by Grace Draven
“Master,” she whispered. “May I ask you something?”
“Why are you whispering?” Silhara’s voice, never strident, seemed to thunder in the hushed gloom.
The question brought her up short. Why was she whispering? They weren’t slipping out of Neith like thieves. Not that there was anything in that tumble-down wreck worth stealing. Still, the peculiar silence hanging over the woods almost demanded a more subdued tone. And she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.
She tried for a more normal volume. “Why is Gnat unafraid to take this road? The bishop and I had to walk to the manor because his mounts balked at the entrance.”
His huff of scorn was almost lost in the weighted silence. “I could remark on the over-breeding of horse and owner, but that’s an old whine and doesn’t answer your question.” He leaned forward and patted Gnat on the neck. “He’s used to it. The first time I brought him here as a yearling, I had to use a calming spell on him to enter Neith territory. Curse magic is a strong deterrent.”
He didn’t exaggerate. Even now, accompanied by the mage who worked such magic on these woods, Martise couldn't shake her unease. The scent of dark spells, the kind that brought forth demons and invoked force-bondings, hung in the air.
Silhara chuckled at her relieved huff when they left the shadowed avenue for the open plain. Bathed in pale morning light, the ocean of grass emerged from the thinning fog. The plain spread out before them, giving way to sloping hills and plateaus dotted with olive and orange groves. Silhara halted Gnat and breathed deep. His waist shifted beneath her hands, warm to the touch.
“When Conclave banished me to Neith, I thought I’d miss the sea. But it’s here as well, only the waves are made of grass.”
“The sea was the only thing I missed when I left Conclave Redoubt,” she said. The rhythm of the tide had given her comfort in the interminable years of her training.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Its proximity to the sea was the Redoubt’s one saving grace.”
He kicked Gnat into motion, guiding him eastward, toward the rising sun and the soul eater’s sanctuary. They didn’t speak after that. Martise, suffering from lost sleep, swayed in her seat. Lulled by Gnat’s rolling gait, she soon drifted off, cheek resting against Silhara’s back. The sun warmed her shoulders while another heat warmed her chest. She nestled closer, breathing in the spicy scent of matal tobacco and reveling in the nearly forgotten sensation of a man’s body against hers.
She thought she’d only closed her eyes for a moment when a shrug and a sharply spoken “Martise!” startled her awake. Bleary-eyed, she squinted at the expanse of white shirt and blew away a long strand of Silhara’s black hair stuck to her lower lip. Above her, the sun shone hot and bright. No hint of the morning’s coolness remained. She scrubbed at her hot cheek, damp from where she’d pressed her face against his back.
“How long have I been asleep?” Her voice was almost as hoarse as his.
“Three hours. Maybe a little more.” He opened one of the packs tied across Gnat’s back and handed her a water skin. “Here. Drink your fill. There’s a stream not far from here. We’ll stop, water Gnat and refill the skins.”
The water was tepid and flat but tasted better than wine on her parched tongue. Silhara waved the skin away when she offered it to him. “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 fell silent, content to rock with Gnat’s easy gait and survey her surroundings. Silhara’s back blocked most of her frontal view, but she still marveled at the plains surrounding them, heard the whispering brush of grass as the horse waded through the sea of blue stem and dropseed. The plain soon gave way to a more rolling landscape, where the grasses thinned and olive trees stood in sentinel rows on the low hills. Sheep and goats dotted the slopes, their far-off bleating carried by the hot breeze drifting across the land.
Silhara pointed to a spot shaded by a copse of trees. “A stream runs there. If the drought hasn’t dried it up, we’ll stop.”
Their luck held. The stream, a bubbling flow of icy water that poured from the melted snows off the Dramorin Mountains, tracked a meandering path past a stand of plum trees before veering south. Gnat picked up his pace without Silhara’s urging, eager to drink and graze on the lush grass growing by the water’s edge.
Silhara uttered a sharp command. The horse halted, stamping his hooves in impatience as he waited for them to dismount and relieve him of supplies. Silhara looped the reins across the animal’s neck and gave him a slap on the hindquarters. “Go on, lad,” he said. “Enjoy it while you can. We won’t stay long.”
Martise found a comfortable spot beneath the ample shade of a young plum and began emptying the packs. Concentrated on unwrapping and setting out the food Gurn packed for their journey, she didn’t note Silhara’s actions until the sound of splashing followed by a colorful string of curse words reached her ears. The sight greeting her made her breath catch.
He’d followed Gnat to the stream. Crouched at the banks, he’d stripped off his shirt and sluiced water across his shoulders and arms. Rivulets traced glistening paths over skin darkened to a smooth nut brown from days spent toiling beneath the southern sun. His hair lay plastered against his broad back and curved along his ribs. A few wet strands fell forward to twine around his upper arms. He was a lean man, with a slim waist and long, ropy muscles, but there was strength aplenty in that tall, wiry frame. She’d watched him heave heavy crates of oranges into Gurn’s wagon with ease. He cast spells that would bring a lesser mage to his knees, and he could outwork both her and his servant during a day’s labor.
