Master of Crows (Master of Crows, #1)

by Grace Draven

The voice sang its malevolent song. ”You will be an emperor unchallenged, a sorcerer unequaled.” Silhara ground his teeth against the agony splitting his skull. “And be a thrall to a beggar god?” His lips bled with the question. “I will not yield.” Soft laughter echoed within him. “You will, Avatar. You always do.”

Gurn’s reaction amused him. 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.

Memories assailed her. At seven years old, she’d been terrified of the stern, beak-nosed priest who’d assessed her with an icy, measuring eye and bought her from a starving mother with a handful of coins. He’d enslaved her with a magic that had made her scream in agony, one that ensured she would serve the house of Asher until her death or until Cumbria sold her and passed on the secret of the stone to a new master. Or until she won her freedom.

He touched her arm. “Guard your words and remain silent unless he addresses you, Martise. Silhara is fond of entrapment. He possesses a sharp tongue and has eviscerated more than one hapless opponent in a conversation. You’d be no match.” 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. His warning amused her and revealed a hint of his unease in the upcoming meeting. How interesting that a man didn’t always admire his own traits in another.

“You don’t seem like a farmer,” she said, failing to keep the doubt out of her voice. She still found the idea strange—this mage, notorious for snubbing Conclave and delving in the dark arcana, pursuing a livelihood so mundane and laborious. His eyes widened. Even Gurn paused in drinking his tea. "It's how I keep us fed and this hulk from crumbling around us." Sarcasm sharpened his tongue. "What? Did you think I lounged on my couch all day, reading tomes and muttering incantations while Gurn fed me grapes?” 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. “It would explain the dust.”

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

“Are you going to eat it?” He pointed to the orange, untouched next to her bowl. She stiffened, as if bracing herself for something unpleasant. He noted her hands as she reached reluctantly for the fruit. Her knuckles were red, chafed—like his. Like Gurn’s. This was a woman who labored in Cumbria’s household. No pampered ward here, but one who did menial work.

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. This wasn’t the mating dance of man and maid, more a recognition of long-separated friends finally reunited. He’d noted Gurn’s immediate attachment to the girl. Martise appeared to return the servant’s affections. His eyes narrowed. They knew nothing of her save what Cumbria told them. There was more to Martise of Asher than nervous blushes and a melodious voice. She had an agenda or she wouldn’t be here. He’d grind her into the dirt before he let her use Gurn to get to him.

“Aye, you did, apprentice. And it was all for nothing, wasn’t it? We try again tomorrow.” He smirked at her involuntary shiver. “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” Her hands twitched before relaxing at her sides. He was curious to see if she’d conquer that urge to slam her fist into his jaw. It seemed so as she laced her fingers together until her knuckles turned white. “Yes, Master. I’ve worked among livestock all my life, including cows, pigs, goats…and asses.”

there was something about the Master of Crows that made her forget all her training, her low place in the world. He was no more imperious or overbearing than any other landed noble, but he struck an angry chord in her every time he spoke.

For all that he disliked having her entrenched in his household, he’d grown to admire Cumbria’s spy. Tenacious and resolute, she’d suffered through his morning lessons without faltering. Her Gift had yet to manifest, but she hadn’t fled in terror. Silhara despised admitting failure, but he considered abandoning the morning exercises. They’d accomplished nothing so far besides giving him a sick feeling in his gut. Most surprising of all, Martise was a good harvester. What she lacked in strength, she made up for in speed and thoroughness. He only had to instruct her once on the proper technique of harvesting the fruit. Heat, ant bites and the occasional sting from a wasp drunk on fermented oranges didn’t deter her. After a week, she was almost as quick as Gurn and ruined fewer oranges. He admired the play of sunlight on her russet hair and the timbre of her amazing voice. She rarely smiled, and never for him, but he was often amused by the brief flashes of wit she revealed. The dull servant who had faded into the shadows of his study was slowly vanishing. The woman emerging in her place fascinated him a little more each day.

He was an enigma. To anyone except maybe Gurn. Son of a prostitute, poor landowner, Conclave-trained, a mage of notoriety instead of renown, he was a strange combination of opposing roles.

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.”

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.

