by Grace Draven
Silhara stared at her hand for a moment before wrapping cold fingers around hers. He clambered to his feet. Gurn hovered close until the mage waved him back. “And you, apprentice? What do you thank the winged god for?”
For a moment his eyes bore the storm’s lightning. He looked to Anya who still hovered beneath the door’s canopy, then back at Martise.
She hesitated, unsure of his question. Did he not think she was as relieved as Gurn that he wasn’t some smoking husk torched by the lightning? Or had he sensed her burgeoning hope that it was Gurn, instead of him, whom Anya pleasured the night before?
She sidestepped his unspoken question. “You are well and whole, and your grove has water.”
His mouth curved in a humorless smile at her answer. They walked side by side back to the house, led by Gurn and Cael. Silhara paused once to look back at the now charred ruin of the burnt tree.
Anya stepped away from the threshold to allow them room. She stared at Silhara in wonder. “I’ve heard the tales. You’re known as one of the greatest mages ever born. But this?” She shook her head. “A summoner of lightning?” She bowed low, as subject to a king.
Silhara wiped his wet hair from his face and made her straighten. “You make too much of it, adané. It’s like coaxing a woman, nothing more.”
Martise disagreed, trying not to stare at him with the same awe-struck expression as the houri. Twice he’d invoked powerful spells known to kill their users and survived both times. Despite his drenched clothing and mud-caked knees, he was majestic standing before them. The residual power of his Gift, mixed with the fury of the storm, shimmered around him, casting him in pale radiance. Even Gurn watched him with an almost reverent expression.
Silhara glowered at their dumbstruck silence. “Well? Get out of the way. I want out of these wet breeches. And my apprentice has promised me tea.”
A clumsy scuffle in the narrow hallway, with Anya trying to avoid being smashed between wet people and wet dog, and they dispersed. Gurn made his way to the kitchen with Anya and Cael close behind him. Silhara followed Martise to the stairwell. She paused, waiting for him to overtake her so she could follow him. He waved her on with an impatient hand, dripping puddles of water and looking more irritated by the moment.
Martise climbed the stairs, her shoes making squishing noise on each tread. Her back prickled. Silhara climbed close behind her, close enough she smelled magic on him, along with the lingering scent of brimstone mixed with tobacco.
At the second floor landing, she widened the space between them, climbing the stairs to the third floor. His voice halted her in midstep.
“Martise.” His eyes shone in the gloom. She caught her breath at the tone in his voice. “Dry your hair by the kitchen fire.”
They stared at each other, and Martise sank into a midnight gaze with no stars, pulled in by the seductive power of his presence. She nodded. “As you wish.” Her own voice was hoarse. She continued up the stairs, his gaze heavy on her back as she climbed.
Her fingers trembled as she peeled off her drenched clothes and dropped them into a sodden heap at the foot of her bed. He’d devoured her in that look on the stairs, his black eyes smoldering. Had Gurn been the only one to benefit from Anya’s skills? Unlike his servant, Silhara almost thrummed with a frustrated tension and wore the look of a man who hadn’t slept for days.
“Dry your hair by the kitchen fire.”
She worked fast to loosen the wet locks of hair from her tight braid. That had not been a request. Had he asked her to shed her clothes on the stairs, she wouldn’t have hesitated.
The kitchen was almost crowded when she returned, dressed and with her hair loose and damp on her shoulders. Hunched on the bench, with his elbows on the table, Silhara sipped tea and packed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with meticulous care. He glanced at her, noted her hair and returned to his task. He’d dressed in his usual finery of worn white shirt and gray trews that had once been black. Gurn, dried and changed, puttered around the kitchen, building the fire in the hearth and clearing away their cold breakfast. Anya leaned against the door frame and watched the rain drench the bailey in a steady sheet of gray.
Martise stood by the fire and shook her head when Gurn motioned he’d reheat her meal. Her stomach was doing somersaults beneath her ribs. Food was the last thing she wanted.
Silhara turned his attention to the houri. “Anya, is it?”
“Yes.”
He rose and came to stand next to Martise. He bent to the fire, set a piece of straw to the flame and used it to light his pipe. The crackle of burning tobacco joined with the sounds in the hearth as he drew on the pipe. The spicy aroma of matal filled the kitchen.
“This rain may last through the day. I can’t afford you another night. So either Gurn loads you onto my horse and takes you back to Eastern Prime in the downpour, or you stay and consider this night nothing more than a ‘friendly visit.’”
His eyebrows lowered, features severe. Unruffled by his frown, Anya gave him a friendly smile and Gurn a more seductive one.
“I’ll stay. My house would consider it a favor if you sheltered me in this weather. She grinned at Gurn, who blushed. “I’d like your servant to teach me more of the language of his hands.”
Martise suppressed a smile and met Silhara’s amused glance.
“He’s a man of many talents and speaks eloquently when he’s of a mind.”
Dishes rattled in the dry sink as Gurn turned away to hide his embarrassment.
Humor softened the hard look in Silhara's eyes and deepened the creases that cut from his nose to the corners of his mouth.
