Master of Crows

by Grace Draven

  The Fire lived up to its name, scorching a path from his mouth to his gut. Silhara’s eyes watered. “Bursin’s balls,” he wheezed and tipped the goblet back for another molten swallow. He drained and refilled the cup to the brim, uncaring that the morning would see him trying to claw his eyes out from the pain.

  A shuffle of movement at the door warned him he had a visitor. He raised his drink in his injured hand, the goblet stem slippery against his fingers. “Hello, Gurn.” He struggled to shape the words around a swollen tongue. “Care for a drink?”

  The clink of cups rolling against each other on the floor and the hiss of fatwood lit at the hearth broke the answering silence. A wavering light cast a corona over the table where Silhara sat. He shielded his eyes from the candlelight and cursed. “You couldn’t just sit in the dark with me, could you?”

  Once his eyes adjusted, he lowered his hand to glare at Gurn seated across from him. The servant gestured to his wounded hand and the blood on the table and goblet.

  Silhara swiped at the table’s surface with his sleeve. “A test for my apprentice. She failed.” He raised the goblet and toasted the woman upstairs. Gurn started to rise, but was stopped by Silhara’s sharp command.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll take care of it in my chamber. I want you to do something else for me.”

  He finished the dram and reached for the bottle again, only to have Gurn snatch it out of his reach and put it back into the cupboard.

  “I wasn’t finished,” he snapped. Gurn’s expression was eloquent. Yes he was.

  Silhara tossed him the goblet. “Fine. I bow to territorial rights.” He rose slowly, relieved the room spun only once before stopping. Gurn watched him, a mixture of concern and mild amusement creasing his blunt features.

  “I want you to go to Eastern Prime. Bring back a girl from the Temple of the Moon. I don’t care what she looks like, just make sure she’s small-boned, of a certain height.” He measured with his hand. The height was similar to Martise’s.

  Any trace of humor fled Gurn’s expression. His eyes narrowed, their brilliant blue flattening to gray. He shook his head, hands slashing angry patterns in the air as he signed his refusal in no uncertain terms.

  His own anger rising above his inebriation, Silhara crossed his arms. “I’m not asking you, Gurn. I’m telling you.”

  The two men glared at each for a long moment. Finally, Gurn growled low in his throat, kicked cups out of his way and pinched out the candle flame for good measure. The door’s slam was thunderous in the unrelenting dark as he stomped out of the kitchen.

  “And a good night to you too, you sanctimonious bastard,” Silhara called after him.

  It wasn’t his fault that Cumbria’s little spy had him tied up in knots. Better that he use the bishop’s money to purchase a houri’s time for an evening. No promises of the heart, no tangled emotions or vulnerability. Only a business transaction in which a whore’s purchased favors would ease the consuming desire for the woman sent to betray him.

  The Fire had taken full effect by the time he staggered to the door. Disoriented by drink and the spinning dark, he walked once into a cupboard and then into the wall before managing to stumble into the great hall. “Gurn, you prick,” he muttered, holding on to the stair’s rickety railing. “I’ll kill you when I see you next. With that candle you snuffed.”

  Drunk and still bleeding, he managed to mumble the spell for witchlight, stagger up the stairs to his room without breaking his neck and collapse on his bed. He yanked off his clothes, tangling his hand in his sleeve until he ripped the shirt to free himself. The ceiling undulated, and he closed his eyes to keep from being sick. Sleep swiftly overtook him, followed by powerful dreams tainted with Corruption’s presence.

  Martise, naked and vulnerable before him. Images of him taking her in a myriad of ways, his cock sliding into her mouth, her cunnus, between her buttocks. He moaned in his sleep, his uninjured hand moving beneath the covers to grip the base of his erect penis and stroke.

  The god’s voice flickered over him like a serpent’s tongue. “She will be yours. Use her in whatever manner pleases you. Throw her away when you tire of her. Countless more will be yours to command and use. I can do this for you.”

