Master of Crows (Master of Crows, #1)

by Grace Draven

“Yield to me, Master of Crows, and I will make you ruler of kingdoms.”

The voice sang its malevolent song. ”You will be an emperor unchallenged, a sorcerer unequaled.”

“Welcome me, servant reborn.” Silhara growled low in his throat. He couldn’t deny such seduction, more deft than the practiced hand of any painted whore.

The visions of empires at his feet and limitless power at his fingertips were the god’s bait. Greater men than he had fallen before such temptation, and there were many men greater than he.

No one visited Neith. The manor’s reputation as the home of a dark mage—a crow wizard—kept all comers at bay, and Silhara encouraged that reputation, uninterested in entertaining dull aristocrats or killing young sorcerers intent on making names for themselves by challenging the notorious Master of Crows.

Martise studied the long path leading to Neith manor and considered whether she was an apprentice or a sacrifice.

She hugged herself for comfort and warmth. “This is a dark place,” she whispered.

“Who can say? A leopard. A fox.” He scowled. “Something more unnatural. Silhara is a dark mage, and his mentor, the first Master of Crows, experimented with…things. Any number of horrors may roam these woods.”

“The manor will be your greatest protection, Martise. Never seek sanctuary in this wood.”

She stiffened in self-reproach. Images of her spirit stone in Cumbria’s hand flashed in her mind, and she admonished herself.

Martise lowered her head and hid her smile. Cumbria had chosen her for this endeavor because of her abilities, among them the talents for staying silent and unnoticed.

“No, sir, I’m no mute. It is rude to speak out of turn, is it not?” He stilled at her question. Bursin’s wings, what generous god blessed this woman with such a voice? Refined and sensual, it possessed a silky quality, as if she physically caressed him.

Her jaw tightened. She dropped her gaze, but not before he saw the sparks of anger in her eyes. Not so docile as one might first believe, yet his new apprentice exercised admirable control over her emotions. Behavior of a long-time servant. Cumbria had indeed brought him a spy.

Clearly, Cumbria had not chosen her as a means of seducing him into revealing some heresy. No beauty by the kindest standard, she reminded him of a peahen, lackluster and brown.

Her clothing was good quality but ill-fitting, as if borrowed, and hung on her small body like empty grain sacks. Wisps of dull russet hair framed a pale face. Her eyes were interesting–the color of new copper and framed by dark lashes, but they didn’t save her looks.

Overall, she was a drab creature, one who went unnoticed and un...

Her voice was another matter. Capable of lulling wyverns to sleep and calling men to worship, it bewitched him. The striking disparity between her...

Did her Gift lie somewhere in the sultry cadence of her words? As soon as he questioned i...

Such a talent was too obvious. Martise of Asher—ward, servant, informant—possessed the Gift. What made her m...

“Why are you here?” “You asked for me, Master.” A coiling heat wrapped around his body, and he fought closing his eyes in the sheer pl...

“Master. That address comes to you easily, as if you have used it your entire life.” His point struck home. A hint of unease drifted across her face...

What a shame if he were forced to murder her to protect himself. The world would be a lesser place deprived of such a stunning voice.

The god didn’t whisper to his mind as before but spoke through the white nightmare holding Silhara’s gaze. “Come forth, Avatar. Do you not know me, Son of Lies?”

She rolled over and opened her eyes to find a face covered in bristling gray fur and jagged scars filling her vision. Cael, Silhara's mage-finder hound, touched a wet black nose to hers and sniffed.

“Dull and plain as a potato,” she murmured and smoothed the front of her cyrtel. She wasn’t here to seduce, only betray. Her beauty, or lack of it, played no part in this game. And the game might never begin if she didn’t see Silhara more frequently.

She’d have to temper her dislike for the crow mage. He was no different from any other landowner or high-ranking clergyman, and so far inflicted nothing more damaging on her than a few snide remarks.

