Free Master of Crows by Grace Draven Page A

had left its mark on him from the previous night.  The spell, a gentle summons which should have coaxed instead of coerced, had gone horribly wrong.  He held up his hand.  Blemished by nothing more than hard calluses and ink stains, his fingers and palm now held a warped power, one that made his magic unpredictable.  He growled.  This wasn’t good.  Power uncontrolled and unknown was useless.  For the moment, unless he chose to cast any spell regardless of consequence, the god had rendered his magery impotent.
    Still, he didn’t deny the surge of euphoria coursing through his blood.  His fingers twitched, and points of light shot off their tips.  Such power was more seductive than a beautiful, willing woman.  Silhara knew his weaknesses.  So did the god.
    He lowered his hand and approached the window.  The warm morning breeze sent scorched black feathers whirling out over the grove.  “My apologies, friend.  Killing you wasn’t my…”
    The scent of magic, neither his nor Corruption’s, teased his nostrils.  He knew that scent, both familiar and loathed.  The bird reeked of Conclave.  He swiped his hand against the remains in a sharp gesture, clearing the ledge.  They fell in a thin black rain to the ground below.
    Another spy for the priests.  His apprentice might well have brought the bird with her, or it might have lived amongst his crows for months, flying home occasionally to tattle to its masters.  His regret at destroying the bird vanished.
    He finished dressing and left for the kitchen.  As usual, tea and oranges awaited him on the table.  Gurn and Martise sat across from one another carrying on a conversation made up of hand signals and Martise’s lyrical voice.  Silhara paused in the doorway, content to observe unnoticed.
    For all that he disliked having her entrenched in his household, he’d grown to admire Cumbria’s spy.  Tenacious and resolute, she’d suffered through his morning lessons without faltering.  Her Gift had yet to manifest, but she hadn’t fled in terror.  Silhara despised admitting failure, but he considered abandoning the morning exercises.  They’d accomplished nothing so far besides giving him a sick feeling in his gut.
    Most surprising of all, Martise was a good harvester.  What she lacked in strength, she made up for in speed and thoroughness.  He only had to instruct her once on the proper technique of harvesting the fruit.  Heat, ant bites and the occasional sting from a wasp drunk on fermented oranges didn’t deter her.  After a week, she was almost as quick as Gurn and ruined fewer oranges.
    He admired the play of sunlight on her russet hair and the timbre of her amazing voice.  She rarely smiled, and never for him, but he was often amused by the brief flashes of wit she revealed.  The dull servant who had faded into the shadows of his study was slowly vanishing.  The woman emerging in her place fascinated him a little more each day.
    Cumbria was more subtle and shrewd than he first credited him.  There was more to this woman than her plain façade indicated.  On the surface, she was dismal in her role as spy, but he never trusted surface appearances.  Martise possessed something unique, something Cumbria could use for the purpose of bringing his most hated adversary down.  The trick was to find it before she successfully cornered him with some damning treason that would bring about Conclave’s brand of justice.
    Cael, stretched out under the table, saw him first.  He wuffled a greeting but didn’t rise, content to lie beneath Martise’s foot as she methodically rubbed the length of his belly with her heel.
    “Lazy mutt,” he muttered as he took his place next to Gurn at the table.  He eyed Martise who greeted him with a bland look and softly spoken “Master.”
    “You’ve ruined my dog.”
    Cael’s protesting snort revealed Martise had halted her massage.  She gave Silhara a wary look.  “Forgive me, I don’t