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“You have done an unwise thing, Martise of Asher,” he said softly. “You’ve caught my interest.”
Fierce yet gentle, almost independent of Martise in how it reacted, her Gift fascinated him. He’d hazard a guess no priest or novitiate of Conclave had ever possessed or encountered its like, and any knowledge he might gain over the priesthood pleased him. “Do you truly know what you have sent me, Cumbria?” Only the creak of floorboards beneath his feet answered him.
Nothing happened, though her Gift writhed in response. Corruption laughed, a weird chattering noise. “Foolish creature. Why bother? You cannot fight a god.” It stalked her across the room. “You weren’t here before, and now you are. Your essence mingles with his. Different yet matched.” The faceless head tilted in a puzzled gesture. “What are you that you have enthralled the Master of Crows?”
His lips were swollen, his face thin with unquenched desire, but his eyes were as cold and hard as black ice. Martise blinked, knocked off kilter by his abrupt withdrawal. “I’ve underestimated the High Bishop. He knew me better than I ever imagined when he brought you to Neith.”
“Such words only hurt when the person saying them means something to you.”
He cupped the apple in his hand. Paring it into slices, he placed it on the table. He cleaned the knife on his trousers, turned and, quick as a striking serpent, buried the lethal tip in the back of her ex-lover’s hand where it rested on the table.
“What would you have of me? I am yours tonight.” She was soft and supple in his arms. Despite his disquiet and the resounding disapproval of his actions from the rest of his small household, desire rose within him. He embraced her, running his hands down her back to cup her rounded buttocks. The unexpected scent of kohl and vermillion struck his nostrils.
His cock wanted her. His mind did not.
The houri touched her face. Her eyes, now copper instead of emerald, widened in panic. She whimpered. Silhara caressed her hair. “Peace, woman. This is nothing more than a mask. An illusion. It will fade in a few hours or sooner if I break the spell.” Her shoulders sagged in relief, and her changed eyes closed for a moment.
“Gurn brought me a woman I didn’t want. For a moment I changed her, gave her the face of my desire.” His eyes opened, revealing his need. “It wasn’t enough.” Her knees buckled. She collapsed on the bench next to him, stunned. “Master…” She shook her head. “Silhara…” “Lie with me.”
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
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didn’t dare get too close. If he did, he wouldn’t let her go. His next words cut him like knives, and he bled inside. “You aren’t mine,” he said in a soft voice. “Go home, Martise…of Asher.”
