The Brush of Black Wings by Grace Draven Read Free Book Online

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 hoarse 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