  The images intensified, coldly seductive. She was servile and silent, never meeting his gaze while he took her, never returning a caress or begging a kiss. Memory intruded on the god’s manipulation of his desires. His mother, abject before a toad of a man. The emptiness in her eyes. The smell of urine.

  The last broke Corruption’s hold on his dreams. He froze, hand still curved around his cock.

  His stomach roiled from a combination of the god’s invasive touch and too much Peleta’s Fire. Blood clogged his nostrils. He laughed, the sound slurred and thick.

  “A common whoremonger now, Corruption? Truly, you are the embodiment of divine wonder.”

  An agonizing pain struck him between the eyes, as if someone drove a spear point into his skull. He curled in on himself, panting and holding his head. Sweat poured off his body as the pain traveled downward, raking his limbs.

  “I tire of your mockery, mage. And your rebukes. If you will not yield, no matter. There are other ways.”

  His pain disappeared abruptly. Silhara lay shivering and wondering if he was dead. For a moment the image of Iwehvenn and Martise’s features, thin with shock and compassion, passed behind his closed eyes. Stay with me.

  He fell asleep again and awakened well past dawn with a mouth full of wool, a head full of splinters and an aching hand. Blood stained the bed linens. Squinting against the merciless morning light, he rolled out of bed and stumbled to the chamber pot to empty his bladder. Afterward, he washed with the cold water in his basin and dressed, plagued by foggy memories of arguing with Gurn and swiving Martise in his dreams.

  Despite the pounding between his ears, he cast a healing spell on his injured hand. Expecting only to lessen the ache and prevent infection, he was surprised to see the wound close and disappear. Remnants of Martise’s Gift still resided within him. He’d never before possessed the particular skill to fully heal with magic. A suspicion took root and grew.

  When he traipsed downstairs he discovered Martise and Cael in the kitchen. Dropping onto the bench, he groaned and clenched his teeth at the smell of porridge and butter. Martise rose from her place at the table and brought him a warmed kettle of tea. The loathed bowl of oranges appeared before him next to the kettle. His stomach heaved, and he shoved the bowl aside.

  “Get those away from me before I vomit.”

  He blessed her silently when she replaced them with a cup.

  “Do you want something else?” Her voice was sympathetic.

  Tea sloshed over the cup’s rim as he poured from the kettle with a shaking hand. “Only if you can offer me a new head along with the tea. Mine is about to burst.”

  She smiled, then winced when Cael began barking at the rooster’s morning crowing in the bailey. Silhara almost dropped the cup to cover his ears.

  “Out!” he snarled at the mage-finder, silencing him instantly. The dog slinked toward the door and lay down, staring at his master with an injured expression.

  Martise touched his arm. “I found the cups on the floor this morning and the Fire on a different shelf. Do you still have some of that draught you gave me?”

  Silhara nodded and wished he hadn’t. “As soon as I finish this tea and can walk straight, I’m headed to the stillroom.”

  He answered her unvoiced question. “I sent Gurn to Eastern Prime. He’ll be back this afternoon. In the meantime, you’ll have to take over his duties. I’ll work in the grove alone. And I need you to prepare a room on the second floor. We’re having a guest tonight.” His stomach roiled even more at the thought of her discovering his visitor’s purpose.

  Her eyebrows rose, but she didn’t pry. “I’ll have it ready when they arrive.”

  Gurn’s condemning expression flashed before him, followed by a surge of remorse. Si
lhara growled into his cup. She was only a servant here, and a minion of Conclave. He owed her neither faith nor explanation.

  A visit to the stillroom for a dose of a revitalizing elixir restored his humanity. Work in the grove offered a peaceful respite. Harvesting and maintaining the trees was difficult, unending work, but he embraced it. The grove validated him, reflected how far he’d risen and what he had overcome.