If she managed to survive this journey, Martise intended to kill her former master the moment she was free. She paced past Gurn who waited with her in the bailey. Until recently, her dislike had been reserved for Silhara and his unorthodox teaching methods, but the Master of Crows had yet to deceive her. She’d known from the start he’d be a merciless teacher and had expected the worst. Unlike Silhara, Cumbria had misled her. He’d warned her of Silhara’s mercurial nature and sharp tongue, of his power and his reputation. But he’d downplayed her role as spy. Adventuring had never been part of the plan.

His gaze skimmed over her shawl, long tunic and makeshift trousers. He wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept. Martise had spent the remaining hours before dawn cutting down a skirt and sewing it into something resembling trews suitable for riding. Silhara wore his usual raiment of worn shirt, faded black breeches, and boots. His hair, free of its customary braid, fell straight and silky over his wide shoulders, framing a face sharpened by fatigue. Despite his shabby appearance and the weariness in his eyes, he had the air of an aristo—powerful, arrogant, sure of his place in the world. Martise sometimes found it hard to believe he was the son of a lowly houri.

“Thank you for letting me sleep. I was more tired than I thought.” “Altering a wardrobe at the last minute will do that to a person.” She laughed and looked down at her makeshift breeches. His humor never failed to surprise her. Good thing she sacrificed a night of slumber. Trying to ride Gnat while wearing skirts would have been impossible. “Your singing can be used as a torture method, but you’ve a fine laugh.” His voice smoothed to a silky rumble. “You should laugh more often.” Martise blushed at the unexpected compliment. “Thank you. You sometimes make me laugh.” She hastily corrected herself in case he misconstrued her comment. “Not at you, of course.” “No, of course not.” Amusement threaded his voice.

She’d composed her features into a bland expression when she faced him, hoping he didn’t notice the effect of seeing him burnished with water and sun had on her senses. Her efforts were almost wasted. He’d left the shirt off and sat down close enough that she noted every delineation of hard muscle in his shoulders and chest. Dappled shade danced across his face and arms, shadowing the planes of his stark features. His hair hung down his back, wet and sleek as a seal’s pelt. “Martise? You’re staring.”

“No!” Silhara bellowed, crashing to the floor with her. Her momentum catapulted her over the balcony’s jagged edge, and her scream echoed in the cavernous dark below. Her knife and Silhara’s crossbow fell, the bow glancing off her shoulder before striking the ground with a clatter. The ache in her hip was a twinge compared to the agony bursting across her shoulder and back. She dangled midair, tethered only by Silhara’s iron grip on her arm. He sat on the floor, one foot braced against a broken pilaster to keep her from dragging him off the landing with her. “You don’t look like you weigh this much,” he grunted through clenched teeth. Martise barely heard him. The darkness below gaped like an open mouth, waiting to swallow her. The ghostly cloud paused on the landing, rolling and turning back on itself. It picked up speed as if sensing its prey’s helplessness. She could feel its hunger, a craving for the very essence of life. Her life and Silhara’s. Her wrist and forearm burned, chafed by Silhara’s rough palm as she slipped slowly from his grasp. “Let go,” she whispered. “You promised me a clean death.” Shattered bones on the stones below were preferable to what the soul eater planned. He tightened his grip, hard enough to numb her fingers. “Don’t be tiresome,” he snarled. “You’re holding the papers and the knowledge to translate them.” Were she not hanging midair and facing imminent death by either a long fall or a lich’s avaricious appetite, she might have laughed. He...

She smelled different. Standing next to her, loading orange crates onto the rickety wagon, Silhara caught Martise’s scent on the dry breeze circling the grove. The tang of citrus oil mixed with soap and the faint musk of warm female teased his nostrils. A slow heat centered in his groin. Months had passed since he’d brought a woman beneath him and taken his pleasure. None he’d ever bedded smelled as tantalizing as the small woman working beside him. The scent of sorcery, sharp and clean, like the air before a thunderstorm clung to her hair and skin.

“We’re not having the lesson in the great hall?” Her voice warbled. Silhara cocked his head, puzzled. The same woman who’d grappled with a soul eater and snuffed it out like a candle flame still feared his lessons. Regret surfaced, annoying and unwelcome. He’d had his reasons for subjecting her to harsh treatment when she first arrived. She’d withstood everything he’d thrown at her. Brave and surprising. That abject passivity was an act. Martise might be afraid of her lessons, but she had grown comfortable enough in Neith now to reveal glimpses of a more forceful personality.