He confused her more than anything. She was used to haughty behavior from those of his class and should have felt nothing more than the usual disdain of a servant for those she served. But fire had licked her insides at her first sight of him.

Her face heated with what was surely the hottest blush ever gracing a woman no longer a maiden. Such feelings had no place here. She was bound; he was outcast. She resided at Neith to spy on him, and if the promise in his expression was any hint, he'd make her wish she never crossed his threshold.

She knew better. Twenty-two years of servitude should have kept her silent, made her apologize for her impertinence, but some small demon goaded her to respond in a like manner, despite her upbringing and every instinct warning her otherwise.

“You have done an unwise thing, Martise of Asher,” he said softly. “You’ve caught my interest.”

She was no more winsome in the morning than at day’s end. Silhara’s new apprentice looked much as she had when he first met her, dressed in a tunic and skirts too large for her, her hair bound in a tight bun and coiffed with torn spider web.

He sipped his tea and regarded her over the rim of his cup. Damned priests. Couldn’t they have saddled him with someone pretty? A woman with generous curves and breasts to smother in? Someone he could tup in the hallway while she searched for secrets and schemed of ways to betray him?

There was a meticulous grace in the way she peeled the orange and something entrancing in the way she ate it. She bit into the segment slowly, either from caution or enjoyment, and her actions riveted his attention.

He shook his head. Gods, it’s been too long since I’ve had a woman. He smirked when her eyes widened after the first bite. “It’s so sweet!”

Martise finished the orange with more enthusiasm but refused his offer of another. She complimented Gurn on his porridge, and the two shared a warm smile. Their immediate camaraderie puzzled Silhara.

“It’s no matter, Martise. Such primping isn’t necessary. Your appearance is of no interest here.” A hint of hurt or embarrassment danced across her features before she lowered her gaze. He'd cut her, unintentional though it was. No one at Neith stood on ceremony.

His remark about the webs in her hair had been idle chat. She’d interpreted his statement as an insult. He chose not to explain himself.

Guilt wormed a path into him. He didn’t lie. If she didn’t run screaming back to Asher as he hoped, he had every intention of finding her Gift and forcing it to manifest. She just might not like his methods.

Corruption’s touch was bewitching and lush, luring him with promises of immeasurable power, of respect, of revenge, even as it made him bleed and convulse.

A sharp burst of pain behind his eyes made him wince. Corruption’s amusement jittered down his bones. I only await you, Avatar.

Ah, to return to simpler times. At least then his executioner had been a dock council with no mercy for a starving thief. Now he had Conclave in his kitchen and Corruption on his doorstep, each wanting to destroy him in their own unique and horrific way.

“What is the incantation for levitation?” “Which one? Mysanthanese or Hourlis?” He halted in front of her, intrigued. “Both.”

Her invocations were flawless, her accents in perfect placement, voice intonation correct. The Mysanthanese levitation should have lifted her above his head; the Hourlis one to the rafters, yet her feet remained planted firmly on the ground.

If not for Cael’s reaction to her, Silhara wouldn’t believe her G...

He continued circling her. She was a small woman, lightly made. Articulate and well-read, she had the hands of a scullery maid and the knowledge of Conclave. What Gift lay hidden in this contradictory creature?

“I don’t remember! Please, let me down.” Her terror washed over him, but he held fast to his intent. “I think not. You disappoint me. A skilled mage knows his spells at every turn, even during times of danger.”

Theirs was a silent strength, bred of powerful souls never broken. Martise, with that bleak, imperious stare, reminded him of the Queens. “I remembered the spell.”

She was stronger than he anticipated, and far more stubborn than he’d first guessed. Cumbria must have offered her a small fortune to suffer months at Neith. Silhara intended she earn every coin.

“I understand you’ve been helping Gurn. A comfort to know that while you can’t work a simple spell, you can at least milk a goat.”

“Yes, Master. I’ve worked among livestock all my life, including cows, pigs, goats…and asses.”