Master of Crows (9 page)

“Have you found anything on god rituals?”  He popped a tomato in his mouth and chewed.

She paused in buttering a slice of bread.  “Only a few things, and none that speak of defeating one through magery.  The Dalatian chronicles mention a god destroyed by disbelief.  But that took generations to accomplish and the introduction of a new god.”

Silhara stabbed a slice of pork with his knife.  “Generations?  That’s a luxury of time we don’t have.  I doubt Corruption will be content to wait another few hundred years before seizing control.”

She nodded.  “Before I came to Neith, there were rumors of strange plagues in the southern provinces.  Crops dying for no apparent cause and famine in the outlying areas.”

He scowled.  “An impatient god is a dangerous one.”  He steepled his hands together and peered at her over the tops of his fingers.  “Try harder.  My library is extensive.  There must be something.”

A growl of frustration rose in her throat, and she swallowed it down.  He’d assigned her no easy task.  His library was extraordinary.  A room of shelves stretching from floor to ceiling, filled to overflowing with tomes, scrolls and sheaves of loose-leaf manuscripts.  Some looked almost new, while others crumbled under her fingers, so ancient their ink had faded to mere shadows on the yellowed parchment.  She had no doubt some jewel of information lay hidden in that mountain of knowledge, but the search proved to be monumental and overwhelming.  She possessed a unique talent for remembering every detail she’d read, every conversation she heard.  But she was one woman amongst thousands of documents.

Silhara helped her at night, when his work in the grove was done for the evening.  They sometimes took supper in the library, with Gurn retrieving books from the high shelves while she and Silhara pored over pages of archaic words, looking for that one ceremony that might aid them.  For all the power of his Gift, he neither possessed her skill with translation nor her memory.  He deciphered text much slower than she did.  There were times when he’d pin her with a speculative stare when she directed him to a specific page of a specific grimoir for more information.  So far their best efforts had been fruitless, and Martise was as frustrated as he over their lack of progress.  Try harder.  She glared at her plate.

“Martise, lower your knife.  There are more than a few people eager to carve out my heart.  You’ll have to take your place in line.”

She glanced up, startled.  Amusement lightened his dark eyes.  She looked at her hand fisted around her eating knife in a death grip.  The knife struck the table with a clatter.  She cleared her throat and stopped just short of apologizing when his eyes narrowed.  “I wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t what?  Dreaming of ways to skin my hide and nail it to my chamber door?”  He laughed, a rough grating sound.  “You’re better than most at concealing your thoughts.”  He paused, and his gaze lowered.  The timbre of his voice changed, smoothed and deepened.  “But you have an expressive mouth.  What you hide in your eyes is revealed there.”

Her stomach somersaulted against her ribs.  She licked her bottom lip.  His eyes went blacker than the most forbidden arcana spell.  She took a breath, as unnerved by her reaction to his words as the words themselves.  “I’ll try harder.”

“I’m certain you will.”  He dragged his gaze to Gurn.  “Pull out the large chest in the corner by the south window and unlock it.  She can search the grimoires.”

He looked back.  His voice was raspy again.  “We’ll try something new tonight.  I’ve books taken from Iwehvenn Keep.  Old tomes with writings about the Wastelands and their ancient magic.  There may be nothing of use to us, but it’s worth a look.”

The sip of tea she’d taken soured in her mouth.  She swallowed hard.  “Iwehvenn Keep?  The lich’s stronghold?”

He nodded.  “The very one.  The Eater of Souls is far more interested in feasting on the spirit of the unlucky traveler than he is in reading.  He won’t miss what I took.”

Martise struggled to keep from gaping at him.  She’d grown up listening to the horror stories of the Soul Eater of Iwehvenn and the hapless victims who’d fallen prey to its ravenous appetite.  That Silhara had willingly breached the lich’s fortress and come away unscathed was extraordinary and a testament to his cunning and the strength of his Gift.

No wonder the priesthood feared him.  A mage that young, who commanded such power, was formidable and not easily matched nor defeated.

Silhara drained his cup and rose.  “I’ve wasted enough time.”  He eyed Martise.  “Gurn will show you where I keep those tomes.  Your fingers may pain you.  The lich’s taint still lingers on the pages.”

He left her with a warning reminder.  “No singing in the library.  No singing anywhere.  If I hear you, I’ll see to it you’re as mute as Gurn for the rest of your stay at Neith.”

She held up her hands in surrender.  “No singing.  I swear.”

The rest of lunch was quick and uneventful.  Martise helped Gurn clear away the food and wash dishes.

“Gurn,” she said.  He paused in straightening the larder.  “The grove is more than a source of income, isn’t it?  Silhara loves those trees.”

