The Brush of Black Wings Part 2

Martise held up her hands. "Oh trust me. I have no intention of going anywhere near that place. One scare per morning is more than enough excitement for me." She pushed her portion of the parasol mushrooms around her plate. She liked the delicacy well enough, but after her earlier struggle with the temple's visitor, she'd lost her taste for them and slid the plate to Silhara to finish.

His free hand trailed the length of her back in a comforting touch. "As soon as I'm done here, I'll return to the temple."

"But you already put up wards."

"I just want to take a second look. See if there's something I missed. If not in the temple itself, then around it. I'll take Cael with me." He downed his tea and made to rise.

Martise caught his hand to stop him. "Please be careful." Silhara's seer bonding and the merging of his Gift with hers had cleansed her of most of the ent.i.ty's taint, but a little still lingered in her nostrils-dark sorcery and madness.

His lips were soft on hers before he straightened and left the table. His faint smile belied the cold gleam in his eyes. "I'll be the most dangerous thing in the wood. Whatever might linger there will regret trying with me what it tried with you."

He left for the temple with Cael in tow while Martise helped Gurn scrub pots and dishes and carry firewood into the kitchen. She didn't argue when he shooed her off afterwards, eager to ransack Neith's extensive library for any information that might give a clue about her would-be abductor.

Without the heat of a hearth to warm it, the library was colder than a tomb. Martise had wrapped in her cloak and slipped on gloves before leaving the kitchen, but she still shivered in the room's vast s.p.a.ce. Her breath fogged in front of her, and a thin layer of ice painted the windows, obscuring the landscape.

She had lived at Neith first as both apprentice and spy and then wife to the man she'd come to betray. In that time, she'd only explored a fraction of the books and scrolls stored in the library. Conclave's own library was considered a wonder of the known world, and as a novitiate, Martise had spent many hours researching, learning and receiving lessons from the priests. They were the stolen moments she held dear of her time with the priesthood, but nothing compared to her joy in digging freely through this treasure trove of knowledge. Somewhere in here lay clues to the ent.i.ty who had tried first by coaxing, and then by force, to bring her into the temple with him.

Dust billowed in clouds around her as she removed a selection of tomes and scrolls from the various shelves and took up her favorite spot to study the words written by scribes and mages long pa.s.sed.

The tallow candle she lit swirled tendrils of pungent black smoke in the air but did an adequate job of illuminating the faded script on yellowed parchment. Martise scratched out notes with her quill on her own stack of parchment. Words spoken in eerie intonations seemed less obscure once she wrote them down.

Kashaptu, mi peti babka.

Only one of the words seemed vaguely familiar, and then just a portion of it. Martise returned to the shelves, pulling out books until she found two she wanted. All words had roots, foundations upon which languages were built and transformed. The scribes of Conclave always taught that first to the novitiates, a way to grasp all languages and spells, even if it wasn't the student's mother tongue. Martise put that training to use.

The Makkadians were not known for great magic, but they were famous as beast masters. Raptors, bears, big cats-trained and put to use in matters of war and pageantry for any kingdom willing to pay the price for their expertise in beast-charming. The Makkadians were especially famous for breeding and training magefinders and called them kashkuli-witch hunters.

Martise prayed the path she followed in this research was the right one. If not, then she was about to waste hours of time trying to decipher the strange words whose echo still sent chills down her spine.

The ringing of the kitchen bell signaled lunch a few hours later, and she left the library, frozen to the bone, fingers stiff from the cold and copious amounts of note-taking. Silhara and Cael strode through the bailey door just as Gurn set a much welcomed bowl of hot stew in front of her.

Snowflakes dusted Silhara's eyelashes, quickly melting until they streamed down his face like tears. He wiped at them impatiently and tossed his damp cloak and gloves on the drying rack near the hearth. His gaze sought Martise. "You found something," he said abruptly.

She raised her tea cup in salute. "I did. What about you?"