“I want to coax your Gift, but I’ll need your cooperation. Have you ever seer-bonded?” She tried to back away. “No! I’d be less vulnerable if I stood before you naked.” Silhara’s eyebrows rose. He halted her, hand resting on her waist in a light, warning clasp. Visions of her bared back and his dark hands against her paler skin played in his mind. “If you’re suggesting both, I’m more than agreeable.” She blushed. A faint smile lifted the corners of her mouth despite her protests. He understood her reticence. Seer-bonding was invasive, a lesser form of what the lich had done to her and what her Gift had done to him. But he felt certain nothing else would make her talent emerge once more. At least nothing it wouldn’t try and attack.

He moved close and breathed in her scent. “I once seer-bonded with the High Bishop.” An old anger made his blood burn. “I’d been a year at Conclave. Two priests bound me to a chair and gagged me.” Martise’s features blurred before ugly memories. He recalled the agonizing fire raging in his skull as Cumbria strove to tear down his emotions and thoughts. He still felt the blow of the bishop’s fist against the side of his head when the bonding finished, the darkness that followed and the taste of dirt in his mouth when he awakened on the cold floor with a rat scrabbling through the tangles in his hair. “They forced you.” Compassion, laced with revulsion, deepened her seductive voice. He traced an invisible line over her collarbone. “Are you so innocent to believe the priests are above such things? You were a novitiate. Surely, you saw or experienced them?” “Not like that. Mockery, lashings, fasting, yes. But never a forced bonding.” She cocked her head, questions in her gaze. “Why? The high priests don’t usually bother acknowledging the lower orders.”

“You’ve begun the bonding.” She closed her eyes briefly. “It doesn’t feel like the lich’s touch” “How did the lich’s touch feel?” “Cold, empty. Like falling down a dry well.” Silhara sensed a stirring, a tendril of awareness calling to his own Gift in recognition. “Seer-bonding is different. Wielded harshly, it’s agonizing. There’s no need for such measures here.” He liked her smile. “You’re kind in your way.” Her voice slurred as the spell’s effects took hold, potent as Peleta’s Fire.

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?” She backed away, breathing hard. She mewled at the feel of the stone wall against her back. Trapped. With a thousands-year old abomination. Nearly frozen with terror, she surrendered control of her Gift. It rushed out of her, a turbulent river of chaotic magic. The air around her warped. Her ears popped, and the shutters slammed together before snapping back against the walls with a resounding crack. The bedroom door flew open, and she caught a glimpse of Silhara, shirtless and wild-eyed, before she turned her attention back to the god.

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.”

“Martise! We meet again.” If the ground suddenly opened up at her feet, she would have stepped willingly into the chasm. The man smiling at her was breathtaking, handsome enough to stop women and men in their tracks for a second look. Thick blond hair grazed his muscular shoulders. The eyes gazing back at her were heavily lashed—bluer than a mountain lake and shallower than a rain puddle. He had a sculpted face of unlined perfection, as if the deities who created him chose one moment to bless a human with godlike beauty. Eight years earlier, he’d been a dream come to life, a surprising gift to a young woman whose station and appearance barred her from the chance at such things as love and the companionship of a mate. But dreams faded before reality. She’d aged since then, grown wiser and discovered the vain, hollow man behind the stunning visage. “Hello, Balian.”

Balian’s remarks and the sight of Martise’s face, white with shame, had set his temper soaring. For a moment it felt as if the dolt was insulting him instead of his apprentice. Anger, mixed with no small amount of jealousy and possessiveness, roared through him. Stabbing that knife point into the vulgar bastard’s hand went a long way to cooling him off. Scarring and beating him bloody had made Silhara almost cheery.

She continually surprised him. Unremarkable on the surface, she was a study in contrasts. She jumped at her own shadow but faced down a lich to save him. He’d raced to her rescue when she’d screamed loud enough to bring the roof down, only to see her Gift hurl Corruption across the room. He no longer believed her naturally submissive. Quiet, yes, and good at hiding her emotions when she wished. But that lowered gaze had far less to do with acknowledging him as superior and more to do with hiding the fact she sometimes wanted to knock his teeth down his throat.