Mute but adept at expressing his thoughts and opinions, he draped long arms over the larder’s door and stared at her in somber approval.  Even had he not nodded and confirmed her supposition, she knew she was right.  Silhara treasured his small orange grove in the way another man would treasure a beloved wife or child.  Martise frowned, oddly troubled by her observation.  She had yet to discover his heresy, but she’d found his vulnerability.

The disturbing thought stayed with her as she made her way to the library and the tomes awaiting her perusal.  Her long-suffering sigh echoed in the cavernous room, a far cry from her reaction at seeing the library for the first time.  Cumbria’s library at Asher was extensive, but nothing compared to the one at Neith.  Only Conclave’s equaled it in scope and variety, and that library served hundreds of priests and novitiates.

Narrow windows, flanked by bookshelves, filtered light in from the south and east.  At night, she was often distracted from her reading by the glimmer of stars and moon as they hung jewel-like in the window’s frame of the night sky—and relieved that she didn’t see Corruption’s star from this vantage point.

The chamber wasn’t as dusty as most of the manor, but it was far from neat.  Grimoires and scrolls lay scattered across the floor and stacked in haphazard fashion on the shelves.  The two tables placed in the center almost sagged under the weight of more.  Open chests spilled loose pages onto the floor.  It had taken her two days to figure out an orderly way to conduct her research and not drown in a sea of parchment.

Gurn arrived and pointed to a small chest tucked in a corner near the south windows.  He unlocked it with a rusted key, and a cloud of dust rose from the chest’s interior.  Martise choked, and Gurn covered his mouth with the hem of his tunic while he pulled the stack of grimoires out and piled them on the floor.

She stared at the cover of the first tome, captivated by the curving symbols etched into the cracked leather.  She recognized the writing, an extinct script of the far northern countries that bordered the outland Waste.  One of her Conclave mentors, an ancient priestess and scribe from those distant lands, had taught her how to read early Helenese.

“Remember it always, Martise,” she’d commanded in a reedy voice.  “There are few left alive who can read the old Northern tongue.  Too much knowledge is already lost.”

Gurn hovered at her side, eyeing the books with more revulsion than fascination.  She waved him off.  “Go on, Gurn.  Silhara is probably wondering what’s taking you so long.”  She sank to her knees before the books.  “I’ll be fine here.”

She didn’t hear him leave, too entranced by the knowledge revealed within the books.  Her hands tingled unpleasantly each time she touched the pages.  Mild nausea made her stomach roil, but it wasn’t enough make her abandon the trove of information before her.  She took a more comfortable seat on the floor and began reading.

The dying sun cast long shadows across her lap.  Martise raised her head for the first time in hours, aware of an ache in her neck and the beginnings of a headache.  The library had taken on a surreal cast, silvering with the moon’s rise and the last sparkle of dust motes.

“A woman garbed in moonlight is a fair sight indeed.”

Silhara stood over her, his approach silent as always.  Shadows hollowed the spaces beneath his cheekbones and highlighted the arch of his nose.  He stared at her, eyes glittering.  “Did you try harder, Martise?”  His voice, too damaged ever to caress, stroked her skin.

She raised the book she held to him.  “I did, Master.  And I think I’ve found your god-killer.”

CHAPTER NINE

“What do you mean half the ritual is missing?”

Silhara scowled at the scatter of loose papers Martise had spread before him.  Candlelight danced with the moon's glow as it streamed through the library windows.  Martise, sitting next to him, pinched the bridge of her nose.  The action gave him pause.  His apprentice, normally so diligent at hiding her emotions, had twice today revealed her frustration with him.  First, the knife clutched in her hand at lunch and now this.  He didn’t know whether to laugh or reprimand her.  But he couldn’t resist the chance to goad her.

“Did you lose the additional pages?  I don’t like carelessness, Martise.”

He heard her teeth snap together.  “No, Master.  There were no additional pages to lose.”  She rubbed her temples.  It was past midnight, and the two of them had been studying this particular tome since he’d returned to the library and found her sitting on the floor with the lich’s books spread around her.  “As you can see, the pages are falling out of the book.”  She waved a hand at the individual pieces.  “The binding is old and the threads rotted.  I’m surprised it held together this long.”  Her sidelong look was hesitant.  “Is it possible some pages fell and were left behind when you stole…I mean took the books?”

He leaned back against his chair and cursed.  “Not possible.  Probable.  I had no wish to linger and taste the soul eater’s brand of hospitality.  Those pages, and others, are likely gathering dust in Iwehvenn’s library.”  He smirked at her.  “And I’m usually such a careful thief.”

Martise blushed and lowered her eyes.  “I meant no offense.”

“Ah, another way to apologize.  You have an impressive arsenal of conciliatory statements.  I’ve known slaves less contrite than you.”  Her expressive mouth tightened to a thin line.  She had a finely curved jaw and a long neck revealed by her upswept hair.  Silhara hadn’t noticed either before.  A trick of the moonlight, he thought.  Graced by a sliver of silvery radiance piercing the window, she reminded him of a moth—colorless in the daylight but ethereal at night.