  He picked the trees nearest the house. All the windows were open, allowing a breeze to flow through the rooms, and he sometimes heard Martise admonish Cael for some minor indiscretion as he followed her while she completed her many tasks. He paused. There was a sense of rightness in hearing her voice, knowing she moved through his manor as its temporary keeper. He imagined what it might be like if she lived here permanently, became his lover.

  He’d interrupt her work and his, take her hand and lead her to the chamber they’d share and make love to her throughout the afternoon. She’d look upon him with a smile, touch him with loving hands and caress him with that bewitching voice.

  Silhara cursed and clipped off a cluster of oranges, almost snipping his fingers in the process. Such domestic contentment didn’t suit him. He did well enough at Neith with only Gurn and Cael for company. However, when Martise called him for their midday meal, he joined her eagerly.

  The bowl of soup she set in front of him was fragrant with vegetables and herbs. Busy placing bread, butter and the tea kettle on the table, she missed his appreciative sigh.

  She handed him a spoon. “I thought you might prefer this today. There’s also wine, if you want to risk it.”

  His stomach balked at the thought of the wine, but he managed to consume half the pot of soup and a loaf of bread. Martise no longer stared at him in wide-eyed astonishment. She was used to his appetite and sipped her bowl of soup while he devoured his.

  She refilled his tea cup. “I’ve prepared the room two doors down from yours. It’s the only one with a bed still usable. There’s water in the pitcher and cloths if your guest wishes to clean up when they arrive. I also cleaned the mirror, though there’s nothing to be done about the crack.

  He scowled into his teacup at the persistent sense of guilt. She was neither his wife nor his mistress. Just another servant in his household. Like Gurn. Would she be so accommodating if she knew his guest was a houri brought to entertain him for an evening?

  She was in the midst of clearing away the table while he finished off the pot of tea when Cael suddenly let loose another round of barking.

  “I’m going to kill that damn dog.”

  The creak of wagon wheels announced Gurn’s return. Silhara braced himself for more of Gurn’s disapproval and wasn’t disappointed. The giant entered the kitchen, a thundercloud of condemnation on his normally affable face.

  “Gurn, welcome back!” Martise’s cheerful greeting only served to darken his visage even more. “Why didn’t you come through the front door?”

  Silhara heard the puzzlement in her voice. His eyes widened when the servant ushered his companion into the kitchen. A soft gasp from Martise punctuated his own surprise.

  Gurn didn’t bring home just any houri. Silhara gaped at the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Long, black hair artfully arranged and held with jeweled clips was swept back to fall in thick curls down her back. Smooth, honey skin begged to be caressed. Her face was exquisite, with a slender nose and vermillion-painted lips that curved into a come-hither smile and highlighting delicate cheekbones. Her green eyes were skillfully outlined in kohl, enhancing their exotic shape. She had a body to make a man’s mouth water, small-boned and generously curved. A plethora of sheer, brightly colored scarves draped her form. Except for her height and dainty build, she was Martise’s complete antithesis. And she must have cost him a fortune.

  The houri bowed, her small hands clasped together as if in prayer. “It is an honor to be summoned to serve you, Master of Neith.” She had a pretty voice, high and sweet.

  A strangled sound reached his ears. When he looked, Martise was busy clearing the dishes away from the table, her head bowed and face turned away. The grace she usually exhibited had deserted her, and she stacked bowls with a clumsy rattle. He looked to Gurn whose withering stare threatened to immolate him on the spot.

  Silhara nodded to the houri in greeting and motioned for Gurn to join him in a far corner of the room.

  “Have you lost your mind?” he snapped in a low voice. “I sent you to the Temple of the Moon for a houri who wouldn’t have the pox. What did you do, ask for the most expensive prostitute in the brothel?”

  Gurn’s snide smile confirmed his suspicion.

  Silhara saw red. “You insolent bastard. I’m tempted to load her in the wagon and make you take her back. But that’s what you want, isn’t it? Well, tonight you can just sit in this kitchen and chew on the idea that I’m upstairs fucking away two months worth of food for us.”

