tension. She wondered at the servant's assured, almost berating manner and her volatile master's patience for such behavior. Cumbria would have had her stripped and beaten in the courtyard for that kind of insolence.
Silhara strode back the way he came, giving orders over his shoulder as he left. "Make her finish the bread. It'll keep her from retching up her insides. I'll be back." He paused long enough to level a disgusted look at her. "You're more trouble than you're worth." He punctuated the statement by slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the plates and cups in Gurn's dry sink.
Focused on keeping her stomach calm, Martise sat quietly on the bench and chewed her bread. Gurn’s tall figure wavered in her vision while he worked in the kitchen. So far she failed miserably as a spy. Her bid to insinuate herself into Silhara’s household as seamlessly as possible was a catastrophe. A little more than a fortnight, and she’d done nothing more than act as Gurn’s assistant and subject herself to Silhara’s daily tests. She was no closer to revealing some damning information about him than the first day she arrived. Cumbria’s messenger crow would languish in the trees, waiting for her summons, until his feathers turned white.
Martise took another bite of the bread and blanched at the threatening roil in her belly. Cumbria might be angered, but he wasn’t the one fighting off demons, being set on fire or tossed toward the manor’s roof with no means to save herself except a wizard of questionable mercy.
The door leading to the great hall crashed open once more. Silhara had returned. He thrust a goblet under her nose. “Drink this,” he ordered.
The cup, finely wrought of silver engraved with Kurman knotwork, felt cool in her palm. She tipped the goblet to her mouth then hesitated. Over the rim of her cup, she met Silhara’s gaze, wondering if what he gave her was truly a restorative. His black eyes gleamed with annoyance and a touch of challenge.
Spiteful wretch. Martise half-regretted her growing knowledge of his character. After the torture sessions in the great hall, she knew he wouldn’t bother poisoning her. There was no entertainment value in that. She narrowed her eyes at him, the Fire’s intoxicating effects giving her a temporary courage, and tossed back the goblet’s contents.
Cold on the throat and bitter on the tongue, the draught doused the coals burning hot in her belly and even managed to quell the nausea and clear her head in a single swallow. She stared at the cup and then at Silhara, amazed at the speed with which his potion worked. “What is in this drink?”
His gaze derided her. “All manner of small evils, apprentice. Do you really want to know?”
“No.”
He snatched the cup from her. “You’ve recovered enough to work.” He addressed Gurn. “When she’s finished her tasks, bring her out to the grove.” He left without a backward glance.
The bailey looked no better than the rest of the manor. The wall enclosing it crumbled in one corner; other sections were repaired with a mixture of broken brick and bits of timber. Like the rest of the region, Neith suffered from the summer drought, and the bare patches of earth, once churned to a quagmire by grazing livestock, spread across the yard in cracked, rippling patterns of dried mud. A line of wash fluttered in the breeze, partially concealing a large draft horse feeding at a nearby hay rack and a black goat chewing enthusiastically on the hem of a drying shirt. A sow and three piglets, evicted from their sty by an even dirtier Cael, rooted along the bailey’s perimeter, accompanied by a squawking entourage of chickens.
For all its ramshackle appearance, the bailey made Martise smile. Like Gurn, it was a spot of normalcy in this strange, forgotten place.
She spent the remainder of the morning completing her assigned tasks. She milked the goat, fed the
Silhara strode back the way he came, giving orders over his shoulder as he left. "Make her finish the bread. It'll keep her from retching up her insides. I'll be back." He paused long enough to level a disgusted look at her. "You're more trouble than you're worth." He punctuated the statement by slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the plates and cups in Gurn's dry sink.
Focused on keeping her stomach calm, Martise sat quietly on the bench and chewed her bread. Gurn’s tall figure wavered in her vision while he worked in the kitchen. So far she failed miserably as a spy. Her bid to insinuate herself into Silhara’s household as seamlessly as possible was a catastrophe. A little more than a fortnight, and she’d done nothing more than act as Gurn’s assistant and subject herself to Silhara’s daily tests. She was no closer to revealing some damning information about him than the first day she arrived. Cumbria’s messenger crow would languish in the trees, waiting for her summons, until his feathers turned white.
Martise took another bite of the bread and blanched at the threatening roil in her belly. Cumbria might be angered, but he wasn’t the one fighting off demons, being set on fire or tossed toward the manor’s roof with no means to save herself except a wizard of questionable mercy.
The door leading to the great hall crashed open once more. Silhara had returned. He thrust a goblet under her nose. “Drink this,” he ordered.
The cup, finely wrought of silver engraved with Kurman knotwork, felt cool in her palm. She tipped the goblet to her mouth then hesitated. Over the rim of her cup, she met Silhara’s gaze, wondering if what he gave her was truly a restorative. His black eyes gleamed with annoyance and a touch of challenge.
Spiteful wretch. Martise half-regretted her growing knowledge of his character. After the torture sessions in the great hall, she knew he wouldn’t bother poisoning her. There was no entertainment value in that. She narrowed her eyes at him, the Fire’s intoxicating effects giving her a temporary courage, and tossed back the goblet’s contents.
Cold on the throat and bitter on the tongue, the draught doused the coals burning hot in her belly and even managed to quell the nausea and clear her head in a single swallow. She stared at the cup and then at Silhara, amazed at the speed with which his potion worked. “What is in this drink?”
His gaze derided her. “All manner of small evils, apprentice. Do you really want to know?”
“No.”
He snatched the cup from her. “You’ve recovered enough to work.” He addressed Gurn. “When she’s finished her tasks, bring her out to the grove.” He left without a backward glance.
The bailey looked no better than the rest of the manor. The wall enclosing it crumbled in one corner; other sections were repaired with a mixture of broken brick and bits of timber. Like the rest of the region, Neith suffered from the summer drought, and the bare patches of earth, once churned to a quagmire by grazing livestock, spread across the yard in cracked, rippling patterns of dried mud. A line of wash fluttered in the breeze, partially concealing a large draft horse feeding at a nearby hay rack and a black goat chewing enthusiastically on the hem of a drying shirt. A sow and three piglets, evicted from their sty by an even dirtier Cael, rooted along the bailey’s perimeter, accompanied by a squawking entourage of chickens.
For all its ramshackle appearance, the bailey made Martise smile. Like Gurn, it was a spot of normalcy in this strange, forgotten place.
She spent the remainder of the morning completing her assigned tasks. She milked the goat, fed the
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