She swallowed, mouth dry as dust, as he cupped water in his hands and poured it over his head. Shivers wracked his body, but he did it twice more before wiping his face with his discarded shirt. He was beautiful—a study in lithe grace and barely restrained power.
When he rose, she pretended to rummage through the empty packs.
“What did Gurn pack? And most important, is there wine?”
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.”
He looked first at her and then at the wine skin crushed in her hand. Mortified that he’d noticed her bewitchment, she thrust the wine at him and searched frantically for something to say.
His scar. She’d been too busy ogling him to give the white collar of puckered skin circling his throat more than a cursory glance. But now, with his inquisitive gaze nailing her in place, she found a ready excuse, rude though it might seem.
She touched her own throat. “What scarred you?”
He took a swallow of wine, then draped his arms over his splayed knees. The wine skin dangled from his fingers. “I’m impressed. You lasted weeks before your curiosity got the best of you.”
That wasn’t quite true. She was curious, but far better he thought her nosy than admit she’d been unable to tear he
r gaze away from the sight of him bathing at the stream. And he wasn’t making it any easier by sitting there bare-chested. She scooted away from him to sort through the towel-wrapped packages Gurn had prepared. Their meal was simple. Bread, boiled eggs, olives and the ever present oranges. His upper lip curled as the last rolled toward him.
“I was eleven when I got this.” He ran his finger over the rucked scar. “Punishment for the crime of stealing.”
Martise gasped. “You were a mere child!”
“I was also a thief, and a good one. Most days. But hunger weakens you, slows you down. I wasn’t quick enough that day and they caught me.”
He handed her the wine and reached for an egg. Martise watched, her heart aching in her chest as the lines deepened around his mouth in a grimace.
“What did you steal?” Surely something valuable. A rich man’s purse, a vain woman’s jeweled mirror, a length of priceless silk from a fat merchant’s stall.
“An orange.”
The wine skin fell from her nerveless fingers. A ribbon of wine spilled out, trickling like blood over the grass. Silhara snatched up the skin and corked it before more spilled. “Watch what you’re doing, girl. That didn’t come easily or cheap.”
His chastisement lacked its customary sharpness. Aghast at his words, she gawked. “Someone garroted you over an orange?” She felt sick. Such merciless retribution, and toward a starving child wishing only to eat. Her own childhood circumstances paled in comparison. She’d been sold, but to a master who had treated her fairly enough. As a slave, she’d had felt the razor cut of contempt, but never starvation. Her stomach churned.
Silhara tore a piece of bread from the loaf she’d unwrapped and took a bite. His gaze never left her face while he chewed. He washed the food down with another swallow of wine before speaking. “Save your pity for a more deserving victim. I survived because my Gift is far more accommodating than yours. It manifested while my executioner strangled me, and I pissed myself before a betting crowd of sailors, whores and a Conclave priest or two.” He uttered the last with withering scorn.
“What happened?”
He shrugged. “I don’t remember much, except fighting to breathe. Suddenly, I felt as if someone had put a torch to my blood. Only I was the torch. I knew nothing after that until I awakened in the household of a Conclave priest. It seems my Gift created a column of holy fire. I came away alive and unharmed save for this pretty necklace I wear and a voice that can still sing better than yours. But the executioner was immolated and part of the wharf burned.”
Martise’s jaw sagged. “Bursin’s wings, no wonder Conclave fears you. Only a Gift nurtured by years of teaching and practice is so powerful.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
She blinked. “What?”
Silhara’s lip curled again, only this time the sneer wasn’t reserved for the reviled oranges. “Is that why you’re here?” he repeated. “At Neith? Because Conclave fears me?” The breeze caught wisps of his drying hair, blowing it around his face. A few strands fluttered toward her, caressing her cheek.
She stiffened and busied herself with cracking and peeling one of the eggs. She met his gaze, refusing to quail before the penetrating stare that demanded she reveal all her secrets. “I’m here because you asked for an apprentice, Master.”
He snorted. “Oh yes. And Conclave, ever obliging, sent me a failed novitiate.”
She bristled at his mockery. Were it not for her, he’d still be closeted in his library, sorting through stacks of incomprehensive tomes in a useless bid to find his precious ritual. She bit into the egg so hard her teeth clicked.
Wry amusement softened his derisive gaze. His lips twitched. “Say it, Martise. I’ve no wish to watch my back for the remainder of this trip because you’re angry enough to plant a knife between my shoulders.”
No longer caring if he thought her insolent, Martise snatched the wine skin out of his hand, uncorked it and drank. Sweet and potent, the wine gave her additional courage to vent her frustration. “You asked for a novitiate, one who could perform minor enchantments and translate old languages.” She pointed her half-eaten egg at him. “The enchantments are beyond my abilities, but not yours. You don’t really need me for that. But reading ancient text? I am better than most of the high priests at deciphering. And that is no idle boast.” She scowled, daring him to scoff at her once more.
“No idle boast,” he repeated. A measuring gleam entered his black eyes. “Then prove it. Help me find those pages. Translate them and give me the means to destroy Corruption.”