He shook his head, dropping onto the bench next to her. "Nothing if you're only looking with your main senses. Not even a thrum of magery, which in its way is odd." He accepted the cup of tea Gurn handed him with a nod of thanks. "All the ruins in the woods are old, that one more ancient than most. The earth holds the ghosts of rituals. You can feel it in your feet sometimes. I didn't feel anything around that one. It's dead. Too dead."

The mild nausea that blossomed in her belly when she finally translated the ent.i.ty's words threatened to boil up toward her throat. She took a bracing swallow of tea, wishing for once that it was something stronger like the tongue-scorching Peleta's Fire Silhara stored on a nearby shelf.

"Martise?" Silhara's raspy voice lowered another octave, and his black eyes glittered. "What is it?" His hand was gentle on her shoulder, a contrast to his dour expression.

"If I'm right in my research, and I believe I am, I translated what the demon said."

Silhara's eyebrows rose. "And?"

She pushed her bowl away, all appet.i.te gone. "It's ancient Makkadian and means 'Witch, open the gate for me.'" The way his lips flattened against his teeth and his eyes narrowed made her heart beat harder. When Silhara showed concern, it was wise to be afraid.

"Are you certain?"

"As certain as I can be with the knowledge available to me. 'Kul' is Makkadian for 'hunter.' A 'kash' is a vulgar term for a prost.i.tute, but its original meaning is 'witch.' The Makkadians call magefinders 'kashkuli.' Witch hunters." She shivered and pressed against Silhara's side for warmth. "I traced the language back to its roots. 'Kashaptu' is an early feminine form for 'witch.' Whoever appeared in the temple, spoke a form of Makkadian not heard in a long time."

Gurn sketched rapid patterns in the air, almost too fast for Martise to follow. Silhara read them with ease. He wore a menacing expression sure to scare the blood thin in any who didn't call him friend.

"I won't just tear it down," he almost snarled at Gurn. "I'll burn it down and salt the earth. Whatever that thing is, it has no business here and certainly none with my wife." He stroked Martise's braid before taking up his spoon to stir his stew. "You might as well eat," he told her. "You'll be sharing the library with me, and we've a long day and evening ahead of us."

He joined her in the library after lunch, leaving instructions with Gurn to keep the teapot full and send up the bottle of Dragon p.i.s.s just in case. Once in the privacy of the library, Martise threw her arms around Silhara and hugged him hard.

"I'm afraid," she whispered into his neck.

"Only fools and dead men have no fear, Martise. And the former often become the latter because of the lack." He tilted her face up to his with the touch of a fingertip under her chin. Her candle had guttered, and the winter light through the frosted windows washed the color from the library and Silhara's stern features. "I will do all in my power to protect you."

She offered him an anemic smile. "I know. I'm a fortunate wife to have a G.o.d-smiter for a husband."

"Looks like a demon slayer as well now."

Her hands twisted the fabric of his wool tunic. "Do you think it's a demon?"

He shrugged. "That's my first thought. It asked you to open a gate. Gates between worlds maybe. Such things seek travel that way. The temple might have been such a gate once. The demon sensed your magic and saw it as a means to break the lock."

Martise shuddered in his arms, recalling the image of a tall man with inhuman eyes and swathed in a living cloak of black smoke that writhed and tumbled into miasmic faces twisted with agony. "Demon or no," she said. "He wasn't human."

A stray thought made her pause. "He spoke Makkadian, Silhara. What demon speaks Makkadian?"

Silhara hugged her close before setting her from him. "I don't give a flying pig's a.r.s.e if he recited poetry in magefinder," he said over his shoulder as he made his way to a ladder leaning against one of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. "I'm only interested in killing him, not taking language lessons from him."

Martise burst out laughing. The Master of Crows was a caustic, temperamental man with a razor tongue and no hesitation in using it to flay someone b.l.o.o.d.y. Sometimes though, he blunted its edge a little, offering a sharp wit instead that encouraged a laugh and made a day such as this one less frightening.

