Master of Crows (32 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“I won’t mourn for a man not yet dead.”

Martise scrubbed at her swollen eyes.  Despite her declaration, she’d spent the night alternating between weeping and pacing the floor.  She was desperate for an idea, a solution, even a miracle that might release Silhara from the trap he’d knowingly sprung on himself.  By the time dawn edged the tiny window of her attic room, she was half mad with frustration.

Those priests selected to participate in the ritual at Ferrin’s Tor had left Eastern Prime before first light.  Cumbria had volunteered before he was even chosen.  Martise knew his intentions were neither noble nor brave.  A chance to watch his nephew and life-long adversary die by Conclave’s hands was worth the risk of facing Corruption.

The sun climbed higher, glazing the tile rooftops of neighboring houses in fiery shades of red and orange.  The sliver of sea seen from her window reflected the same bands of bright crimson on the face of the waters.  Dawn was her favorite hour of the day, and another time Martise might have paused to admire the light’s beauty.  But today she had a horse to steal, a journey to make and a man to save.

Cumbria had denied her request to join those who followed him to Ferrin’s Tor.  “I need you here.  Should we fail, you’re to present yourself to the Luminary at Conclave.  He will be the last barrier against the god.  Your time at Neith may help him.”  He’d peered at her, suspicion drawing down his thin-lipped mouth into a frown.  “Do you ask because you pine for the bastard mage?”

That bastard mage had just willingly given himself up as a sacrifice.  While Cumbria had chosen to participate in the ritual, she doubted he’d be as willing as Silhara were he faced with the same circumstance.

“No,” she said, proud her voice remained cool and expressionless.  “It’s only a matter of curiosity.”  If she could help it, the bishop would never know of her bond with Silhara or his discovery of her Gift.  She owed it to him as much as herself.  His soul would rage through eternity if Cumbria managed to usurp power from the Luminary through her.

She straightened her cyrtel, slipped on her shoes and took a deep breath for courage.  A beating waited for her once Cumbria discovered she’d not only openly defied his command to remain in Eastern Prime, but also “borrowed” one of his valuable horses.  But she’d bow before the lash and suffer every stroke if she could help Silhara in some way.

The house was quiet, kept by a minimum staff of town servants unused to the master’s presence.  Nearly all the Asher servants had followed him to Ferrin’s Tor.  None would notice if she slipped out and disappeared for a day or two.

Much smaller than his manor at Asher, Cumbria’s town house was no less opulent.  Martise traveled through rooms and halls decorated and maintained with exquisite care.  A far cry from the ramshackle shabbiness of Neith, but if given a choice, she’d much rather be at Neith, negotiating a treacherous path of spider webs and holes in the floor to reach Gurn’s welcoming kitchen.

She strode through the kitchen on her way to the stables.  Bendewin hailed her with a flour-dusted hand and a scowl.  A tall woman and thin as a rake, she bore the hallmark features of a Kurman tribeswoman.  Black hair streaked with gray and equally dark eyes set off an aquiline nose and high cheekbones.  “And who set fire to your skirts at this early hour?”

Martise paused.  “I have errands to run.  I’ll be gone all day.  Do you need me?”

The cook made to answer but was interrupted by a knock on the door leading to the back garden.  A towheaded child peeked inside.  “Sorry, mim.  Saldin sent me.  You have a visitor.”

Bendewin’s eyes widened.  She glanced at Martise who shrugged.  She followed the boy to the garden with an order for Martise.  “Stay here.  I want to know what you’re up to.”

The cook stayed on the doorstep, blocking the exit leading to the stables.  Martise tapped her fingers impatiently on the worktable, sending up small clouds of flour.  She was tempted to shove the woman out of the way and run, but it wouldn’t do to antagonize the cook.  Bendewin would keep her secrets and might even aid her.

Her fingers drew meandering lines in the scatter of flour, and she was startled to see she’d traced the enigmatic symbol next to Berdikhan’s name in the Helenese scrolls.  “What does this mean, Silhara?” she whispered.

So engrossed in trying to unravel the puzzle of Silhara’s stubborn silence, Martise didn’t hear Bendewin return until she spoke next to her.