“Leave the dishes, Gurn,” he said. “You can deal with them later.”
Gurn paused in rattling the dishes, his blue eyes hopeful. Silhara looked meaningfully at Anya. “I suggest you make good use of the weather and Anya’s company.”
The kitchen grew quiet when they left, the only sounds Cael’s snoring beneath the table, the popping fire in the hearth, and the steady drum of rain outside. Martise hazarded a glance at Silhara from beneath her lashes. He watched her, his expression enigmatic behind the haze of pipe smoke.
She cleared her throat. “You’re good to Gurn. Anya is very beautiful. And kind.”
He inclined his head. “And expensive. Gurn may starve for her, as will I, but I owe my servant something.”
She remembered Anya’s remark about Silhara’s generosity. Hope warred with reproach. He was forbidden to her, a deadly distraction from her purpose at Neith and her ultimate goal. The heart didn’t always obey, and she couldn’t help but hope he’d not found succor between Anya’s thighs the previous night.
Pipe smoke teased her nostrils as she stared at the comb in her hand and flipped it nervously in her palm. “I thought he brought her for you.”
“He did.” His eyes held a thousand dark secrets. “Your hair’s still wet.”
Understanding he would say no more about Anya, she raised her comb to show she’d complied with his command and sat down cross-legged by the fire to comb out her hair. Outside, the rain fell, and the air in the kitchen cooled.
The light enveloping him when he first walked into the house had faded. The man dressed in shabby clothes and smoking a pipe might be any poor farmer taking a rare day to rest and wait out the weather’s moods, except this farmer wielded uncommon power and frightened the suspicious priests who sought to bring him under their control—or kill him if necessary.
“You will be legendary after this. Anya will return to Eastern Prime and tell everyone who’ll listen what she saw here. The word will spread and grow.”
Silhara’s disgusted sigh joined the kitchen’s comforting sounds. “Oh yes. From wrestling a storm to earth, I will be portrayed as battling a celestial army single-handedly to save some rust-covered treasure I couldn’t sell at market if I wanted.” His mocking smile wasn’t directed at her for once. “Saving lost treasure from greedy gods is so much more interesting than saving orange trees from a dr
ought.”
He bent to empty the ashes from the pipe bowl into the hearth. His damp hair spilled in black tangles across her knees. Her fingers itched to touch the strands mingling with hers.
“It could be worse,” he said. “I could have brought her to Neith in the fall during hog slaughtering. If you were still here, I’d enlist your help. We’d send Gurn’s beautiful houri home with tales of me reveling in some blood ritual that involved sacrificing a sow and tupping my concubine-apprentice.”
Martise laughed, euphoria singing through her. He’d called Anya Gurn’s houri. Cheered by that revelation, she couldn’t resist teasing him. “Likely, they’d have you sacrificing the concubine and tupping the sow.”
His laughter echoed hers, a throaty, seductive sound. He returned to the table and raised his tea cup to her in appreciation of her wit. “You know them well.” He sat, straddling the bench so that he partially faced her.
She finished combing out her hair, splitting the locks into three thick skeins so she could bind them into her customary braid. She paused at his command.
“Don’t.” His ruined voice was huskier than usual, and he stared at her with the same hungry look he’d had on the stairs. “Leave it unbound.”
She dropped her hands. Her hair pooled in her lap in waves. She offered him the comb. “Would you like to use this?”
He looked at the comb, then at her. “You do it for me.” His unspoken challenge hung between them. If you dare.
If he only knew he offered her one of her greatest desires—to touch him, feel that silky swath of hair beneath her palms. She left her place by the fire to sit on the bench behind him. Parting the tangles gently, she combed through the worst of the knots, careful not to pull too hard. He sat quietly beneath her ministrations, reminding her of a sleeping lion basking in the sun.
Once his hair was smooth and free of mats, Martise ran the comb through it for sheer pleasure. He had beautiful hair, straight and black and falling to his waist. It spread across a strong back and wide shoulders, dampening his shirt to a transparent thinness. She slid her hand under its weight and caressed his nape with light strokes of the comb.
His shoulders slumped, and he lowered his head in mute invitation for her to continue. He breathed deep, relaxing under her touch. Martise was anything but relaxed. She was on fire, recalling those moments in the library when he’d given her a taste of the passion burning within him. He was her dreams manifested, a bright and volatile star in a winter sky.
The silence in the kitchen was the calm before another storm. Even Cael no longer snored beneath the table. She lay the comb on the table and rose from the bench. Silhara didn’t move, and she thought he might have fallen asleep sitting up. She reached for the teapot and caught the heavy-lidded stare he gave her.
“I’ll get you more tea,” she said.
She almost dropped the teapot when his hand shot out and trapped her wrist. “Say my name.”
She stared at the slender fingers shackling her wrist. “Master?”
“No. Not the address of servant to master. My name.” Dark heat laced his ruined voice.
