library and the tomes awaiting her perusal. Her long-suffering sigh echoed in the cavernous room, a far cry from her reaction at seeing the library for the first time. Cumbria’s library at Asher was extensive, but nothing compared to the one at Neith. Only Conclave’s equaled it in scope and variety, and that library served hundreds of priests and novitiates.
Narrow windows, flanked by bookshelves, filtered light in from the south and east. At night, she was often distracted from her reading by the glimmer of stars and moon as they hung jewel-like in the window’s frame of the night sky—and relieved that she didn’t see Corruption’s star from this vantage point.
The chamber wasn’t as dusty as most of the manor, but it was far from neat. Grimoires and scrolls lay scattered across the floor and stacked in haphazard fashion on the shelves. The two tables placed in the center almost sagged under the weight of more. Open chests spilled loose pages onto the floor. It had taken her two days to figure out an orderly way to conduct her research and not drown in a sea of parchment.
Gurn arrived and pointed to a small chest tucked in a corner near the south windows. He unlocked it with a rusted key, and a cloud of dust rose from the chest’s interior. Martise choked, and Gurn covered his mouth with the hem of his tunic while he pulled the stack of grimoires out and piled them on the floor.
She stared at the cover of the first tome, captivated by the curving symbols etched into the cracked leather. She recognized the writing, an extinct script of the far northern countries that bordered the outland Waste. One of her Conclave mentors, an ancient priestess and scribe from those distant lands, had taught her how to read early Helenese.
“Remember it always, Martise,” she’d commanded in a reedy voice. “There are few left alive who can read the old Northern tongue. Too much knowledge is already lost.”
Gurn hovered at her side, eyeing the books with more revulsion than fascination. She waved him off. “Go on, Gurn. Silhara is probably wondering what’s taking you so long.” She sank to her knees before the books. “I’ll be fine here.”
She didn’t hear him leave, too entranced by the knowledge revealed within the books. Her hands tingled unpleasantly each time she touched the pages. Mild nausea made her stomach roil, but it wasn’t enough make her abandon the trove of information before her. She took a more comfortable seat on the floor and began reading.
The dying sun cast long shadows across her lap. Martise raised her head for the first time in hours, aware of an ache in her neck and the beginnings of a headache. The library had taken on a surreal cast, silvering with the moon’s rise and the last sparkle of dust motes.
“A woman garbed in moonlight is a fair sight indeed.”
Silhara stood over her, his approach silent as always. Shadows hollowed the spaces beneath his cheekbones and highlighted the arch of his nose. He stared at her, eyes glittering. “Did you try harder, Martise?” His voice, too damaged ever to caress, stroked her skin.
She raised the book she held to him. “I did, Master. And I think I’ve found your god-killer.”
CHAPTER NINE
“What do you mean half the ritual is missing?”
Silhara scowled at the scatter of loose papers Martise had spread before him. Candlelight danced with the moon's glow as it streamed through the library windows. Martise, sitting next to him, pinched the bridge of her nose. The action gave him pause. His apprentice, normally so diligent at hiding her emotions, had twice today revealed her frustration with him. First, the knife clutched in her hand at lunch and now this. He didn’t know whether to laugh or reprimand her. But he couldn’t resist the chance to goad her.
“Did you lose the additional pages? I don’t like carelessness, Martise.”
He
Narrow windows, flanked by bookshelves, filtered light in from the south and east. At night, she was often distracted from her reading by the glimmer of stars and moon as they hung jewel-like in the window’s frame of the night sky—and relieved that she didn’t see Corruption’s star from this vantage point.
The chamber wasn’t as dusty as most of the manor, but it was far from neat. Grimoires and scrolls lay scattered across the floor and stacked in haphazard fashion on the shelves. The two tables placed in the center almost sagged under the weight of more. Open chests spilled loose pages onto the floor. It had taken her two days to figure out an orderly way to conduct her research and not drown in a sea of parchment.
Gurn arrived and pointed to a small chest tucked in a corner near the south windows. He unlocked it with a rusted key, and a cloud of dust rose from the chest’s interior. Martise choked, and Gurn covered his mouth with the hem of his tunic while he pulled the stack of grimoires out and piled them on the floor.
She stared at the cover of the first tome, captivated by the curving symbols etched into the cracked leather. She recognized the writing, an extinct script of the far northern countries that bordered the outland Waste. One of her Conclave mentors, an ancient priestess and scribe from those distant lands, had taught her how to read early Helenese.
“Remember it always, Martise,” she’d commanded in a reedy voice. “There are few left alive who can read the old Northern tongue. Too much knowledge is already lost.”
Gurn hovered at her side, eyeing the books with more revulsion than fascination. She waved him off. “Go on, Gurn. Silhara is probably wondering what’s taking you so long.” She sank to her knees before the books. “I’ll be fine here.”
She didn’t hear him leave, too entranced by the knowledge revealed within the books. Her hands tingled unpleasantly each time she touched the pages. Mild nausea made her stomach roil, but it wasn’t enough make her abandon the trove of information before her. She took a more comfortable seat on the floor and began reading.
The dying sun cast long shadows across her lap. Martise raised her head for the first time in hours, aware of an ache in her neck and the beginnings of a headache. The library had taken on a surreal cast, silvering with the moon’s rise and the last sparkle of dust motes.
“A woman garbed in moonlight is a fair sight indeed.”
Silhara stood over her, his approach silent as always. Shadows hollowed the spaces beneath his cheekbones and highlighted the arch of his nose. He stared at her, eyes glittering. “Did you try harder, Martise?” His voice, too damaged ever to caress, stroked her skin.
She raised the book she held to him. “I did, Master. And I think I’ve found your god-killer.”
CHAPTER NINE
“What do you mean half the ritual is missing?”
Silhara scowled at the scatter of loose papers Martise had spread before him. Candlelight danced with the moon's glow as it streamed through the library windows. Martise, sitting next to him, pinched the bridge of her nose. The action gave him pause. His apprentice, normally so diligent at hiding her emotions, had twice today revealed her frustration with him. First, the knife clutched in her hand at lunch and now this. He didn’t know whether to laugh or reprimand her. But he couldn’t resist the chance to goad her.
“Did you lose the additional pages? I don’t like carelessness, Martise.”
He
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