He’d kissed her on impulse, lured by the tempting curve of her lips and the slight feel of her in his arms. He’d expected her to retreat from his onslaught. Gentleness was not in his nature, and he was desperate to taste her. But she hadn’t recoiled from his rough embrace, responding instead with a passion to equal his own.

Back in his chamber, he prepared the huqqah and smoked the bowl down to its dregs. Martise. The smiling woman who’d emerged from a cocoon of cautious passivity to laugh and joke with him, touch his arm and offer the fire of her kiss was gone. In her place, a shard of ice had sat across from him and eaten her dinner as if the world beyond her plate had ceased to exist. She hadn’t raised her eyes long enough to see the pity in Gurn’s gaze, but he had, and his chest tightened. “You are Conclave,” he muttered around a ribbon of smoke. “You serve the will of the priests. I am your mentor. You are my apprentice. Nothing more.” If he said it enough, he might begin to believe it.

“I gave her your face.” He spoke the words through tight lips, as if the admission pained him. The empty teapot clattered on the table. She gaped at him. “What?” His grip tightened, loosening just as suddenly at her pained gasp. “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.”

“The door is neither locked nor warded.” He’d been forthright in his need for her. No flowery words or gentle coaxing. He’d seduced her with his bluntness and now with his reassurance he wouldn’t stop her if she chose to leave. It was wholly symbolic. He could force her to stay with little effort, even with the door wide open.

She closed her eyes. “I’m scared.” He caressed her cheek. He hated her fear, but it would keep her alive. “You should be. The bide jiana enslaved had their Gifts taken from them by force. Sex, torture, whatever their masters found necessary to make that power manifest and use it to their advantage.” Hollow laughter, edged with hysteria, escaped her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she covered her mouth. The laughter turned to agonized groans. Silhara wrapped his arms around her, driven by an unfamiliar urge to hold and comfort. He rubbed her back and let her tears bleed on his chest. She felt good in his arms, even in her grief. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d wept for anything, but he understood her tears. They were made of anger and broken dreams, frustration and powerlessness. He held her in silence until she hiccupped and straightened away from him. She wiped away the remaining tears with shaking hands “Surely, the gods laugh.”

“Good. Brew several and bring them outside to where Gurn will set up for lunch.” His eyes narrowed. “What do you know of Kurmanji customs?” Ah, the identity of their visitors. “A little. Asher’s cook was a Kurman woman.” She ticked off items on her fingers. “Don’t eat with the left hand; be sure to touch your heart when you thank someone, and if you’re a woman don’t meet a man’s gaze directly unless you want him to know you’re interested.” He arched an eyebrow. “Good. You’re familiar with the important things. Especially the last. These men who visit know the ways of the plains and coastal folk are different from theirs. But I’d rather be cautious. I don’t fancy another fight just to prove you’re mine. And unlike your Balian, Kurmans are very good with their daggers.” He left her in the kitchen, and she watched him go, stunned and warmed by his comment. “You’re mine.” He might only mean it in the sense she was a servant of his household, and he wouldn’t give her up to an amorous tribesman. Nor did she think any challenge would be issued. She wasn’t Anya. Still, she clung to the hope his possessive statement was more primal than practical. Martise chastised herself for entertaining such thoughts. Whatever he meant, it mattered little.

“You are very good at assuming a role with very little instruction. I think you were more Kurman than some Kurman women at our meal.” A shrewd gleam entered his eyes. “Mezdar and Peyan approved of your attentions to me, and I suspect Peyan may offer me dower-price for you.” A cold tendril of dread circled Martise’s spine. She didn’t know which of the men was Mezdar or Peyan, and she didn’t care. She stared at Silhara, trying to discern his expression. He could be ruthless when he wanted and showed no hesitation in exercising that trait. But to try and sell her? He couldn’t do it if he wanted, but to stop him, she’d have to reveal her bondage to Cumbria. Amusement softened his hard features. He ran a finger down her neck. She tilted her head in an unconscious invitation for him to do more. He smiled. “You obviously think more poorly of me than Gurn does.” His touch left hot trails on her skin. “You’re not mine to sell, Martise. And even if you were… well, let’s just say I have no need of sheep or carpets.”

More chatter followed her greeting, along with a few admiring “ooohs.” One young girl in the crowd exclaimed, “Such a beautiful voice! Do you sing?” Silhara blanched. Martise tried not to laugh at his horrified expression. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t sing well at all.” A round of disappointed protests echoed from the crowd, and Silhara gave an audible sigh of relief. He grinned at the indignant frown she shot him.