  He didn’t think it possible to sign sewage-sucking-excuse-of-a-baseborn-bilge-rat but somehow Gurn managed. Silhara was interrupted from further snarling by Martise addressing the houri.

  “I am Martise, adané, servant and apprentice here. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the room I’ve prepared for your stay.”

  Silhara’s gut burned, both at her polite address to the houri and the fact she’d cleaned that room not knowing its intended use. Gurn's low growl highlighted his disgust. He stalked past the women and out of the kitchen. The houri smiled and inclined her head at Silhara as Martise led her to the stairs. Martise never looked at him.

  Left alone in the kitchen and feeling lower than a maggot, he fled to the grove and vented his frustration on the wasp nests sheltered in the trees, freezing or burning them with spells that made his head ache when he finished.

  When dinner was called, he sat at the table and stared at the culinary horror on his plate. Only his meal was a disaster, a nearly inedible concoction of pork burned to a slab of black coal and watery grain mush with all the taste of a stick of furniture. Gurn sat as far from him on the bench as he could without falling off the edge and glared at him as if he was an insect he’d like to smash under his shoe and smear across the floor for good measure. Martise refused to look up from her plate. She ate methodically, asked their guest about her trip to Neith then fell silent.

  Only the houri, who’d introduced herself as Anya, didn’t treat Silhara as a pariah. She smiled, complimented him on Neith’s ancient beauty, the comforts of her room and the solicitousness of his servants.

  Silhara shoved the mess around on his plate with his knife before finally giving up. He stood and met Anya’s gaze. “When you’re finished, go to your room. I’ll meet you there.”

  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.

  He shed his clothes, bathed and changed into a loose tunic. Barefoot, he made his way to the guest chamber Martise prepared. The houri smiled when she saw him. Draped in her transparent silks, she reclined on the bed in a pose contrived to show her considerable charms to their best advantage. She rose, her hips swaying seductively as she came up against him and draped her slender arms over his shoulders.

  “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. He’d expected orange flower and soap. He paused. Anya’s long hair brushed his hands, and he imagined it russet instead of black. She stirred in his embrace, bumping his groin gently, widening her stance so that his cock nestled against the silk covering her cunnus. A low moan hung trapped in his throat when her small hand slid between them to cup him. Nimble fingers played over his erection, his bollocks, caressing him through the long tunic.

  He nuzzled her neck, trailing kisses down the side of her jaw. Her bottom filled his hands, rounded and firm. She was lush curves, soft breasts and skilled hands. Still, a chill thread ran through him—a detachment, as if his mind acted independent of his body and watched their play with amused boredom. His cock wanted her. His mind did not.

  Frustrated, seeking the fire that licked at his limbs when he held another in his arms, Silhara pulled away. An idea came to him, one that might have the houri looking strangely at him. No matter. She was paid to please him, whatever his pleasure.

  The cracked mirror leaning against the opposite wall was enormous, a luxury bought by a previous master of Neith generations earlier. Despite the damage, it was still an impressive piece and reflected the candlelight in its clear face. He ignored Anya’s puzzled expression and turned her to face the mirror.

  They made a striking pair, both dark-haired and flushed by the heat of their embrace. He loomed behind her, tall and austere. By contrast, she was small and sensually beautiful. She reminded him of the fragrant flowers blooming at the coast in shades of pink, orange and brilliant magenta. That puzzled look changed to one of trepidation when Silhara gestured and the air rippled around her.

  He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I mean you no harm. This is only temporary. Watch.”

  His hand passed over her face, leaving a silver aura in its wake. The aura shimmered around her, transforming, lightening Anya’s hair to russet, altering her features until her beauty was gone, and she looked oddly out of place in her colorful silks. The houri touched her face. Her eyes, now copper instead of emerald, widened in panic. She whimpered.