Desire coursed through her. Bursin’s wings, she wanted this man. They were connected only by the clasp of his hand, yet it seemed as if all her emotions—her passion—centered in her narrow wrist, fanning out in ever widening circles until they encompassed her entire body. He was the storm. As lethal as the lightning and just as unpredictable. She stood before him utterly enthralled.
Not once had she said his name, neither to him nor Gurn. Not even to herself. Addressing him as Master was the last barrier she’d erected between them—the only one still standing, and he commanded her to lower it. She didn’t hesitate and infused her voice with all the strength of her desire.
“Silhara.”
He clamped down harder on her wrist. His eyes slid shut, and for the first time she noted how thick his lashes were against his cheeks.
“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.”
Her knees buckled. She collapsed on the bench next to him, stunned. “Master…” She shook her head. “Silhara…”
“Lie with me.”
The silence stretched, relieved only by the drumming harmony of the rain outside. Silhara gripped his teacup with his other hand so hard, his knuckles turned white. The basking lion had awakened and watched her as if she were prey in the tall grass.
There were cliffs with chasms so deep and wide, a person could fall for eternity. Martise blithely stepped off the tallest one. “Yes,” she said.
He breathed in audibly, a sound of triumph. His brown fingers slid off her wrist, swept across the back of her hand to interlace with her paler ones. He pulled her up with him so that she stood within the circle of his loose embrace.
Cael whuffed softly at them as they left the kitchen. Silhara stroked her palm with his thumb as he led her up the stairs to the second floor. Gentle and reassuring, it did nothing to calm the flutters dancing madly in her belly, like panicked birds trapped in too-small cages.
The flutters turned to nausea as she followed him down the second floor corridor. “Please,” she prayed silently. “Not Anya’s room.” He could take her in the kitchen, the library, even the muddied grove under the bleak sky, and she would welcome him eagerly. But not there.
She almost walked into his back when he halted outside his chambers. She swallowed hard. His bedchamber. A bastion of privacy that welcomed no one save Gurn, and then only to clean and bring water or dinner. The servant had given her free run of the manor, with the exception of the master’s private room. That was forbidden, and Gurn would punish her himself if she broke that rule. His blue eyes had been icy when he’d laid down the stricture. It was the only time Martise ever feared the servant, and she’d yet to test that boundary, despite her mission.
Like her unbending formality in addressing him, this was Silhara’s barrier against her.
It fell when he opened the door.
Cool and damp from the air that seeped in through the gaps in the window frame, the chamber smelled of rain and spice, of old silk and the arousing scent unique to Neith’s master. Standing at the threshold, she saw nothing in the chamber’s gloom beyond the vague outlines of a bed and table.
“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.
She let him guide her into the room. The floor was cushioned beneath her feet, and her shoe scraped over the pile of a rug. Silhara released her hand and murmured a spell. The coals in a brazier set in a far corner lit with a hiss. Their fire brightened, illuminating the room in a warm amber glow. The soft light revealed a sanctuary of worn splendor and scholarly clutter. Rugs, frayed at the ends and worn to the fibers in patches, covered the floor and draped the stone walls, their once-bright colors faded by sun and time, their threads chewed by moths. Haphazardly furnished, the room sported a table and chair piled high with scrolls and grimoires. A large chest and the brazier stood on one side of the room, along with a magnificent, ornately decorated water pipe. Near the balcony entrance, a large rumpled bed and a wash stand with basin and pitcher took up most of the space.
The door closed behind her with a decisive click. Silhara’s eyes reflected pinpoints of firelight as he faced her. His callused palms stroked her arms. “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.
Martise swept a finger across his lips, their tantalizing softness a temptation to capture them in a kiss. There was time enough for that and more. She wanted to savor these moments, this intimacy with the man reviled by Conclave and loved by their spy.
His tongue flicked out, tasted her fingertips. He stood still beneath her questing touch, his only reaction to her wandering hands a tightening of his grip on her arms. She caressed his jaw and neck, exploring the shallow dip between his shoulder and clavicle before moving over the broad planes of his chest. His small nipples made points beneath his shirt when she rubbed her thumbs over their sensitive tips.
He was sublime under her hands, a study in wiry strength and smooth skin, smoky heat and virility. She scrutinized his hard face, made more austere by the play of shadows along his jaw and aquiline nose.
“I don’t mind if you make it darker.” She found it difficult to meet his gaze. He wasn’t Balian. Silhara of Neith had more character in his little finger than Balian did in his entire body, but she offered the suggestion just the same. He’d chosen her over a houri blessed with an uncommon beauty, yet she wanted to be sure he understood that even in the softer, more flattering light emitted by the brazier’s hot coals, she was still plain, unassuming Martise.
He stared down his nose at her in a way that made her blush. “You have a clever way of insulting me, Martise.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “No, that isn’t my intention. I only…”
He placed a finger over her lips. She held her breath when he clasped one of her hands, slid it down his chest and over his taut stomach before curving her fingers over the bulge in his trews. They both moaned when she rubbed her palm gently over his hard shaft and stroked his bollocks with her fingers. He was hot in her hands, a tempting combination of hard and soft.