The woman moved around the room, straightening the blankets on the bed and checking the contents of some of the jars. She returned to Martise and appraised her with that same measuring gaze. “I am Dercima, Karduk’s fourth consort. My brother was Silhara’s father.”

“Does Silhara look like his father?” Her question made Dercima pause. She turned back. Firelight reflected in her still gaze. “Yes, but Silhara’s eyes are far older than Terlan’s ever were. He’s a harder man, a darker one. You embrace shadow.” She crouched and swept out of the short doorway before Martise could ask her more.

“To be greeted by such a sight each time I walk in a house.” She spied Silhara at the entrance, an admiring gleam in his dark eyes. Martise lowered her arms to her side and gave him an unobstructed view of her body. “Raised in a brothel, I’d think such a sight common for you.”

She played with the lacings on his tunic. “Do Kurman women bathe their men?” Callused hands stroked a path from her hips to her waist, to the outer curve of her breasts. “Sometimes. A man’s consort may choose to do so. The privilege of marriage.” Silhara’s smile was puzzled.

“A man with clear sight into his own soul will always make a wise decision.”

“Did Karduk know anything about this symbol?” “No.” She paused to stare at him. Nothing in his demeanor betrayed him. He met her eyes calmly, kept his body turned to hers, wide shoulders relaxed. But her instincts fluttered their disquiet. Silhara was lying. He knew something about that symbol and chose to keep it from her. She kept her suspicions to herself for the moment. “What will you tell Conclave?” A subtle shift in his stance signaled his relief when she abandoned the subject of the symbol. “Everything I’ve just told you. As repulsive as we may all view it, I need the priests, and they need me if they want to defeat Corruption.”

He kept pace with her as she slid along the back wall in a futile attempt to keep distance between them. “He craves you.” Long fingers reached out to skate along her collarbone. She flinched at the touch. “Why? You have no beauty to speak of.” He leaned into her, drawing a deep breath against her neck. “Still, there is something within you—unique, appetizing. Something unafraid.”

Martise’s pinched features swam in his vision. Silhara found it hard to reconcile that the woman who now stroked his sweating face with gentle fingers was the same woman who practically kicked his balls into his throat. “Get away from me, demon,” he wheezed. Her shoulders sagged in relief at his reprimand. Tears painted luminous trails on her pallid cheeks, and the red marks left by his fingers circled her neck in a ghastly collar. Still, she’d found the courage to come near him after what he’d just done to her.

His eyes blazed in a face gone white with fury. “I knew you weren’t Cumbria’s ward.” The words, icy and sharp, sent chills down Martise’s arms. She retreated as he stalked her. “A servant, yes. A unique and educated one. But a slave?” He lashed out, kicked the only stool across the room so that it smashed into the opposite wall. Two of the legs split with a loud crack. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he snarled. The cords in his neck tightened, skin flushing so that the circlet of scar tissue stood out in a pale band.

Silhara gazed over her head. “We both blame the other for her death. He hates me because I’m the reason he wouldn’t allow her back into the family embrace. She married a Kurman savage against their wishes and shamed the Asher name. I hate him because his pride forced her to live a short and brutal life.” His lip curled. “Of course, that is but first in a long list of reasons why I loathe Cumbria of Asher.”

Silhara shoved his cup and the bottle of Fire to the far end of the table. “We’ll do nothing more than load the wagon and harness Gnat. You’ll drive it to the city. Take Cael. I’ve already made arrangements for you to stay with your houri friend Anya for a week, or longer if you wish it.” He smiled at Gurn’s flushed features. “You must possess considerable skills beneath the blankets. She’s sent a message expressing her eagerness for your visit.”

The numbness swelling in Silhara’s heart since Martise rode off with the priests worsened. The Fire bubbled in his belly. He’d lost the woman he loved and now the friend he admired. Gurn had been more companion than servant—one who understood a need for solitude but helped keep years of loneliness at bay with his quiet presence. Silhara appreciated his loyalty, was grateful for it. How had he, a wharf rat, managed to engender such faith in a servant turned friend? “You can’t stay, and you can’t help. Not here. If you’re my friend as you say, you will do me this last favor. When you reach Eastern Prime, find Martise. See that she’s well.”