She returned to her work table with its stacks of books and notes she'd taken earlier. Open the gate. Open the gate. She tapped the tip of her quill on her lower lip. Was the temple the gate? Ferrin's Tor with its standing menhirs was a type of gate and one she and Silhara had used to reach Corruption's domain and kill the G.o.d. The temple might be a lesser gate. Such weren't uncommon, and those always contained an element that anch.o.r.ed two worlds together-some artifact or spellwork that drew one side to the other through ritual or invocation.

Her Gift might have acted as a beacon to the ent.i.ty, but she hadn't recited any invocation or traced the precise and measured steps of a ritual circle. If an ensorcelled gem or prayer bowl were buried there, Silhara's plan to burn the ruin and salt the ground would destroy whatever link bound Neith to an unknown darkness.

Martise glanced at Silhara who clung precariously to the ladder. "What do you know of the histories of the ruins in your woodland?"

Nimble as a cat, he descended the rungs, scrolls tucked under his arms. "Almost nothing. They've been here as long as Neith itself as far as I know. Some are human-built; some aren't. The one we're concerned with isn't. An Elder creation I think, but it's anyone's guess as to which race." He dropped the scrolls on the table cattycorner to hers. "You think this ruin is an anchor?"

"Maybe." She shuffled through her notes. "Your library surely has something about the structures built in the wood. I'd like to learn a little about this one before you tear it down."

Silhara gave her a disapproving stare. "It's too dangerous to leave standing for scholarly pursuits, Martise. The moment the effects of your Gift wear off and I have better control of my power, I'm turning that heap into a dust pile. The sooner, the better."

"You'll get no argument from me," she said. "I hope you turn them all into dust piles."

He unrolled one of the scrolls and held it down at the corners with flat river rock. "That's my intention. I don't like unexpected human guests at Neith, much less demonic ones."

The library fell silent except for the scratch of Martise's quill as she jotted down notes and occasional mutterings from Silhara as he perused lists of spells. She watched him from the corner of her eye. He searched for the combination of invocations that would dismantle not only the temple's physical structure but its ethereal net as well and do so without killing himself. The knitted lines between his eyebrows as he glowered at one scroll told her he wasn't yet successful in his search. Tiny sparks of red light shot off his fingertips as his narrow hands moved in unconscious motion, sketching sigils and signs in the air. Her Gift had fueled his magery, turning a bonfire into an inferno. Infinitely powerful and just as unpredictable. Any spellwork he did while his magic sang with her Gift's force required immense control and caution.

Her own research yielded better results. A dozen books and countless scrolls later, and she probably knew more now about the history of Silhara's home than he did, and the knowledge guaranteed several sleepless night.

There had once been more than a dozen temples or ritual sites within the woodland that obscured Neith's front facade. The wood itself had spread over more acreage as well, giving way over time to the plains. Of the five temples that remained in their various stages of abandoned decay, the one she'd visited that morning was the oldest, and as Silhara had mentioned earlier, built by those who weren't human.

The mage stopped her as she returned to one of the bookcases. Unlike hers, his hands were warm. Candlelight flickered across his stern face. Winter had paled his burnished skin to the color of honey, making his eyes even blacker than usual. He lifted her chilly fingers to his mouth and blew.

She sighed her thanks as his breath cascaded over her knuckles, thawing them so they didn't ache so much from the cold. "If you keep doing that, I might actually be in danger of falling in love with you," she teased.

One black eyebrow arched, and Silhara paused. "Such declarations will earn you no additional favors from me, apprentice." He bit the tip of her index finger gently, smiling when she pinched him with her other hand. "Nor will your abuse." His lips caressed her palm, and he released her hand. "I leave you to the books. I've found two spells that should destroy the temple and any artifact buried beneath it. I'll test them in the bailey. If they don't work or your Gift makes them work too well, then the most that will happen is I accidently roast that goat Gurn swears is eating the bed sheets off the wash line. Then we'll just have goat every meal for the next week."