He cast a baleful glare at the papers with their rows of archaic script.  He’d done passably well with transcription and translation during his years at Conclave, but his skills were nowhere near Martise’s expertise.  He’d been too busy brawling with fellow novitiates in the shadowed corridors, terrorizing his teachers with the unpredictable strength of his Gift and causing general mayhem at Conclave Redoubt.

“Read it again.  There must be enough there to build upon.”

Her faint sigh carried a wealth of grudging acquiescence.  Silhara promised himself he'd listen closely and not become ensorcelled by her voice as she read the passage for a third time.

 “In the spring of the black moon, before the Waste seized the lands between the Kor Mountains and the ice sea, thirteen kings gathered on Gladia’s Knoll to destroy the false god Amunsa.  Of these thirteen, only one was from the lands of the sun.  Birdixan.  Bound by blood and light, they swore to…”

Silhara groaned and held up a hand to stop her.  “The gods save us from bards with runaway quills.  We’ll still be here at dawn before this dead scribe gets to the point.”  Martise’s slight smile lessened the tiredness in her features.  “You’ve a fine voice, Martise, but I want to go to bed soon.  Let’s summarize.”

He began ticking off relevant points with his fingers.  “A few thousand years ago a dozen mage-kings gather to kill off one false god who sounds like Corruption’s sibling.  They invoke blood-bonding, the strongest and deadliest of ritual magic.  One of the kings, Birdixan, chooses to act as martyr and sacrifices himself in the ritual.  But how?”

She shrugged.  “We need the missing pages.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”  He drummed his fingers on chair arm and cursed under his breath.  He’d have to go back to Iwehvenn and find those pages.  If he was lucky, they’d still be where he dropped them, in the lich’s ruin of a library.  If his luck held, he’d make it out of the stronghold for the second time, alive.

Along with his apprentice.

She massaged her lower back.  “Whatever ritual the kings used, they were successful.  There is no Amunsa listed in the later histories, no ruins of temples built to him, not even in the North.”

  Silhara caught her stifling a yawn behind her hand.  Dark circles ringed her eyes, and her lids drooped to half-mast despite her best efforts to look alert.  He’d worked her hard the past two weeks, adding more and more responsibilities, expecting more out of her.  She was still here, and making a significant contribution to the running of his household.  He was both pleased and annoyed.

“We’ll travel to Iwehvenn.”  An incredulous stare met his declaration.

“We?” she squeaked.

“Yes, we.”  He arched an eyebrow.  “I don’t read ancient Helenese, and there are several pages missing from that book.  There are likely more gone from the other books I took from Iwehvenn.  I need you to make sure we’re gathering the right pages.  I don’t fancy making a trip to the soul eater’s lair a second time.  I damn well won’t do it a third.”

A convulsive swallow worked the muscles in her smooth throat.  “How does one sneak past the Eater of Souls?”

He rose from his chair.  Martise hastily followed suit.   “I can cloak us both with concealment spells, incantations that will fool the lich.”

“I’ve heard he has great power and can sense a living man like a wolf smells blooded prey.”

“You’ve heard rightly.  If ever a more deadly predator existed, I’ve yet to know of it.”  He was tempted to touch her, graze his fingers over the gooseflesh rising on her arms.

“What if he attacks us?”

“Then we’ll fight our way clear.”

She spread her hands.  “I’m neither warrior nor mage. I’d be of little use in a battle.”

His gruff laugh was roughened by weariness.  “I don’t need a brute fighter, and my magery is stronger than a gaggle of priests combined.  If you can read Helenese and read it fast, you’ll be of great use to me.”

“What if your magery isn’t enough?”  Horror edged her voice, darkened her eyes.

Her reaction was justified.  All Conclave acolytes were taught about those rare but vastly powerful and malevolent forces called liches or soul eaters.  She knew what would happen if the Iwehvenn lich trapped them.  Silhara was thankful she had such knowledge.  He wouldn’t have to explain the danger or impress upon her the risks involved.

He held her gaze.  “I’ll kill you before he ever touches you.”  The blunt declaration made her flinch.  For some inexplicable reason, he wanted to soften his words.  “There are worse fates than a clean death.”

“I don’t suppose I can respectfully decline?”  She gave him a weak smile.

“You can, but you’d have to leave Neith.”  This, more than any brutal lesson he might mete out to her, would measure her determination.  “If I have nothing for you to translate, I’ve no need of you and will send you back to the bishop.”

Myriad emotions passed in her eyes; fear, acceptance, a touch of anger and most of all, resolve.  “When do we leave?”