“Why do you think I’m here, Master?” She contemplated how he might react if she threw her egg at him.
One eyebrow arched. “Don’t insult me. Whatever motivation sends you willingly into a soul eater’s lair, it has little to do with a need to prove your talent—especially to me.”
He motioned for her to pass the wine skin. “Finish your lunch. We’ve rested long enough.”
She didn’t protest, torn between relief that he hadn’t dug deeper into her reasons for being at Neith and disappointed at the loss of the brief camaraderie that had briefly blossomed between them. She remained undecided if it was relief or disappointment she felt when he shrugged on his shirt.
They made short work of the meal and repacked their supplies. Martise rinsed her hands in the stream and splashed her face. The shock of icy water banished the lethargy that tempted her to stretch out on the cool grass and nap the day away. When she returned to their lunch spot, Silhara had tied the packs and weaponry to the saddle.
He leapt onto Gnat’s back and again offered his arm. “Not so enthusiastic this time, Martise. I don’t want to land on my ass in the dirt.”
Her second attempt at mounting Gnat was far more successful than the first, and they set off for Iwehvenn at a steady clip. As they traveled, Silhara kept her occupied by pointing out the various farms and to whom they belonged. He was knowledgeable of the surrounding area—its agriculture and weather patterns, the best hunting grounds and the most treacherous streams, who grew the sweeter oranges—none as sweet as his—and the richest olives. He was especially well versed in the activities and proclivities of the landowners. For a man who actively shunned visitors and practically lived the life of a hermit, he knew a great deal about his neighbors.
She listened, enjoying the conversation and the rough timbre of his voice. She almost forgot about their destination until they topped a small rise and surveyed the dale below them.
Silhara pointed to a graceful structure in the middle of the dale. “Iwehvenn Keep.”
Caught in the red rays of the late afternoon sun, Iwehvenn glowed like a gem on a pillow of green velvet. The keep, a modest structure with tall, delicate spires and curving arches carved of pearlescent rock, shimmered in a rainbow of color. Trees, heavy with all manner of fruit, lined the garden walks. Flowers bloomed in lush clusters of vibrant hues watered by cascading fountains. The grass in the dale grew verdant and full, untouched by the drought baking the land behind her.
She gaped at the scene before them, her fingers digging into Silhara’s sides. “So beautiful! It can’t be real.”
“It isn’t. But those not Gifted see it that way. Such is the power of the trap. Look closer.”
As he guided Gnat down the slope, she squinted and blinked. The jeweled keep and gardens wavered in her vision like a mirage in the noon heat. Picturesque and enticing at first glance, the illusion disintegrated, revealing a black, twisted landscape. Like Neith, Iwehvenn was a ruin. Unlike Silhara’s home, it reeked of death. The fruit trees and flowers, luxuriant beneath the illusion’s power, were nothing more than stands of misshapen, rotted limbs and tangled weeds. Jagged scorch marks scarred the northern face of the keep, as if it had been struck repeatedly by lightning and burned. The roof was collapsed in one section. What remained clung like ancient skin to the skeleton of warped rafters. Swathes of grass faded to cracked earth and split rock.
More than its appearanc
e, the dale’s oppressive silence made her skin crawl. Even drought-stricken and bleached by the sun, Neith sang a chorus of life. The drone of insects, the incessant caws of the ubiquitous crows, the bleats and snorts of farm stock—all these things made Neith vibrant. Even the wood, blanketed by curse magic, had its own manner of living things. This was different. Iwehvenn, devoid of life, sat like a diseased pustule that drained the land around it until there was nothing left but flat sky and an evil that never slept.
“Peace, apprentice. I’ve been here before and came out untouched. We’ll do the same this time.”
He kept a tight hand on a suddenly nervous Gnat’s reins. Martise peeled her fingers out of Silhara’s ribs and breathed deep. She didn’t want to suffer some ghastly death at the hands of a soul eater. These pages they risked their very souls for had best be worth the danger.
They rode Gnat ever slower down the hillside until his ears laid flat against his head, and he refused to take another step.
“We walk from here.” Silhara held still as Martise slid off Gnat’s back then followed after her. “I won’t force an animal into Iwehvenn. Gnat will stay close by.”
He untied and loaded his crossbow, strapped the quiver of bolts across his back and slid the two sheathed long knives into his belt. Martise rubbed her damp palms on her trousers. No treasure hunt had ever been so deadly. She eyed Silhara standing before her, bristling with weaponry. Despite his confident words, he was taking no chances. Strong magic was his greatest protection, but a sharp knife or two never hurt.
He hefted the crossbow. “These are useless against a lich, but the bandits he lures to his web are alive enough. We may well have more than one adversary at Iwehvenn.”
“As if one isn’t enough.” Her voice sounded shrill to her ears.
His fearless smile lent her courage. “Consider it a challenge.” He touched one of the knives. “Do you know how to wield one of these?”
She shook her head, desperately wishing she did. “Only for slaughter. Not for fighting.”
