Master of Crows (Master of Crows, #1)

by Grace Draven

Her fingers drew meandering lines in the scatter of flour, and she was startled to see she’d traced the enigmatic symbol next to Berdikhan’s name in the Helenese scrolls. “What does this mean, Silhara?” she whispered. So engrossed in trying to unravel the puzzle of Silhara’s stubborn silence, Martise didn’t hear Bendewin return until she spoke next to her. “Foolish girl. Are you trying to give yourself bad luck?” Bendewin reached over her shoulder and quickly erased the symbol. “I heard the Master of Crows had Kurman blood, but you’d think he’d teach you something better than that about his people.” The bottom of Martise’s stomach dropped out at her words, and her heart began to pound. A cautious hope rose in her. “You know this symbol?” The cook shrugged. “I’m Kurman-raised; of course I know it.” She signed a hasty protection ward in the air. “A pattern of stars. The plains people don’t see the night sky the way the Kurmans do. To you, the Curl constellation is part of the Bull and the Serpent. To us, it stands alone. In Kurmanji, we call it al Zafira.” Martise sucked in a breath. Her view of the stars had been shaped by Conclave’s teachings, and Conclave didn’t teach the ways of the mountain tribes. Without Bendewin’s knowledge, she would have never seen al Zafira. She retraced the pattern in the flour. “What does it mean?” Bendewin shrugged. “Nothing save a bit of bad luck. The consort of an ancient sarsin was named after those stars. Her husband was a mage, like the...

A white streak ran the long length from scalp to tip. Martise reached out and stroked the silky lock, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “When did you get this?” His mouth curved into a faint smile. “A few weeks ago. I woke up one morning sporting this proof of my declining years. I’ve yet to decide if it’s the result of the ritual or what Gurn served me for dinner the night before.” “It suits you. You look almost civilized,” she teased.