...Lost beneath a shroud of dust, the main hall’s faded grandeur left her breathless. Blackened timbers soared above her head, their beams crossing in a massive spider’s web of support for the lofty ceiling. An enormous fireplace stretched across one wall, the mantel and surround carved into the shapes of mythical beasts entwined in eternal combat. This was once a grand place, far larger than Cumbria’s estate—a place built for kings and their fighting champions.
How low the great had sunk. Brittle rushes snapped beneath their feet. The few pieces of furniture stood gray with dirt, and the tapestries bore moth holes. Light filtered through windows caked in layers of grime, creating the ambient glow. Though the walls still stood, the hall was abandoned as surely as the west wing’s battered ruins.
The servant bent, patting a cushioned stool in a coaxing gesture. A cloud of dust swirled into the air. Cumbria’s lip curled in disgust.
“No, I don’t want to sit.” He gathered his robes around him and took in his surroundings. “No better than a hovel. Why should have I expected more?”
Martise stared at the bishop, shocked by his rudeness. She glanced at the servant and saw his smile fade to a blank, waiting stare. She knew that look—used it often with her master.
Cumbria frowned and kicked the stool out of his path. “Well,” he snapped. “Get on with it, man. I won’t linger at your master’s pleasure. Fetch him!”
The servant shrugged before disappearing into a corridor dimly lit by tallow candles in bent sconces. Their flames flickered as he passed.
Cumbria’s voice resonated with loathing. “An insolent servant to an insolent carrion mage. See what happens when you elevate street filth?”
He touched her arm. “Guard your words and remain silent unless he addresses you, Martise. Silhara is fond of entrapment. He possesses a sharp tongue and has eviscerated more than one hapless opponent in a conversation. You’d be no match.”
Martise lowered her head and hid her smile. Cumbria had chosen her for this endeavor because of her abilities, among them the talents for staying silent and unnoticed. His warning amused her and revealed a hint of his unease in the upcoming meeting. How interesting that a man didn’t always admire his own traits in another.
The mute servant reappeared, followed by a slender shadow silhouetted against the hallway’s weak light. Cumbria stood rigid next to her as their host emerged from the shadows. Martise sucked in a sharp breath, enthralled by her first sight of the Master of Crows.
A living flame in the begrimed room, he burned with a cold, still fire. Long scarlet robes swirled around his ankles like bloodied smoke. Taller than most men and lean, he wore his black hair in a tight braid that fell over his shoulder. The severe style accentuated a sun-burnished face neither handsome nor kind but carved from the same rock strewn across the courtyard. His black eyes and aquiline nose reminded her of those Kurman nomads she’d sometimes seen in the markets, selling their rugs and weaponry. Her belly tightened in dread as he gazed at her and Cumbria with sloe-eyed malevolence.
“I see you didn’t get lost. A pity. To what do I owe the honor of your august presence, Your Grace? I expected a Conclave minion. Instead I get the High Bishop himself.”
His deep voice grated against her ears, broken and harsh, as if he forced the words from a ruined throat. Contempt laced his greeting, and a scornful half-smile curved his lips.
Cumbria’s face froze. The antipathy between the two men swelled in the room, seeping into the walls and floors.
“Still ruler of your squalid little kingdom, Silhara?” Cumbria’s derisive stare raked the servant. “You and your army of one.”
Silhara’s rough laughter drifted through the room. “King of Filth, Master of Crows. What will be my title tomorrow, Your Grace? As usual, Conclave can never reach a final decision.”
The bishop’s eyes burned. “’Tis a shame they didn’t choke the life out of you all those years ago.”
In her years of serving Cumbria and the house of Asher, Martise had never seen the patriarch on the edge of losing control. His counsel for silence made more sense now. Even he found it difficult to maintain a level head around the sorcerer.
Silhara’s dark eyes narrowed; his tanned features paled. Cumbria’s curious statement had drawn blood.
“’Tis a testimony to the will and longevity of wickedness, Your Grace. It does not go down easily.”
Silhara’s hard face suddenly relaxed, and Martise’s instincts buzzed in warning. Mercurial and shrewd, he’d make a deadly adversary. Suddenly the price of her freedom seemed too high, and she wished herself back in the familiar warmth and comfort of the kitchens at home...