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The great oaks offered respite from the heat but cast the surroundings in semi-darkness. Black, crippled limbs arched overhead, twining together in a grappling dance, as if each tree sought to wrench its adversary from the roots.
“You have done an unwise thing, Martise of Asher,” he said softly. “You’ve caught my interest.”
“How is it that a woman, blessed with a voice that could make a man come, sings badly enough to frighten the dead?”
“Come in, Martise.” Silhara’s voice was almost sibilant in the darkness as he tugged on her hand. “There are no soul eaters here.” No, she thought. Only heart thieves.
