Master of Crows by Grace Draven Read Free Book Online

return the servant’s affections.  His eyes narrowed.  They knew nothing of her save what Cumbria told them.  There was more to Martise of Asher than nervous blushes and a melodious voice. She had an agenda or she wouldn’t be here.  He’d grind her into the dirt before he let her use Gurn to get to him.
    He was tempted to tell her of Gurn’s origins—how Silhara found him rotting in a Prime prison for literally breaking a man in half across his knee—but thought better of it.  He didn’t relish the idea of an irritated Gurn tearing his head off his shoulders and throwing it across the courtyard for revealing private things to a stranger.
    A snide remark on their attachment hovered on his lips, stopped only by a foul scent rising up from beneath the table.
    “Bursin’s wings!  What is that smell?”  He raised an eyebrow at Martise.  Her eyes widened.
    “Not me.  I bathed this morning.”
    Gurn nudged him and pointed in the direction of his feet.  He bent to peer under the table and almost gagged.  Cael lay stretched out on the floor, reeking worse than the shambling, half rotten dog that invaded Neith at Corruption’s command.  He shoved Cael with one foot, and the hound growled a warning.
    “Out of here, Cael.  Now.”  He shoved harder this time.  Cael snapped half-heartedly at his toes before abandoning his spot and slinking out the open door leading to the bailey.
    Silhara watched him go before turning his attention back to Martise.  “Gurn told me my mage-finder verified Cumbria’s story.  You are Gifted.”
    She paled and lowered her eyes to mask their expression.  “Yes.  Gurn introduced us.”
    Her extraordinary voice had gone flat, hiding a wealth of emotion in the same way her downcast eyes did.  He wasn’t fooled.  She was angry he’d used Cael in ascertaining the truth.
    “Cael is a valued member of my household, Martise.  I trust his judgment more than I trust most anyone else’s.  Regardless of Conclave’s wishes and Cumbria’s generosity in sending me his ward as an apprentice, if Cael didn’t approve of you, you wouldn’t stay.”
    She met his gaze, her copper-coin eyes unflinching and resolute.  “The bishop paid you for four months of my upkeep.”
    Anger shot through him, incinerating the last vestiges of drowsiness.  She dared to challenge him!  He bared his teeth at her, barely placated when she flinched.  Still, she refused to lower her eyes.
    “Aye, he did,” he said.  “And when I send his insolent ward back to him, I’ll include a note stating the exorbitant cost of porridge and a Neith orange has made it necessary for me to recover my expenses by keeping all his coin.”
    The tension in the kitchen was thick enough to cut.  Silhara’s temper rose with it until Martise exhaled a defeated sigh.  Her voice was even, her gaze carefully blank and tranquil as she focused on a point over his left shoulder.
    “I’m being impertinent.  I am sorry, Master.”
    “Somehow I doubt that.”  She shot him a surprised look.  “But I think we begin to understand each other.”
    He watched as she toyed with her spoon and traced patterns in her congealing porridge.  “You have spider webs in your hair.”
    She patted her hair, grimacing when her fingers touched the remnants of spider web dangling from her hairpins.
    “It’s no matter, Martise.  Such primping isn’t necessary.  Your appearance is of no interest here.”
    A hint of hurt or embarrassment danced across her features before she lowered her gaze.  He'd cut her, unintentional though it was.  No one at Neith stood on ceremony.  He and Gurn dressed no better than the lowest servant in a rich household.  He hadn’t even bothered to shave his beard or put on shoes before stumbling down to breakfast this morning.  His remark about the webs in her hair had been idle chat.  She’d interpreted his statement as an insult.  He chose not to explain himself.
    “Gurn,” he said.