria’s face.  “Yes, Your Grace.”  She had no excuses, made no apologies.

His mouth turned down.  “Did you even try?”

She had.  At first.  “Yes.  I sang to your crow.  He never came.  I witnessed the possession, but Sil…,” she paused at his narrowed look.  “The mage sent a message to the Luminary before I could send one to you.”

The motion of his fingers caressing the stone hypnotized her.  Martise didn’t hide her longing.  They both knew how much that stone meant to her.  Cumbria’s gaunt face softened, and he let his hand fall to his side.  “Nothing has turned out as I’d hoped.  For you either, I expect.

“No,” she said simply.  Her loss was nothing compared to what Silhara faced.

“It doesn’t surprise me that Silhara knew your purpose here.  I am surprised he let you stay as long as you have.”  One gray eyebrow rose as he raked her with a speculative gaze.  “And you’re none the worse for your sojourn.  A bit thinner, a bit darker from the sun.”

Her body was fine; her heart was shattered.  She plucked at the folds of her skirt.  “I was of some use with the Helenese tomes.  And I helped with the harvest.”

Cumbria wrapped his robes more closely about him.  “Conclave will reward you for your discovery, but I won’t free you.”  Martise keened inside but kept her expression blank.  “I need your skills.  And Silhara’s death was never meant to be that of a hero.  Make ready.  We leave for Eastern Prime in an hour.”

She watched him go and gasped when a heavy weight descended on her shoulder.  Gurn stood next to her, sympathy deepening the blue of his eyes.  So focused on Cumbria and the crushing confirmation of her continued bondage, she’d forgotten he still lingered in the room with them.  He patted her shoulder in a comforting gesture.

His hands drew patterns in the air, his lips moving in soundless words.  Martise chuckled despite her gloom.  “Killing him won’t help either of us, Gurn.  Conclave justice is quick and merciless.  You’d be dead, and I’d likely be sold to someone worse.”  She shrugged.  “He isn’t so bad.  The lot of a slave is never easy, but mine has been far easier than most.”

She patted his hand.  “I have to get my things.”  She’d miss Gurn and Cael.  They, like Silhara, had become her family.  The lump in her throat made it hard to talk.  She managed to croak out a question.  “Will you escort us to the gates?

He nodded and patted her arm once more.  Martise left him to finish straightening the library and returned to her chamber.

The door had barely clicked shut when Silhara emerged from a shadowed corner of her room.  A ripple of air flowed from his fingers, fanned out until it encompassed the chamber and lapped against the walls.  Her ears popped in protest.  He’d invoked a silencing ward.  No one outside the door would hear a thing, not even a scream.

His eyes blazed in a face gone white with fury.  “I knew you weren’t Cumbria’s ward.”  The words, icy and sharp, sent chills down Martise’s arms.  She retreated as he stalked her.  “A servant, yes.  A unique and educated one.  But a slave?”  He lashed out, kicked the only stool across the room so that it smashed into the opposite wall.  Two of the legs split with a loud crack.  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he snarled.  The cords in his neck tightened, skin flushing so that the circlet of scar tissue stood out in a pale band.

Martise stared, stunned at his anger.  Why should her status matter now?  “I saw no reason…”

“No reason?”  She winced at the cutting scorn in his tone.  “There was every reason.”

He backed her against the wall nearest the window.  Martise, heartsick at knowing she had only these few minutes with him, was unafraid.  She touched his face with gentle fingers.  “Why are you angry?”

Her caress worked its own magic.  Silhara closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers.  The thick fan of his lashes rested against his cheeks.  She stroked the hard line of his jaw, trailed her fingers down his neck to the white garroting scar.

He straightened and opened his eyes but didn’t back away from her.  “He offered you your freedom, didn’t he?”  His eyes narrowed to slits.  “You’re neither greedy nor ambitious.  Nor are you cold blooded.  But you are enslaved.  What else could motivate a quiet, gentle woman to turn a man over to his enemies?”

He didn’t give her a chance to respond.  “You couldn’t take your gaze off that bauble he sported; he couldn’t resist throwing your failure in your face.”  Again, his voice turned clipped and cold.  “I know what that bit of jewelry is.  A soul shackle.”

“Yes.”

She stayed against the wall when he stepped away and began pacing.  “Martise, I told you my silence regarding your Gift was freely given.”  He stopped, flung his arms wide in frustration.  “Why didn’t you tell him something?  Anything?  I’d have held off sending my letter to the Luminary, given you time to send a letter of your own to Cumbria.”

Martise scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her palms.  “I didn’t know you planned to write the Luminary and spill your secrets.”  He frowned when she raised her hands to plead her reasoning.  “I want to sleep at night, Silhara.  I cannot, in good conscience, bargain a man’s life at any price.”