His respect for her grew.  She was terrified but willing to accompany him.  A brave woman, and one wise enough to accept her fear.  It would keep her alive.  “Tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“I want to get my hands on those pages as soon as possible.  And I have a harvest to bring in to market next week.  Playing cat and mouse with a soul eater wasn’t in my plans.”

He extinguished three of the four lit candles on the table.  The remaining one cast a nimbus of feeble light around him and Martise.  “Put the books and papers away.  We’ll deal with them when we return.”

Once in the corridor, he handed her the candle.  The only point of radiance in the black hallway, the flame flickered and danced, lending Martise’s face a ghostly aspect dominated by her wide copper eyes.

“Get what rest you can,” he said.  “And pack lightly. A change of clothes, no more.  I’ll see you in the bailey an hour before dawn.”

She held the candle out to him.  “Don’t you need this?”

Blackness hid his amusement.  “I’m used to traveling dark paths, Martise.  You need the candle more than I do.”

She nodded her thanks and ascended the stairs.  He heard the floor boards creak above him as she made her way to her chamber.  The candle was truly more use to her than to him.  He could light his way with witchfire, but even that wasn’t necessary.  He’d lived at Neith for almost twenty years and could navigate its winding corridors, with their buckled, broken floors, blindfolded.

The drowsiness plaguing him in the library had vanished by the time he reached his bedroom.  The bright moon, suspended high in the sky, plated the balcony and chamber in silver.  Corruption’s star hovered below it, casting its own baleful light over the grove and the flat plains beyond.  Silhara sensed the god’s nearness, its predatory regard.  Best not to sleep.  He could only imagine the horrors awaiting him in what should be peaceful slumber.

“Do you have nothing better to do besides vex me in my sleep and sully my magic?”  He recalled Martise’s words.  “You know, pestilences to create?  Villages to destroy?  Dead hounds to resurrect?”

He prepared his
huqqah
for his delayed evening smoke and tried to ignore the empty laughter filling his mind.

Sully?  I thought you would appreciate that small taste of power.  My offering is limitless if you accept me.

Silhara puffed on the hose tip, watching as a trail of smoke floated out the window in ghostly swirls.  “Your little ‘taste’ rendered my Gift worthless for a day.  I’m not interested in what I cannot control.”

Again, the god’s amusement scraped the inside of his skull. 
We are much alike, sorcerer.  Yield, and you will have supremacy over all magery.  Your Gift will seem a child’s toy compared to a sword, and you will wield that sword with the might of a god.

The matal tobacco, sweet when it first filled his mouth, burned acrid now.  So tempting.  He could not deny the persuasion of Corruption’s words.  His Gift, the one thing that made him whole, made him equal to those who might otherwise spit on him in the streets, was a blessing.  Manifesting while he gasped for air and writhed against his executioner’s grip, the power of the Gift had changed his life, given him a place above the teeming filth and violence of Eastern Prime’s docks.

Conclave, already wary of his Gift’s potency and the skill with which he wielded it, would panic were he to accept Corruption’s offer.  Both priesthood and sorcerer knew Conclave would be the first casualty of Silhara’s newly acquired godhood.  His eyes closed.  The pleasurable images of the famed Redoubt nothing more than rubble and the priests, especially the Bishop of Asher, imprisoned or executed, played across his mind’s eye.

Do you not see?  This is nothing for you with my help.  No more effort than crushing a bothersome gnat.

Corruption’s voice caressed and cajoled, and Silhara swayed in its embrace.  The memory of a dream replaced the fantasy of Conclave’s destruction.  A moonless sky over a black ocean and the leviathan traversing its dead waters.  He opened his eyes, suddenly desperate to reassure himself the moon and her attendant stars still reigned over the night.  Below him, the grove slept undisturbed.  Alive and growing, the trees were testaments of his will to survive and conquer.

His lip curled into a sneer as the god’s star flickered.  “Gods who are poets.”  He exhaled tendrils of smoke in the star’s direction.  “As if we aren’t already overrun with such useless men.  You speak of sword-wielding, of kings and wealth and power unmeasured.  But your price…”  He shook his head.  “They call me a carrion mage now.  To yield to you will make me nothing more than a foul tick swollen on the blood of the world.”

Who knew you to be so noble?

Silhara laughed, his humor as insincere as the god’s.  “What nobility is there in being a false god’s puppet?”  His laughter died abruptly.  “I will destroy you.”

Corruption mocked him. 
Will you?  At what sacrifice?  Are you willing to act as assassin to do it?  Or martyr?  What will you do, Silhara of Neith, to remain poor, reviled…and free?

Silhara put aside the
huqqah
and closed the shutters.  His chamber, pitched into sudden blackness, became a crypt.  “You ask the wrong question,” he said into the unbroken darkness.  “Better to ask, what will I not do?”