Alone once more in the library, she returned to her work. Gurn interrupted her once, bearing a pot of tea. She nodded her thanks and returned to perusing a set of fragile scrolls whose edges crumbled under her touch.

They burned her fingers, their surfaces dusted with the remnants of a sorcery different but as dark as that which flowed briefly from the temple ruin. Silhara had pilfered these from Iwhevenn Keep, home to a lich. While the words written on the parchment were merely a historical recounting, the parchment itself bore the mark of necromancy. Martise continuously wiped her hands on her skirts and would have abandoned the scrolls were they not the ones containing the information she searched for in Silhara's vast library.

She read through them as quickly as possible, lips moving in soundless dictation even as her heart set a galloping pace. "Not just a demon," she whispered to herself when she reached one scroll's end. "A king of demons."

Her memory was exceptional, bordering on wondrous-a useful tool for the master who once owned her. Martise possessed the ability to repeat everything she read to Silhara in exact detail. But what she just read rattled her so badly she'd likely stutter incoherently when she told him her news. She took up her quill with a shaking hand, paused for a steadying breath, and continued with her notes.

The sun arced toward the west with the moon on its hem and then its shoulders. The ink ran dry in the well, and Martise's hand cramped around her fifth quill as she scribbled into the evening. She stopped to rub eyes gritty with exhaustion.

Her folded arms made a handy pillow on the hard table, and she rested her head on them. She'd stop for a moment, give her hand and her eyes a rest and then write more. By the time Gurn called her down for supper, she'd be finished and could pa.s.s her notes to Silhara for perusal while she indulged in a bracing dram of Peleta's Fire.

Sleep came hard and fast. Rest did not. She dreamed vivid dreams populated with images grotesque and unfamiliar-skeletal horses made of smoke and fire and men who were not men armored in black and wearing helmets whose face shields bore the visages of the tortured and the d.a.m.ned. They carried swords with blades that shimmered hot blue, as if the swordsmith who made them captured lightning bolts in a crucible and forged them into the molten steel.

"The king is the sword; the sword is the king," she murmured.

Her dreams changed, drifting from demonic warriors on inferno-eyed horses to a vast and writhing darkness that cavorted and shrieked and withered all it embraced. Not just death, but Death gone mad.

"Martise."

She erupted from sleep with a scream piercing enough to shatter the windows. Her skirts hobbled her as she recoiled from the light touch on her shoulder. She lost her footing, narrowly missing cracking her chin on the table's edge as she fell between the bench on which she sat and the table. She scuttled underneath it to hide.

"Bursin's wings!"

The sharp exclamation brought her fully awake. Martise peeked out from the shadows. "Silhara?"

He bent to peer at her, an angular silhouette outlined by the moon's light streaming into the library. "Now that you've managed to put another white streak in my hair, you can come out from there."

Backlit, his expression remained hidden, but she easily interpreted the acerbic tone in his voice. Her reaction had startled him, and he didn't like it. Nerves still raw from the horrible dream, Martise wasn't inclined to apologize. He didn't want her screaming in his ear? Then he shouldn't sneak up on her while she slept.

She pulled her lethal skirts to the side and crawled from under the table. He grasped her hand and helped her stand. Seeing him before her, so strong and sure, made Martise forget her annoyance and remember her terror. She threw herself against him. Muscle rippled and tensed as he wrapped her in his arms.

Life as a farmer had whittled him to sinew and bone, and there wasn't a patch of softness on him except for the occasional look in his eye when she caught him watching her. The unyielding physique didn't lessen the comfort she took from his embrace.

A callused hand traveled the length of her braid before ascending to cup the back of her head. "What is it, Martise?" he asked. "A dream? I found you asleep, the candle melted down and a quill still in your hand."

She shivered, recalling the grim images and the words that inspired them. "A nightmare," she said, hating the tremor in her voice. "I thought you were one of them."

