souls never broken. Martise, with that bleak, imperious stare, reminded him of the Queens.
“I remembered the spell.”
Disgust for him crossed her still features. Good enough for now. He hadn’t succeeded in scaring her into leaving, but he might coax her to it through hatred—if she didn’t bury a knife in his back first. She was stronger than he anticipated, and far more stubborn than he’d first guessed. Cumbria must have offered her a small fortune to suffer months at Neith. Silhara intended she earn every coin.
“Aye, you did, apprentice. And it was all for nothing, wasn’t it? We try again tomorrow.” He smirked at her involuntary shiver. “I understand you’ve been helping Gurn. A comfort to know that while you can’t work a simple spell, you can at least milk a goat”
Her hands twitched before relaxing at her sides. He was curious to see if she’d conquer that urge to slam her fist into his jaw. It seemed so as she laced her fingers together until her knuckles turned white.
“Yes, Master. I’ve worked among livestock all my life, including cows, pigs, goats…and asses.”
CHAPTER SIX
Another morning, another lesson—this one worse than all the others combined. The Master of Crows was a hateful, contemptible pig. If he'd tried to terrorize her with his malicious sorcery, the tactic worked. Her heart still thundered in her chest from the fright he'd given her. Of the many lessons he’d subjected her to so far, this one was the pinnacle of nightmares. If he meant to scare her away, his effort failed. Whatever guilt plaguing Martise regarding her mission evaporated. She swore she'd find some evidence to mark Silhara as a heretic. When the priests built his execution pyre, she'd volunteer to lay the first torch. If they chose to behead him, she'd offer to sharpen the axe.
Bile laced with lingering terror burned the back of her throat. She stumbled into the kitchen, tripping over the scruffy mage-finder where he lay by the door. The dog growled a warning and snapped at her heels. Martise hardly noticed. Bastard! Arrogant, pitiless louse with his mocking smile! Bursin's wings, what she wouldn't give to have her Gift manifest and see how he'd like it if she set a shrieking, blood-mad demon on him. Such a thing would never happen, but she took comfort in imagining the scenario.
Gurn leaned across the table, scrubbing away the last remnants of breakfast. He stopped when he saw her, slung his wet towel over his shoulder and guided her to one of the benches. She waved him off. It was bad enough Silhara witnessed her screeching in terror. She didn't want Gurn thinking she was some delicate invalid. At least her skirts hid her wobbling knees.
He hovered over her until she sat and gave him a weak smile. “A Woman’s Bane demon this time. He banished her just before she leapt on me.”
Gurn’s blue eyes were dark with sympathy. He patted her on the shoulder before striding to one of the cupboards to rummage through its contents. He came back, holding a small cup filled with a pale green liquid. He motioned for her to drink.
Martise eyed the draught and took a cautious sniff. She coughed as the powerful and familiar fumes of Peleta's Fire scorched her nose. Guaranteed to blister the drinker's entrails and addle his mind by the second cup, its admirers fondly referred to the Fire by its more vulgar name, Dragon Piss. She thought the description apt. Her first and only taste had almost made her retch, and she’d avoided it since. Now, with her composure shattered, she welcomed the drink.
She took a breath, closed her eyes and downed the cup’s contents in a single gulp. Gurn's shocked expression blurred before her eyes as the Fire seared a white-hot path down her throat and into her belly. She wheezed and bent forward until her forehead touched her knees, the latest fright forgotten. She concentrated solely on inhaling and
“I remembered the spell.”
Disgust for him crossed her still features. Good enough for now. He hadn’t succeeded in scaring her into leaving, but he might coax her to it through hatred—if she didn’t bury a knife in his back first. She was stronger than he anticipated, and far more stubborn than he’d first guessed. Cumbria must have offered her a small fortune to suffer months at Neith. Silhara intended she earn every coin.
“Aye, you did, apprentice. And it was all for nothing, wasn’t it? We try again tomorrow.” He smirked at her involuntary shiver. “I understand you’ve been helping Gurn. A comfort to know that while you can’t work a simple spell, you can at least milk a goat”
Her hands twitched before relaxing at her sides. He was curious to see if she’d conquer that urge to slam her fist into his jaw. It seemed so as she laced her fingers together until her knuckles turned white.
“Yes, Master. I’ve worked among livestock all my life, including cows, pigs, goats…and asses.”
CHAPTER SIX
Another morning, another lesson—this one worse than all the others combined. The Master of Crows was a hateful, contemptible pig. If he'd tried to terrorize her with his malicious sorcery, the tactic worked. Her heart still thundered in her chest from the fright he'd given her. Of the many lessons he’d subjected her to so far, this one was the pinnacle of nightmares. If he meant to scare her away, his effort failed. Whatever guilt plaguing Martise regarding her mission evaporated. She swore she'd find some evidence to mark Silhara as a heretic. When the priests built his execution pyre, she'd volunteer to lay the first torch. If they chose to behead him, she'd offer to sharpen the axe.
Bile laced with lingering terror burned the back of her throat. She stumbled into the kitchen, tripping over the scruffy mage-finder where he lay by the door. The dog growled a warning and snapped at her heels. Martise hardly noticed. Bastard! Arrogant, pitiless louse with his mocking smile! Bursin's wings, what she wouldn't give to have her Gift manifest and see how he'd like it if she set a shrieking, blood-mad demon on him. Such a thing would never happen, but she took comfort in imagining the scenario.
Gurn leaned across the table, scrubbing away the last remnants of breakfast. He stopped when he saw her, slung his wet towel over his shoulder and guided her to one of the benches. She waved him off. It was bad enough Silhara witnessed her screeching in terror. She didn't want Gurn thinking she was some delicate invalid. At least her skirts hid her wobbling knees.
He hovered over her until she sat and gave him a weak smile. “A Woman’s Bane demon this time. He banished her just before she leapt on me.”
Gurn’s blue eyes were dark with sympathy. He patted her on the shoulder before striding to one of the cupboards to rummage through its contents. He came back, holding a small cup filled with a pale green liquid. He motioned for her to drink.
Martise eyed the draught and took a cautious sniff. She coughed as the powerful and familiar fumes of Peleta's Fire scorched her nose. Guaranteed to blister the drinker's entrails and addle his mind by the second cup, its admirers fondly referred to the Fire by its more vulgar name, Dragon Piss. She thought the description apt. Her first and only taste had almost made her retch, and she’d avoided it since. Now, with her composure shattered, she welcomed the drink.
She took a breath, closed her eyes and downed the cup’s contents in a single gulp. Gurn's shocked expression blurred before her eyes as the Fire seared a white-hot path down her throat and into her belly. She wheezed and bent forward until her forehead touched her knees, the latest fright forgotten. She concentrated solely on inhaling and
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