by Grace Draven
During one interlude, he rested his head on her belly, skating the edge of sleep. Her question brought him wide awake.
“My Gift never revealed itself on the gray plane, Silhara. Or before that either when Megiddo cast the geas that brought me to him in the temple. It isn’t gone. I can still feel it inside me, but something’s wrong.”
He personally hoped her Gift faded away and never returned. He didn’t even like calling it a Gift. It was more a burden, a dangerous one that made Martise vulnerable and a valuable prize to win if any knew how her power worked. Her Gift had awakened the sleeping force buried under the temple, calling forth its exiled master. It was an annoyance and a menace.
He said none of this to Martise and instead, kissed a circle around her navel. “Do you want to seer-bond? It usually responds to me.”
She nodded. “Do you feel up to it?”
Not really, but Silhara hadn’t missed the worry in her voice and sought to reassure her. “I don’t think I’ll come to any harm. Besides, I survived that hellish bath outside and Gurn throwing soap at me. This will be easy.”
Seer-bonding with his wife always rejuvenated him and left her weakened—mostly because her Gift, eager to meld with his own power, poured out of her as if she were a sieve. He cautiously reached for it this time, ready to break the connection if he saw Martise fading.
Strangely, her Gift was more reticent this time. Silhara felt it dance along the edge of his senses, touching, caressing , as if glad to feel him there but unwilling to embrace him. It retreated as quickly as it appeared, leaving him with the impression of a butterfly sealed tightly in the sanctuary of its cocoon.
The crimson light of his own Gift surrounded him and Martise. What little amber light of hers appeared curled in tendrils around the red corona and disappeared.
Martise stared at him, wide-eyed. “It’s going away, isn’t it?” She blinked hard, trying to force back the tears that welled in her eyes.
He shook his head, puzzled by her Gift’s behavior, but certain it wasn’t diminishing. “No. It’s still there. Still strong.” He frowned a little at her happy sigh. “I don’t know why it chooses to hide. It’s as if it guards itself though there’s been no threat against it lately.” That wasn’t a good thing. Guarding itself did no good if it refused to protect Martise, and not once had it appeared to fight off Megiddo during her captivity.
She hugged him, her smile wide, the tears gone. “I’m just glad it’s still there.”
Silhara wasn’t, and its reaction to the bonding bothered him, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Something was still wrong, it just wasn’t the “wrong” Martise first assumed.
He put the thought from his mind for later. For now, he had a happy, naked woman in bed with him. There were far better ways to spend the hours than fretting over why something he just wished would go away was actually accommodating him to a minor degree.
They spent the remainder of the week preparing a ritual that would destroy the temple and wipe clean any necromantic magic that lingered from Megiddo’s sword. Gurn took the wagon and made a trip to Eastern Prime, returning with four large bags of coarse salt.
Silhara glared at the wagon’s contents as Gurn swung down from the high seat. “How much did that cost me?”
The giant servant dropped a woefully light coin bag in his palm. “That’s the change,” he signed.
Silhara growled. If he ever saw the Wraith King again, he’d extract the price of the salt out of his hide. It was a good thing he could take out his frustration on the temple itself, and by the time he’d leveled the structure and furrowed the spoked-wheel design beneath churned dirt, he wasn’t quite so annoyed at the blow to his humble coffers.
White salt mixed with mud and dirty snow, sparkling in the weak winter light. Silhara cast a last spell on the ground where the temple had stood and gathered the empty salt bags to return home. One down, four to go. The branches above him rustled, and he glanced up to see a crow following him, hopping from tree to tree. A ray of sunlight struck the black feathers, and for a moment he was reminded of Megiddo’s robes—dark and shadowy and writhing.
He shook his head, banishing the image. There were better things to think of. His wife waited at home, still asleep. That made him frown. Martise was normally an early riser, excruciatingly energetic and cheerful, even before the dawn sun broke the horizon. For the past two nights, she’d gone to bed early, claiming exhaustion and slept deeply, not waking until well into the morning and only because Silhara coaxed her out of bed with tea.
He couldn’t shake the worry plaguing him, and his stride lengthened as he made his way through the wood toward the manor.
He found her still asleep in their bed, buried under blankets until only the top of her head was exposed to the room’s cold temperatures. Silhara stoked the brazier to life and paused to scrutinize her still form.
She had assured him the day before she felt fine, just worn out, as if she’d toiled in the orchard for days on end. Silhara had looked to Gurn who only shrugged, as clueless as he was about Martise’s exhaustion. It might well be their time on the gray plane had somehow drained her, but Silhara had his doubts. Her weariness seemed sudden and extreme, separate from anything born of dark magic, and he’d sensed none of the black arcana on her. In fact, the spells he cast to reveal any hidden malice flattened and faded, as if she wore some invisible armor that resisted, if not completely repelled sorcery. If she didn’t return to her old self in the next few days, he’d resort to more extreme measures.
He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. She didn’t stir, and he left her to slumber peacefully in the slowly warming chamber.
Gurn nodded to him as he passed the kitchen on the way to his study. Unlike his bedroom or the frozen pit that was the library, the study welcomed him with a heated embrace. Gurn had visited earlier and started a fire in the small hearth built in one corner. Flames flickered in lit oil lamps, casting a golden light across a table littered with scattered parchment, scrolls, ink wells and quills.
Silhara raised the wick on the lamps perched on the table, watching as their flames stretched higher and brightened the space. He sat down in the chair behind the table, dragged a piece of parchment towards him and dipped a sharpened quill into the closest ink well.
He had made no promises to the Wraith King beyond the agreement to help him escape the gray plane if he wished, but he’d made a promise to himself, and it was as much to purge his mind of the bitter draught of another man’s memories as it was to correct the wrongs of history.
The scratch of the quill joined the pop and crackle of kindling consumed by the fire in the hearth as Silhara committed to print what had been lost or twisted over centuries of time.
A Recounting of the Wraith King Wars
As Written by Silhara of Neith, Master of Crows
The king who dwelled in darkness led the dead to conquer the damned.
Five kings made spirit, bound to the sword.
The king is the sword. The sword is the king.
~END~
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Discover other titles by Grace Draven
Master of Crows
Radiance
Entreat Me
All the Stars Look Down
The Lightning God’s Wife
Drago Illuminare
Draconus
Wyvern
Arena
Courting Bathsheba
The Light Within
Connect with me:
website: http://gracedraven.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/grace.draven
-moz-filter: grayscale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share