"One of whom?" He gathered her closer, the fall of his hair brushing the side of her face. His clothes were damp and chilly, as if he'd recently come in from the cold without his cloak.

"A saruum," she said.

His hoa.r.s.e chuckle sounded near her ear. "I forgive you the extreme insult of the comparison. Knowing the quality of most kings, you've every right to scream at the notion of being married to one."

When his solid presence had calmed her even more and blurred the clarity of her nightmare, she'd show him her notes. Not all saruui or kings were equal, and those she dreamed of were like no saruum ever born to command armies or sit upon a throne.

He coaxed her down to supper, brow furrowed when she picked at her food. Gurn's expression mirrored Silhara's. He signed, offering to make her something else. Martise declined. "You're very kind, Gurn. The food is good; I'm just not hungry."

Later, in their chamber, she sat cross-legged behind Silhara on their bed and combed out his hair. It had become a ritual between them, adopted not long after Martise's role in his household changed, and the apprentice became the lover.

The stroke of the comb always soothed him, and tonight it soothed her as well. His hair spilled down his back to pool in her lap, long locks she twined loosely around her forearms or spun through her fingers.

"Do you want to see my notes now or in the morning?" she asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

He turned his head enough to give her a clear view of his profile-sculpted cheekbone and prominent Kurman nose. "Will you sleep better tonight if you show me in the morning?"

A simple question and the greatest of kindnesses. She dropped the comb and slid her arms around his waist to hug him close. "Yes."

Rough fingertips glided over her knuckles before his palms rested atop her hands. "Then morning is soon enough. Unless you found something that might stop me from obliterating that temple."

Martise squeezed, loosening her grip a little at Silhara's corresponding grunt. "No, nothing. Leave no stone standing. Empty the seas of salt if you must to cover that bit of ground."

He unwound her arms and changed position to face her fully. Light from the brazier deepened his skin's swarthy hue and rimmed the black of his eyes in a thin haze of crimson. "It's a demon then."

Martise gave a humorless chuckle. "Oh yes, and if your scrolls are correct, its anchor to this world is buried under the temple."

Silhara cursed. "I was afraid of that, though it makes sense. Not so random an appearance then or your bad luck at being in the wrong place at the wrong time. What's the anchor?"

"I think it's a sword."

His disgusted snort made her smile. "Of course it is. Never anything prosaic like a lamp or a b.u.t.ter churn-something we could put to everyday use once I broke its enchantment."

She gazed at him, endlessly beguiled by his many facets. The Master of Crows, wielder of great magic and destroyer of G.o.ds, would have been far happier to discover a b.u.t.ter churn under his heap of a temple instead of a rare, enchanted sword.

Silhara gave her a puzzled look laced with a touch of suspicion. "What?"

"You," she said softly. He remained silent, waiting for her to finish. "I'm very glad that executioner didn't strangle you on the docks that day."

Both his eyebrows shot upward. "So he wouldn't rob you of the chance to do it yourself?" he teased.

She yanked on a strand of his hair, making him yelp. "Don't think I haven't been tempted a time or two, sorcerer."

Her surprised squeak mixed with laughter when he lunged toward her and carried them back into the pile of pillows and blankets. Her hair m.u.f.fled his playful growls as he nibbled her ear and walked the delicate line of her ribs with his fingers in a ticklish dance.

"Not just any old sorcerer; an almighty G.o.d-smiter," he said. His fingers skittered faster along her sides, making her squirm and laugh even harder. "Say it, Martise. Almighty G.o.d-smiter."

"I will not," she said between gasps. "And if you don't stop, I'll wet the bed."

Her threat worked faster than any spell Silhara might conjure. He froze and stared down at her smiling face. "You wouldn't."

"I wouldn't want to."

He blew out a defeated sigh and settled his weight more heavily on her. His lips were soft against her as he muttered "You thwart me too often, apprentice."