Master of Crows by Grace Draven Page A

the power of his Gift, he neither possessed her skill with translation nor her memory.  He deciphered text much slower than she did.  There were times when he’d pin her with a speculative stare when she directed him to a specific page of a specific grimoir for more information.  So far their best efforts had been fruitless, and Martise was as frustrated as he over their lack of progress.  Try harder.  She glared at her plate.
    “Martise, lower your knife.  There are more than a few people eager to carve out my heart.  You’ll have to take your place in line.”
    She glanced up, startled.  Amusement lightened his dark eyes.  She looked at her hand fisted around her eating knife in a death grip.  The knife struck the table with a clatter.  She cleared her throat and stopped just short of apologizing when his eyes narrowed.  “I wasn’t…”
    “Wasn’t what?  Dreaming of ways to skin my hide and nail it to my chamber door?”  He laughed, a rough grating sound.  “You’re better than most at concealing your thoughts.”  He paused, and his gaze lowered.  The timbre of his voice changed, smoothed and deepened.  “But you have an expressive mouth.  What you hide in your eyes is revealed there.”
    Her stomach somersaulted against her ribs.  She licked her bottom lip.  His eyes went blacker than the most forbidden arcana spell.  She took a breath, as unnerved by her reaction to his words as the words themselves.  “I’ll try harder.”
    “I’m certain you will.”  He dragged his gaze to Gurn.  “Pull out the large chest in the corner by the south window and unlock it.  She can search the grimoires.”
    He looked back.  His voice was raspy again.  “We’ll try something new tonight.  I’ve books taken from Iwehvenn Keep.  Old tomes with writings about the Wastelands and their ancient magic.  There may be nothing of use to us, but it’s worth a look.”
    The sip of tea she’d taken soured in her mouth.  She swallowed hard.  “Iwehvenn Keep?  The lich’s stronghold?”
    He nodded.  “The very one.  The Eater of Souls is far more interested in feasting on the spirit of the unlucky traveler than he is in reading.  He won’t miss what I took.”
    Martise struggled to keep from gaping at him.  She’d grown up listening to the horror stories of the Soul Eater of Iwehvenn and the hapless victims who’d fallen prey to its ravenous appetite.  That Silhara had willingly breached the lich’s fortress and come away unscathed was extraordinary and a testament to his cunning and the strength of his Gift.
    No wonder the priesthood feared him.  A mage that young, who commanded such power, was formidable and not easily matched nor defeated.
    Silhara drained his cup and rose.  “I’ve wasted enough time.”  He eyed Martise.  “Gurn will show you where I keep those tomes.  Your fingers may pain you.  The lich’s taint still lingers on the pages.”
    He left her with a warning reminder.  “No singing in the library.  No singing anywhere.  If I hear you, I’ll see to it you’re as mute as Gurn for the rest of your stay at Neith.”
    She held up her hands in surrender.  “No singing.  I swear.”
    The rest of lunch was quick and uneventful.  Martise helped Gurn clear away the food and wash dishes.
    “Gurn,” she said.  He paused in straightening the larder.  “The grove is more than a source of income, isn’t it?  Silhara loves those trees.”
    Mute but adept at expressing his thoughts and opinions, he draped long arms over the larder’s door and stared at her in somber approval.  Even had he not nodded and confirmed her supposition, she knew she was right.  Silhara treasured his small orange grove in the way another man would treasure a beloved wife or child.  Martise frowned, oddly troubled by her observation.  She had yet to discover his heresy, but she’d found his vulnerability.
    The disturbing thought stayed with her as she made her way to the