“Foolish girl.  Are you trying to give yourself bad luck?”  Bendewin reached over her shoulder and quickly erased the symbol.  “I heard the Master of Crows had Kurman blood, but you’d think he’d teach you something better than that about his people.”

The bottom of Martise’s stomach dropped out at her words, and her heart began to pound.  A cautious hope rose in her.  “You know this symbol?”

The cook shrugged.  “I’m Kurman-raised; of course I know it.”  She signed a hasty protection ward in the air.  “A pattern of stars.  The plains people don’t see the night sky the way the Kurmans do.  To you, the Curl constellation is part of the Bull and the Serpent.  To us, it stands alone.  In Kurmanji, we call it al Zafira.”

Martise sucked in a breath.  Her view of the stars had been shaped by Conclave’s teachings, and Conclave didn’t teach the ways of the mountain tribes.  Without Bendewin’s knowledge, she would have never seen al Zafira.

She retraced the pattern in the flour.  “What does it mean?”

Bendewin shrugged.  “Nothing save a bit of bad luck.  The consort of an ancient
sarsin
was named after those stars.  Her husband was a mage, like the priests.  Zafira met a bad end at his hands.  She was what we call a
bide jiana
.”

“A life-giver.”  Martise’s voice was breathless.

The cook’s eyes widened a fraction.  “Yes.  The old tales say he tried to gain the power of a god and used her to do it.  They both died.  No Kurman woman names her girl-child Zafira these days.”  Bendewin scowled and laid a heavy hand on Martise’s shoulder.  “You best sit down.  You’ve gone whiter than milk.”

Martise shook her off.  Her throat closed against another bout of weeping, only these were angry tears, frustrated tears.  If she could climb to the rooftop and scream her rage, she would.

Silhara’s words whispered in her mind. 
“I don’t love you.”

Her hands curled into fists.  Damn him!  He’d looked her in the eye with that cool, sardonic gaze and turned his back on the chance of survival with those words.

“Liar,” she snapped and raced through the door.

Bendewin’s cry of “Wait!” went unheeded.  Martise sprinted across the garden toward the nearby stables.  She stumbled at the sight of a servant leading a familiar figure across the dusty cart road to the back gate.

“Gurn!” she cried.

Thank the gods.  In her misery over Silhara’s chosen fate, she’d forgotten he planned to send his faithful servant to Eastern Prime for safety.  Gurn met her halfway as she flew toward him.  Martise thought he’d squeeze the breath out of her and struggled until he loosened his hold.  He looked haggard, his eyes sunken and dull in a face pale with grief.  She suspected she looked the same.

Gurn still held her in one arm while motioning frantically with the other.  Martise caught his fingers, stopping his frenetic signing.

“I’m well, Gurn.”  She cupped his broad face in her hands and smiled.  “I’m glad to see Silhara didn’t break your legs to get you to leave Neith.”

Gurn’s mournful expression angered.  He growled low in his throat while he signed.

Martise sighed.  A geas was almost as bad.  Bound by the force of magery and resisting every step of the way, Gurn had left Neith with Cael in tow.  A thought occurred to her.  “Did Silhara only lay the geas forbidding you from returning to Neith?”

He nodded, blue eyes gleaming with curiosity.

She lowered her voice so the nearby servant wouldn’t hear.  “I think I can save Silhara, but I need to steal a horse.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before he yanked her toward the stables.

She matched Gurn’s ground-eating stride.  When they reached the stable doors, she tugged on his arm.  He paused, eyes bright with hopeful fires.  “The stable master or one of the stable boys may be in there.  You’ll have to distract them while I get the horse.  I suspect your size will be distraction enough, and such a talent has never been mine.”

They entered the stables, startling pigeons that fluttered to the shadowy rafters in a frantic flap of wings.  Inside, the air was warm and pungent with the scent of horse and feed, oiled leather and horse dung.  All but three stalls stood empty, and two of the horses stretched their necks over the gates for a closer look at their visitors.  One wuffled in greeting, and Martise recognized the piebald mare that first carried her to Neith from Asher.

Light pierced the interior gloom from the open door but didn’t penetrate the darkness of the loft or the stalls at the far end of the stable row.  Martise peered into the closest corners and listened.  “Hello?” she called.  Only the piebald answered her with another wuffle.  She glanced at Gurn, radiant in a shimmering column of swirling dust lit by the morning sun.  He watched the door and the loft by turns.

“Our luck is holding.  It’s just us.  Cumbria rode out before first light.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the stable master returned home to enjoy his breakfast.  Watch the door while I saddle the mare.”

The horse was a friendly creature and solid mount.  Her long legs would cover a lot of ground in a short time.  She shoved her nose into Martise’s arm, snorting with pleasure when the action earned her a quick scratch behind the ears.  Martise had her bridled and saddled and was leading her out of the stall when the creak of the stable door sounded a warning.

Martise froze and peered under the mare’s neck.  The stable master, a wiry, grizzled man with a shock of white hair and bits of egg in his beard, stared at her accusingly.  He had time for a single breath before a giant hand shot out of the dark and cuffed him.  The man went down with a thud amidst a cloud of dust and straw.  Martise stared at Gurn as he emerged from his hidden corner and bent to place his fingers against the fallen man’s throat.

Gurn’s idea of distraction wasn’t as subtle as hers.  Martise winced.  “Is he dead?” she called in a loud whisper and breathed a sigh of relief when Gurn shook his head.

He signed to her to get moving and heaved the unconscious man over his shoulder as if he were nothing more than a half-empty grain sack.  Martise swung onto the mare’s back and trotted her to the entrance.  She reached for Gurn and briefly clasped his outstretched hand.

“Bind and gag him if you have to, then get out of here.  Did you ride Gnat to Eastern Prime?”  He nodded.  “Good.  I’ll be riding this mare hard.  Gnat won’t be able to keep up, but you can meet me at Ferrin’s Tor later.”  Gurn scowled, and his hand slashed the air.  Martise shook her head.  “No, Silhara only laid the geas against you for Neith.  There’s no magery preventing you from going to the tor.”

His eyes brightened.  He grinned and slapped the mare on the rump.  Martise grasped a handful of reins and coarse mane and held on as the animal galloped out of the stable.

They made it through the gate and into the heart of the city without incident.  Martise slowed the horse to a walk, guiding her through winding track of narrow streets slick with slime and littered with refuse.

Despite the mare’s eagerness to stretch her legs into a dead run, Martise kept her in check once they left the city for the open plains.  She quelled the urge to give in to the horse’s impatience, frantic to reach the tor.  Riding hard didn’t mean running her horse into the ground, and it wouldn’t get her far.  She wouldn’t be of much use to Silhara if the mare collapsed from exhaustion, leaving her to foot it the rest of the way to the tor or wait for Gurn and Gnat.

Miles of tall grass flew past them as they cantered west toward the sacred mound.  She stopped twice to rest the mare and drink from the streams that carved shaded paths from the snow-capped Dramorin peaks to the southern coast and picked a handful of fruit from a plum tree.  She recalled another hot summer day when she’d rested beneath the shade of a leafy plum and admired the kiss of the sun on Silhara’s bronzed skin.

Martise knew she was near the tor even before she spotted its steep slopes in the distance.  Obsidian light knifed across the sky, leaving jagged wounds in the blue and splattering the clouds in an oily luminescence.  As she rode closer, the mare began to shake.  Her hooves struck the ground in protest, and she reared when Martise tapped her heels into her sides to coax her onward.

Closer to the tor the sky had darkened into false night.  Black clouds, fey and menacing, loomed above, blotting out the sun’s crimson disk as it sailed lower on the western horizon.  A high, keening wind raced across the plain, bowing the grass as it barreled toward them.  The horse tossed her head, squealing in panic.  Martise struggled to hold her seat as the reins snapped out of her hands, and the mare bolted.

The sky tilted, obscured by her skirts and the whiplash snap of bluestem grass.  Martise tumbled from the saddle, hitting the dusty ground hard enough to rattle her teeth.  A stinging pain accompanied the iron taste of blood where she bit her tongue.  The mare’s hooves beat a fading tattoo as she raced for safety.